Hey there! I hope that you enjoy this on time chapter, but it is past my bedtime, so I warn you – typos may abound. I mean, I've checked for 'em, and I hope that they don't, but alas.
Chapter Seventy: The Plan of the Elvenking
The Elvenking was making Dís uneasy.
As Grimbeorn and Inni explained their plan, Dís noticed that Thranduil was being rather tight-lipped about the whole matter. His face was impassive as ever, and he said nothing while the skin-changers talked. If he had walked away, Dís might have been less perturbed, but his presence was suspicious.
Why did Thranduil care for the ins and outs of such a plan, other than the involvement of a few of his people – a thing he would already know about?
Why was he still here? Still watching?
Distrust slithered up her spine, hissing in her ear no matter how much sense and thought there clearly was in Grimbeorn's plan. It did not matter that they had designed a detailed way of safely moving Kíli, or proposed a route that might avoid most of the army.
It did not matter that their plan seemed possible.
Because Thranduil was standing there, still watching. Wordless. Emotionless.
And Dís did not trust him. She waited until the two skin-changers had finished their proposal, allowing their plan a moment to breathe, and then she turned straight to the Elvenking, and crossed her arms over her chest. Without standing.
"Why?" she said. "Why would you aid in such a plan? This is not simply taking in refugees. There would be people of your own at stake, goods of your own at stake, and that is never a risk that you like to play, is it?" After a beat, she added, "Your highness."
She felt Bilbo squirm beside her, and caught Kíli's wince out of the corner of her eye, but Dís maintained eye-contact with the Elvenking, and he did not look away.
"No, it is not," he said evenly. "I do not claim to hide it. These are dark days, days of war, and I will protect my people however I can. But those in danger would be only those who volunteered, and though my realm is all but under siege, my farms are within my walls. We have food, and water, and some can be spared to ensure that Erebor does not fall."
"And you care that Erebor does not fall, do you?" challenged Dís. "It is not something that has concerned you in the past."
"Amad," Kíli murmured, but Thranduil ignored him.
"I care that the mountain is not taken by Mordor. If there were to be orc strongholds in both Dol Guldur and the Lonely Mountain, my kingdom would not long survive. I make no pretence – I am no lover of dwarves – but there are many lives in that mountain, too many to be lost. As long as the mountain is held by allies of the light, the north may endure. If Erebor falls, so will we."
A grim silence flooded the room like a heavy smoke, pouring down into their hearts, and Dís pursed her lips. That, she knew, was true enough. If Erebor fell, the poison of Mordor would obliterate Mirkwood, and all that was left of the Beornings, and every town between Erebor and the Iron Hills. It would perhaps destroy Dain's realm, too.
"You talk of offering supplies that would barely be one meal for two hundred," said Fíli carefully. "Are you sure these 'seeds' you speak of would grow inside the mountain?"
"I am," said the elf. "The strain of corn is bred to withstand the most barren ground, and grow in even the faintest of lights. You have windows, do you not? What is more, it grows quickly. In three months, it is ripe to harvest, if needs must. But I do not think it is foodstuffs that your mountain needs."
Dís narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I fear for the mind of Thorin Oakenshield," said Thranduil gravely, and Dís shot up out of her chair.
Fury blazed on her cheeks and in her eyes, and she could barely keep its tremor from her voice. "How dare you? How dare you? Thorin will not fall to that damned sickness, not again – you-"
Thranduil rose his voice to cut over her, and though it was calm enough, there was a flash of anger in his eyes. "I did not say I the threat was dragon sickness. Perhaps, my lady, you might allow me to finish my sentence."
Dís ground her teeth together, but said nothing, glaring at the elf until he spoke again. To her surprise, when Thranduil did speak, his voice was soft.
"Your king is not young. It is enough to have your kingdom surrounded, to have an entire city of strangers sheltering within your walls, but to be lacking your nearest advisors – to be parted from your family… That is something else entirely. I fear that Thorin's mind is split between his kingdom and his kin, something that we cannot risk. Despair is far quicker to claim those who are grieving, or those who cannot see the ones that they love. I know this."
"Oh, do you?" huffed Glóin, folding his arms over his chest.
"Yes," said Thranduil, his eyes growing heavy with sorrow. "I would give all the gems in my kingdom to see my son. To know that he lives, to have him beside me while the world burns. My greatest fear is that he will perish, and I will endure, without even a corpse to bury. There is nothing, now, that I can do to prevent it. Legolas' fate is in his own hands, and in the hands of your children. What I can do is honour him, by ensuring that the kin of his companions are cared for, and by attempting to ease Thorin Oakenshield of the same grief that is accosting me."
"You seem rather sincere, for someone who once tried to murder my brother," said Dís bluntly, unwilling to allow herself to feel for Thranduil until she was certain that this was no trap. "What changed your mind?"
Thranduil glared at her and opened his mouth, but in that moment the baby kicked, and Dís automatically put a hand on her stomach. His eyes followed the movement, and then the elf's face crumpled into an expression sadder and wearier than Dís had ever seen from an elf before.
