Hello there! Sorry for the slight delay, I wasn't quite happy with this last night, so I've had another edit this morning and I'm happier now. Thank you so much for my lovely reviews of the last chapter, and please forgive any typos, as ever!

Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Shadows of the North

The night was darker than most. Heavy black clouds blanketed the moon and smothered the stars, and there was a deep fog rolling over the Long-Lake from the east. The town on the lake was lightless. There were no watchfires lit, and even the houses of the night-guards had no lights in their windows.

A single fox was running down the west bank.

The east bank was aflame.

Bonfires, vicious and bright, shot sparks high into the night, but what light they gave out was smothered by the tens of thousands of black-clad soldiers that crawled around them. It was an army of orcs and men, and though the fox did not dare draw close enough to know for certain, she guessed that they had been there for a while.

When day broke, it would shine light on the huts and tents that had been erected on the bank, and the bloodied bridge that led from the land to the city on the lake. Sunlight would fall against the boarded windows of Esgaroth's greatest houses, where the commanders of the orcs now dwelt. Those who had once dwelt in those houses had invaded the homes of poorer folk, who in turn had been forced to the streets. Some now squatted in homes abandoned by those who had sought refuge in the mountain before the armies had descended upon them. Some had tried to follow their footsteps, and flee to Erebor when they saw the armies that their Master had allied with.

Few made it so far as New Dale, and none had made it to the gates of the mountain.

But fox did not know details of the plight of the Men of the Lake, and the mountain her destination. A red ribbon was strung around her neck, and the stench of her burning homeland was still seared into her nose. Or perhaps that was just the scent of her own singed fur. Either way, it gave her purpose, and she ran so fast that her lungs sought to burst. She left the lake behind, making her way up towards New Dale.

That city was not so dark. Though it was past midnight, a few of the houses still bore lights in their windows, and the watchfires and street lamps were lit. But it was not the Men of Dale who slept in those houses, and wandered those streets. Instead, the city was infested with the commanders of Sauron, Men from the East with wicked hearts, who had signed deals for power in the blood of their people. They were men who knowingly fed their knights lies about the evil of Erebor, and spread rumours about the men of the West – rumours of darkness, and cannibalism, and cruelty.

They had forged farm boys into foot soldiers to bulk up their armies, pumping the young boys full of the belief that they were working for the greater good of their families and their people. They had fooled their cities into supporting a war against a twisted, sickening foe, against dwarves who feasted on the flesh of children, and they spread the word of the greatness of Sauron, so that their people would pay homage to him.

They were men who thirsted for power and thrived on bloodlust, and once they had taken their pick of the homes of Dale, they had burnt all others to the ground.

Now they slept in the beds of absent lords, with their wives and lovers beside them. On their fingers were jewels they had stolen from raided villages, and around the necks of their wives were delicate chains from murdered foes. While they laid siege to the kingdom of Erebor, they slept in luxury, with smug smiles on their faces.

The fox did not know this.

She knew only that the city was crawling with enemies, and that she would do best to avoid them. She skirted the edge of the city, peered into the land before the gates of the mountain. A great wall had been built from the war-wagons of the orcs, vehicles designed to form a barricade whence you had removed their wheels. Already, the soldiers had been building beyond it, and already there were watchfires along the line. How long it had been there, she did not know. But their line was nigh on six hundred yards away from the gates, beyond the reach of most archers, and it curved around to meet the mountainside. There was no way around, unless you scaled the sheer rock walls.

Keeping low to the ground, the fox kept to the edge of the campsite, and crawled to the far end, where the wall met the mountain. There were orc guards, filthy and stinking, nearby, but they did not see her. Silent as death, she crept forward, and dropped onto her belly, crawling through a small hole under the barricade. She very nearly got stuck, but nevertheless she made it through, and peered out at the land between the gates and the barricade.

It was barren, littered with the corpses of trees, and the scorched skeletons of gardens. The very dirt was stained with blood. There was nowhere to hide.

The fox shivered, and began to creep softly through no man's land. She was not seen, but she did pass the corpse of another, a male fox who bore an arrow in his head. A quick sniff confirmed that she did not know him, but sorrow still fell over her, and anger. That arrow had not been fired so that one might eat, nor had it been shot to negate a threat. It was death for the sake of death, and it was meaningless.

The fox sprang forwards and ran, faster than she had ever run before, until her legs blurred beneath her. She did not stop until she reached the gates of Erebor.

The silence of the night was broken by three loud bangs in quick succession, and Thorin closed his eyes.

He had not been sleeping. He did not sleep much at all anymore. He had not even bothered to remove his clothes. There was too much to fear, too much to think about. There were too many people for him to protect, so many people that he loved too far from reach.

Every living citizen of Dale was now residing in his mountain, alongside several hundred folk from Lake-Town. Altogether, there were around thirty thousand dwarves and fifteen thousand men in the mountain, and though there was plenty of space in the city, tensions were high. There were some among the dwarves, particularly the older, more conservative folk, who believed that the Men should not have been granted refuge until an attempt was made to hold Dale.

Thorin and Bard had debated that very possibility, but both had decided that given their cities' relatively small populations it would be too much of a risk. Dale was a trading city, not a fortress, and it would be difficult to defend. Any attempt to hold it would result in the loss of valuable soldiers and resources, and if by some miracle they did manage to hold the city, it would give them little tactical advantage.

Thorin knew that it had pained Bard to empty Dale. The man had forged a small kingdom out of ruins with his own hands, and he looked upon the city with the same love and pride that he gave to his children. But that love was also extended to his people, and the king of men had not hesitated to take Thorin's offer of pulling his people to safety.

A small battalion led by Prince Bain had remained in Dale until the last minute, fielding the last of the refugees from Esgaroth and what remaining supplies they could carry. They had lingered until the very last moment, and retreated to Erebor only the armies of Mordor were upon them. Then had the first battle been played, when two soldiers were cut down from behind by warg riders. The dwarven archers had rained arrows upon the orcs, and Bain's men had slain a hundred orcs between them ere they made it back into the mountain. They had lost only five men, and though the battle had ended in retreat, Thorin did not think it a loss.

The biggest blow to Bard had been the falling of Esgaroth. They had watched from Thorin's balcony as the city burnt in the moonlight, and the orc troops moved in. Thorin had seen a familiar pain in Bard's eyes, the pain of one losing a place that was once a home, and he had grieved himself.

That had been a month ago, and still they did not know if Lake-Town had fallen by force, or if its Master had simply handed her keys to the orcs. Neither would surprise Thorin. Both saddened him.

Both gave him reason to fear personally, as well as strategically. With Thranduil's people besieged by Dol Guldur, and Esgaroth in the hands of orcs, any who sought to return to the mountain would find it nigh on impossible.

To that day there had been no blow so severe as the fall of Lake-Town, nor had there been any true battles. Skirmishes had occurred between spies and scouts, and there had been several attempted battering of the gates, but the dwarves had poured arrows and molten metal down upon their foes, and the men had not tried that again.

Every so often, there would be a bout of arrows sent back to them, and they had lost a couple of guards from sneak attacks while there had still been trees below. Three weeks ago, the Easterlings had set great fires, and burnt down the trees and grasses and gardens that had been so lovingly tended by Thorin's nephews and hobbits, and Thorin's heart had burnt beside them.

Yet still, Thorin was certain that bringing the entire city of Dale into the Mountain was the right thing to do.

Here, they had all their strength, and they had walls that would endure. They simply had to wait for the right time to strike, wait for battles that they had a chance of winning. If they charged out now, it would be a combined army of twenty-five thousand dwarves and men, facing down two hundred thousand orcs and Easterlings, and Thorin would not send his people into a battle without such odds unless he had no other choice.

And for now, they did have a choice. Though the farms of the men, too, had been burnt, by combining the supplies of man and dwarf before the arrival of Mordor they had collated a decent stockpile. They had food enough to last through spring, given the planning of Bard and Thorin, the great grain stores that had been filled through years of abundant harvest, and the hoards of livestock that had been moved into the mountain.

Furthermore, Thorin had set Dori and Óin to tending the internal gardens of the hobbits, greenhouses that they had made warm and bright by the kingdom's great windows and mirrors. Many people of Dale helped with this, and Thorin transformed some old, unused halls into more space for gardens and greenhouses. They were working on expanding them, so that they might feed more people, and uprooting daisies to make room for carrots.