"Kíli Baggins has taught the north much," he said quietly. "If we are to survive this war, it is to be together. Fractured, fighting amongst ourselves – we will fall. I have seen Thorin Oakenshield with his nephews. They are dear as sons to him, and a blind troll could see it. Once, it is true, keeping them from Thorin would have amused me. But now that it is a feeling I know, I would wish this pain on no one but the scourge of Mordor. I would certainly not wish it on a dwarf that – despite his many, many, faults – is a good man."
Dís searched, but saw no hint of a lie in the elf's face. She may still have thought him lying, if it were not for the look in his eyes. It was the look that passed her face, or Bilbo's, when they thought of Frodo. The look of a parent parted from their child without word. The look of the parent of a hero.
"Then thank you," she whispered, unsurprised to hear the croak of tears in her voice. "We shall certainly consider your offer."
Thranduil bowed his head. "Of course. Though time is limited. Another week you must wait before I would advise any attempt is made to move young Baggins, but I would hear your decision by the end of the day. If you decide to proceed, there is much to do. Of course, the choice is yours."
With that, the king turned and strode to the door. Then he paused, and looked over his shoulder. A mask of haughty calm covered any trace of the emotion he had shown, and when he spoke again, his voice was its usual smug drawl.
"Oh, one more thing. Should you tell anyone of what I disclosed in this room, I will deny it. I merely want you out of my kingdom, of course. I have an image to maintain."
"Of course," said Bilbo lightly. "Of course, we shall never tell anyone of the time you showed an ounce of humanity."
Thranduil grinned, and nodded. Then, he flounced from the room.
"Well," said Inni, her eyes wider than usual. "He is a very odd man."
"Well, you've done a right job of it," said Gimli, shaking his head as Aragorn inspected Legolas' arm. As it transpired, the elf had not done much damage on impact with the ground – he was badly bruised all up the right side of his body, and there was nasty scratch across his forehead, but that had been patched up almost at once.
His arm was another matter. A blow from an uruk's sword had almost severed it, snapping the bone clean in two and ripping the skin open, though Legolas had tried to hide the extent of the wound beneath his sleeve. It was no wonder that he had stumbled, and Gimli found himself wondering how in the name of Durin Legolas had fought for as long as he had.
Gimli winced as Aragorn tilted the elf's arm, revealing the bone breaking through the skin.
"I stabbed the orc that did it, though," said Legolas, but his voice and smile were too weak to appease Gimli. Legolas was far paler than any elf ought to be, pale as a dwarfling child who had never stepped outside the mountain. "He was number twenty-one."
"Pathetic," murmured Gimli. "Should've got him before he hit you."
Legolas gave a breathless laugh and closed his eyes, leaning back against the stone wall. They were in one of the fortress' healing chambers, but there were far more wounded than there were healers. The women had returned from the caves, and those who knew anything about healing were doing whatever they could. Before the battle, young boys had run spreading messages and carrying equipment for the soldiers, but now those boys were in shock, or wounded, or dead.
In their place were girls, some as young as seven or eight, hurrying through the throngs of bloodied men. Brave as dwarven lasses, the girls carried food and water to the wounded, and planted kisses on the cheeks of the injured, and pressed on open wounds with strong, tiny hands. To and fro they ran, messengers and errand girls, and Gimli knew that outside, they were also helping the women and unwounded men to bury the dead.
When Boromir was certain that Legolas was alive, and in no immediate danger of death, he had left to do help where he could. Gimli, however, was staying right where he was. At least until he saw the elf properly bound.
If such a thing could be done.
"I do not think we will have to take your arm," said Aragorn finally. "The break is clean enough." He reached down to a bowl of steaming, herb infused water beside him and dipped in a clean rag. "This may hurt. Are you sure you will not take any tonic?"
Legolas shook his head. "Give it to the wounded children. They need it more than I do."
But the moment that Aragorn touched the rag to the wound, Legolas hissed, clenching his jaw and seizing Gimli's hand. His eyes were tightly shut, and his shoulders rose up towards his ears. Gimli fought against looking away, instead bracing the elf's shoulders and squeezing him a little.
"You're all right lad," he murmured. "We've got you."
With a face like carven stone, Aragorn continued to dab at the wound, Legolas seized and shuddered, clinging to Gimli's hand and pressing the back of his head into the dwarf's shoulder with so much force that it was a little painful. But Gimli just shifted, and held his friend tighter.
"It's nearly done, lad," he said, with no idea whether or not he told the truth. "We're nearly there. We've got to clean it, you know that."
Legolas nodded, but a cry of pain wrenched free from his lips as Aragorn reached the bone, and he threw his head back against Gimli's shoulder again and again, the fingers of his free hand gripping the dwarf's hand like a vice. But he did not move his injured arm. He did not let it move once.
Aragorn leant back and grabbed the arm of a girl hurrying by with a bundle of bandages. She was at least a head shorter than Gimli, and he doubted that she was any older than eight years old.
"M'lord?"
"I need a pitcher of boiling water," said Aragorn, his voice quiet and calm and stern all at once. "Also a splint, more bandages, and a bottle of pain tonic. Can you get those for me?"