The thought of Sam's face when he returned and found that his even his internal gardens had been destroyed was enough to make sure that Thorin ordered the evicted flowers be placed safely in pots, wherever possible.

Yet there were still some dwarves who were uncomfortable with so many men in the mountain, and they protested on many grounds, pointing out the supposed crimes of the Bardings and arguing that they were receiving greater food and support than Thorin's own people. They muttered about the treachery of Esgaroth, and accused refugees from the Long Lake of being spies.

On the other side, there were some among the Menfolk who scorned and sneered at the dwarves, and scoffed loudly that if they ever escaped the siege, the dwarves would bleed them dry or enslave them for life to make them pay for the 'charity' they had received. Those of Lake-Town resented accusations of espionage, and trusted the dwarves less than the folk of Dale. Even some among Bard's folk seemed to think that they were surrounded by enemies, and not by folk who would fight and die beside them.

And of course, it was only ever the troublesome men who ran into the troublesome dwarves, and only the conflict-mongering dwarves who bumped into the most restless of the men.

They were minorities on both sides, but already they were causing friction, and there had been several late-night brawls that almost made Thorin wish they had left the alcohol in Dale, for the orcs.

The tension was in danger of escalating, and it was exhausting.

And Thorin was tired – so tired – and when the knock came on the door, he could not bring himself to get up. His limbs were leaden, and his head was aching, and his eyes felt like they had been seared by a blast from a furnace.

He had never felt exhaustion like it – never, at least, without it being an accompaniment to greater grief. The fatigue was akin to that which had struck him after the death of Frerin, and the disappearance of Kíli.

And the thought of that did not make him feel any better.

Thorin crossed his arms over his stomach, but the person at the door knocked again, faster. Thorin growled and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The knocking grew more intense, and he stood up, striding through his chambers to the door, pausing only to grab his sword.

"Who is it?" he snarled through the door. "I am not in the mood to-"

"It's Dwalin. Open up."

Thorin pulled the door open at once, his heart already cringing at whatever news he might hear. Dwalin stood before him, looking sombre and concerned, and Thorin's hand tightened around the door. "What is it? Have the armies made a move? Is there trouble in Bard's quarter?"

"No," said Dwalin bluntly. "There's a naked woman here to see you."

Thorin blinked, and then blinked again. Perhaps he was asleep indeed – or perhaps he was finally so weary that his mind was playing tricks on him. Of course, he could also be losing his hearing – it ran in the family and he was, after all, far older than Óin had been when he went deaf. "I beg your pardon?"

"There is a naked woman here to see you," Dwalin repeated, with the faintest twinkle of a smirk on his face, though there were also deep lines of concern carved into his brow. "She appears to be one of Beorn's folk – claims to have a message from Glóin."

In the time that it took his heart to skip a beat, Thorin was already out of the door. "From Glóin? What did she say? Where is she now?"

"Little, and in one of the holding cells by the front gate."

Together, Thorin and Dwalin strode from the royal wing, descending the staircase as quickly as they could. Thorin could not run – there were too many in this mountain looking to him for stability, and he could not chase after news like a child chasing a butterfly. But he could certainly walk with speed and purpose, and he did so, while Dwalin relayed all that he knew.

"She appeared like a wraith at the gates – I almost gave the order to fire. One moment there was nothing below, and then there was a woman – no bigger than a hobbit. She was pale as death, and for a moment I thought I was seeing a ghost. But she called up to us, and held her hands up in peace. Inni, that was the name she gave for herself. She said that she was kin of Beorn, that the form she took was a fox, and that was why we had not seen her approach. I asked her to prove it."

"And did she?"

"Aye," Dwalin said, sending a sidelong look at Thorin. "It is unnerving. But whether by some spell, or truly by the same nature as Beorn, she can change form. She claimed to carry a message from 'Dwarf Glóin,' and that she would deliver it only to the king of the mountain, or to the hands of Glóin's wife. You know I am loathe to let any stranger into the mountain, and I am not unconvinced that she is not a spy, but I could leave her outside the gates. She is very small, and looked very vulnerable down there. If indeed she is kin of Beorn, I would not keep her in harm's way."

"Indeed, if she is truly but a messenger of any lineage, I would not have her naked and afraid outside our gates," said Thorin pointedly. "Did you bring her inside?"

"Aye. I lowered a ladder, brought her up quick as could be. She wasn't all too happy about being locked in the holding room, but she relented when I swore I'd bring you straight to her."

Thorin nodded. "Very well. Let's not keep her waiting." Then, he glanced at Dwalin. "Have you sent word to Dana?"

"Not yet."

Silence fell between them, a silence raw with anticipation and fear. By the time they reached the guard rooms, Thorin's heart was going at twice its normal rate, and he took a deep breath. Only one door was guarded, and they stepped aside as the king arrived. The key was turned in the lock, and Thorin strode into the small room.

Like all holding cells it was bare, save for the table in the centre, and two chairs on each side of the table. It was designed as a space to interview strangers entering the city, and ensure that they meant no harm to its people.

The holding cells had been used more often in the last year than they had in the last decade.

Even as he first laid eyes on her, Thorin thought that the woman's resemblance to a fox was clear. Her red sleek red hair was the shade of a fox's pelt, and there was something vulpine about her pointed ears and twitching nose. Her eyes were brown and round and deep, and darted around the room as she scratched behind her ear. She was wearing a simple tunic and a dwarven cloak, though her legs and feet were bare. In her hands she clutched a small pouch, and as Thorin came in she narrowed her eyes slightly, cocking her head and sniffing at the air.

"You are the dwarf-king?" she asked. "The Oakenshield?"

Thorin inclined his head, ignoring the oddities of her manners. 'The Oakenshield' was something new, and he made a note to remember it. Frodo would find it most amusing. "Indeed, I am. I am told your name is Inni."

She nodded, quickly, and stepped slightly closer towards him. "You are a friend of Dwarf Glóin, yes?"

"Yes," said Thorin, stepping inside. Dwalin followed, and closed the door behind them. Inni's eyes twitched. "He is my kinsmen." Thorin gestured to the chairs. "Would you care to sit?"

Inni shook her head, eyeing the sword on Thorin's belt, and the fur around his collar. "I prefer to stand, if I can."

"Of course," said Thorin, bowing his head. Beside him, he could feel Dwalin's impatience, and Thorin too was aching to demand from her all she knew, but he had to go through the niceties, even if Inni did not know them. "As long as you are comfortable. Tell me, how do you know Glóin?"

"I was in the Misty Mountains," she said. "Times are dark, and our lands are under shadow. We are watching, watching the borders of our lands and the dark between the trees, and I was watching the hidden paths in the mountains. Goblins there are there, many. My people also are beset by orcs with wicked knifes and hungry flames – they pour out of the Dark Place in Mirkwood, and come often to try and raid us."

"Dol Guldur?" asked Thorin, and she shook her head slightly.

"I know not what name it has. It matters not to me."

"How did you meet Glóin?" pressed Dwalin, and Inni narrowed her eyes.

"This Dwarf is friends with Dwarf Glóin?" she asked, looking suspiciously at Dwalin.

"Aye," said Thorin. "This is Lord Dwalin. Their fathers were brothers."

Inni nodded slightly, tearing her eyes from Dwalin and looking back to the king. "I was watching in the mountains when I heard the call of Wolf Lani, and I went to her. She was wounded, and I was afraid for her, but she said that she could not retreat, or rest. That she had a task, and a Dwarf in her care. They were messengers, she said, and they were looking for kin of the king, and for the cub of Dwarf Glóin, but they also had news that must be sent back to the mountain. I went with her, to the road that the Men and Dwarves call the High Pass. There was a cave nearby, wherein there was a pony, and Dwarf Glóin. He, too, was injured."

"Injured?" asked Thorin sharply. "How? Where?"

Inni gave a light shrug, and tapped her arm. "There was blood here, and many bruises, but he spoke not to me of his wounds. I do not think he had enough trust to tell me, though he asked for ointments. I do not carry ointments. I do not have pockets. I gave him what food I had left in my cache, and I agreed to deliver the message, to you."

She held out her hand and opened it, revealing a small, simple coin purse, tied to a red ribbon, and Thorin recognised Glóin's sigil embroidered into the fabric. He took it, and untied the complex knot sealing the bag. A small scroll of paper fell out into his hands, and he scrambled to open it. His mouth felt very dry.

The words inside were written not in traditional Khuzdul runes, but instead in Gundabad Runes – a secret set of symbols taught only to the direct bloodline of Durin, and only after their coming of age. As such, the only living souls to know it were Thorin, Dís, Fíli, Dain, Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin. Kíli should know it too – they had passed his hundredth birthday by now – but Kíli was far from home, and the thought of him brought no comfort to Thorin.

He took a deep breath, and then read the message.

Thorin. The other messengers are dead. I found dead ravens with empty message canisters, and I found the bodies of five of our folk. My heart aches. Three were unrecognisable. Two were Austen and Auden. Of this I am certain, and I laid them to rest as well as I could. There was little I could do, but their spirits are free now. I believe they were ambushed – by the road there is a great trench which hides a goblin outpost. No doubt their job was to intercept messengers over the mountains, and they would have taken me, too, had the wolf not sensed them first. All those I found in the trench are now dead, but I was not wholly unscathed, and I do not doubt there are more scum out there. I press on, in hopes that I will find our kin ere harm befalls them, or at least be of some assistance to them. I hope this message reaches you. If it does, I think you can trust the messenger. Lani does. Give my love to my wife, and to Dori, Jari, Aria and Ari, give my love and sincerest condolences. Glóin.

Thorin closed his eyes.

"What?" Fear snapped Dwalin's voice. "What is it?"

Thorin wordlessly passed his friend the paper, pinching the bridge of his nose. Grief and fear were rising within him, but they were so familiar now. They were beginning to simply feel normal. Taking a deep breath, Thorin opened his eyes and rubbed his jaw, glancing at the messenger. Inni's eyes flickered between Dwalin and Thorin, and her fingers drummed silently against her arm.

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, and then her face melted into a look of raw, open sorrow. "The news grieves you?"

Thorin bowed his head slightly. "Some of it. Much of it. Yes. Do you have any further news? Anything that you could tell us?"

Inni's nose twitched, and she chewed on the cracked, dry skin around her lips for a moment. "I do not know. I know not what you know already, and I know little beyond my own lands."

"Then speak to me of your own lands, if you will," said Thorin. Beside him, Dwalin bowed his head. "And what you saw in the mountains."

"My lands burn," said Inni in a hollow voice, her hand fluttering up to rest on her neck. Thorin noticed an ugly red burn between her fingers. "I passed through my home on my way here, and it was burning. They told me my mother and brother fled to Beorvin, but I do not know if Beorvin still stands. I had no time to check."

"Yet you came here?" asked Dwalin, his frown deepening. "Why?"

"Because we are only a little people. Weathering the war is the best we can hope for, but they say that the Dwarf King is a great king, and that his armies are strong. They say that the dwarves might fight, and win the war. We might fight, and live, or fight, and die. We are too small to make any grand difference." Inni pressed her lips shut and glanced away, her nose twitching quickly as she sniffed.

For a moment, Thorin did not know what to say. There was a lump in his throat, and his mind was a storm of a thousand fears. He stared at the woman, at the sorrow in her eyes and the absence of tears, at the burns on her body and the pride in her stance.

Finally, Thorin murmured, "How old are you, Inni?"

"Twenty."

Thorin closed his eyes again. So young. She was so young. Of course, Men thought their children full grown at twenty, but a twenty-year-old dwarfling would be thought tall if he reached his father's hip, and a twenty-year-old hobbit would still fall asleep held easily in their Uncle Thorin's arms. Then he sighed, and opened them again. "You are welcome to stay here as long as you will," he said. "There are Men in this mountain, too, and we can find you a bed. And – if you wish – we can find you a job. A task, to aid in the war."

Inni's mouth popped open, and for a second her eyes sparkled, but then she took a step backwards, and shook her head a little. "Thank you, Dwarf King, but be there Men here or not, there are no Men here of mine. Any task here that you give me you might give another – I came here because there was no one else to take the message. But my people are fighting, and I must fight with them."

"Very well," said Thorin. He was unsurprised to see such loyalty, but all three knew that returning to the lands of the Beornings was running toward death. "Rest until you have gathered your strength, and leave when you see fit. But I warn you – leaving this mountain is now no easier than entering it."

Inni nodded thoughtfully, worrying her lip again. Then she turned and fixed her eyes on Thorin. "But I might ask for news of my own, to take?"

Thorin could not help but smile at the strange wording, at the refreshingly raw manners of the young skin-changer. She was less refined than Beorn, and it was rather endearing. "Of course. What would you know?"

"How long have they been here?" she asked at once. "The orcs, and the Men who smell of death?"

Thorin's smile faded, and he sighed heavily. "A little over a month. I am surprised that news has not travelled."

"It has, perhaps, and simply passed me by," she said sadly. "I was looking to the West, not the East. What happened to the Long Lake?"

"We do not know," admitted Thorin, his mind drifting out towards Esgaroth once again.

Inni sighed sadly. "I suppose we have not much news for each other, Dwarf King."

"Perhaps not," Thorin said, and then he smiled as well as he could. "Please, sleep as a guest tonight. If you need food, drink, merely ask. When you deem the time right, you may leave."

Inni nodded, and Thorin opened the door, calling over one of the guards.

"This is Darben," he said, introducing Dwalin's brother-in-law. "He, too, is a friend of Glóin's, and he will be at your service during your stay. Darben, this is Inni, a messenger of Beorn. Take her to a guest house, see that she is fed and clothed as she wishes, and remain nearby until the morn."

Darben bowed, and offered her his arm. Inni cocked her head, and then grabbed his arm, shaking it a little before letting go. Darben looked stumped, but Dwalin just grinned and mouthed, 'Go with it!', and Elza's brother shrugged, and led Inni away.

Sighing, Thorin turned to another guard. "Fetch Lord Jari, and his sister and brother, and fetch Lord Dori, and Lady Dana. Tell them to come to the Company Room at once."

The guard bowed low and hurried away, and Thorin and Dwalin began to walk without words, back towards the Royal Wing. Thorin yearned to let his friends' sleep, to wait until morning before telling the twins' family of their deaths, but he owed the young, brave dwarves more than that.

"No," muttered Dwalin, bluntly.

Thorin frowned, glancing at his friend. Dwalin's brow was furrowed, and his arms were crossed over his chest. "What?"

"We can't bring all of Beorn's Folk in here too," insisted Dwalin, and Thorin felt more confused than ever. The thought had not passed his mind at all.

"I was not thinking too," he said honestly. Dwalin grunted, and looked away, his eyes betraying his emotions to his oldest friend. Realisation hitting him, Thorin smiled sadly. "That statement was more to yourself than it was to me, I deem."

Dwalin sighed. "Aye. I hate being trapped in here, seeing that scum outside our gates every day, and knowing I cannot fight them, not yet! I just sit here, like a hen in a coop. And then you hear about Beorn's folk, our friends and allies, and there is nothing we can do. Nothing – we cannot help them at all. What can we do?"

Thorin rubbed his jaw. "Keep the peace within the mountain. Stop fools like Ioán challenging drunken Lake-Men. Make sure that our swords are sharp and armies ready, and make sure that our children are safe."

Dwalin's face softened slightly. "Aye. That is what it's all about, is it not? Protect our children – and any other snotty nosed brats we can get our hands on."

Thorin smiled a little, but his mind drifted to Inni, and the Beornings. They could not get their hands on those children. Even if they wanted to offer Beorn's folk refuge, they had no way of getting to them. It was as his father had said to him, a week after Azanulbizar, on a night so cold Thorin's tears froze to his cheeks.

"It's one of the hardest things you learn as a king, Thorin. Try as you might, you cannot save them all."

I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Things are not going overly well in Erebor, it seems.

A note on the populations: I've been using what information I can to guess the respective populations of Dale and Erebor given that only twenty years have passed, unlike the sixty it was in the book. Also, Dale's population is a little smaller given that Esgaroth was not destroyed, so fewer people followed Bard there initially, while Erebor's population grew quickly thanks to the success in the Battle and the rule of Thorin.

As such, I used the size of the armies that fought in the canonical battle of Dale – 30,000 dwarves and 20,000 men by some sources – and used those figures to represent the entire kingdom as opposed to simply the army. I hope that makes sense, if you have any queries or criticisms either review or PM me, and I'll try to clear it up.

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think, and I will see you next week.