The girl nodded quickly, blonde hair falling into her wide, soulful eyes. "Yes, yes m'lord, I can do it. Um, I just, I just have to give this to Miss Gunhild, sir, I'll be as quick as I can."
"I would appreciate that," said Aragorn, bowing his head, and the girl ran off. With a heavy sigh, Aragorn looked at Legolas. "I am sorry, my friend, but I think you will need the tonic by the end of this."
Legolas pursed his lips tightly, rather too grey around the gills for Gimli's liking. He nodded slightly, and then turned his head away, closing his eyes again. He said nothing. Gimli glanced at Aragorn, who stared grimly back.
A few, agonisingly slow minutes later, the girl ran back, carefully putting down a box full of bandages and splints, as well as a small, green bottle. She chattered as she went, barely pausing to breathe. "Here you go, m'lord, I'll be back, I just, gotta get the water, I promise I'll be quick! Just gotta get the water!" Then, she sprang off, faster than an arrow from a bow, leaping over the legs of a nearby soldier and disappearing down the hall.
Aragorn uncorked the bottle and held it to Legolas' lips. The elf tilted his head back and drank until the man pulled the bottle away, and then he shuddered. A rather unpleasant thought occurred to Gimli.
"Now, now, don't be going into shock, now, you pointy-eared princeling," he growled, releasing Legolas' shoulders just long enough to grab a nearby cape and drape it around the elf's shoulders. "We don't have time for that nonsense."
An odd squeak from the end of the hall startled Gimli a little, and he looked up. His jaw dropped, and he stood up from the wall.
With a look of intense concentration on her face, the tiny girl was returning, carrying a metal pitcher of water almost as large as her midsection, and she seemed to have listened well to Aragorn's request for boiling water. There was a great spiral of steam billowing before her face, and there was nothing but her little cotton apron wrapped around her hands to protect her from the heat.
"No, no, no, that's a terrible idea!" stammered Gimli, but before he could hurry over she had reached them, her face red as a ruby. Gimli grabbed the sides of the pitcher and helped her lower it to the ground. He could feel the heat glowing beneath his hands, and he shook his head when the girl took her hands away, revealing bright red palms.
"Boiling water, m'lord," she breathed, and then her gaze fell on Legolas' arm. Her eyes grew to the size of golf balls, and she stiffened, her mouth dropping over slightly. "My lord!" she gasped, "Your bone!"
Gimli snorted, and a small smile twitched onto Legolas' lips. The elf opened his eyes to find the girl, and at the look on her face, his smile grew.
"They're not supposed to be visible, are they?" he mumbled. "Don't look, if it upsets you, child. I am not looking."
The girl shook her head and bit her lip, looking to Aragorn. "What else can I do, m'lord?"
"Do you need to get back to Miss Gunhild?" he asked, but the girl shook her head again.
"No, m'lord, she said to be at your service, m'lord, and I'll do whatever I can, and I don't know what that'll be because I don't know too much and it's all a bit frantic, m'lord," she said, talking faster than Nelly Took after five honey-meads.
"Alright," said Aragorn, his voice calm and slow. "What is your name?"
"Eilonwy, m'lord."
Aragorn bowed his head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Eilonwy. Gimli, brace Legolas, he must not move. Eilonwy, find me the splint that fits Legolas's arm the best, you can use his good hand if you need to."
Legolas held his left arm towards the girl as she dove into the basket of bandages, rummaging through the various splints that she had fetched. Gimli wrapped his arm over Legolas' shoulders and held them firm, using the wall behind them to hold the elf in place as Aragorn dipped another cloth in the boiling water, and returned to cleaning the wound. Legolas hissed, his head tilting back, and Eilonwy paused. She patted Legolas' good arm.
"It's alright, pet," she hummed, "so far, so good. You're being very brave."
Gimli met Aragorn's eyes and they shared a small smile. The ranger took a deep breath, and then nodded.
"Alright. Eilonwy, I need you to wash your hands, and then dry them well," he said, washing his own hands in the hot herbal water one at a time, so that he did not release the wounded limb. "Now, pass me the splint – thank you." He draped several clean bandages over his own arm, and then nodded at Eilonwy. "Now, see his forearm. Put your hands around it and hold it against the wall."
Eilonwy's face twisted in concern, and she shook her head a little. "But – but – but that's going to hurt him."
"You must," said Aragorn sombrely. "If he moves when I reset the bone, he may lose his arm."
Legolas opened his eyes again, and through the haze of pain he smiled once more at the little girl. "It's alright. It must be done."
The child twisted her hands in her apron, and then nodded, taking a deep breath, and then taking hold of Legolas' arm just below Gimli's own hands.
"Very well," said Aragorn, and Gimli tightened his grip on the elf, pinning the tops of both of Legolas' arms against the wall. "Lean your all weight against him, child, hold him still. That's it. Now, on the count of three. One-"
Aragorn wrenched the arm backwards and Legolas screamed. It was a sound more gut-wrenching than Gimli had ever thought an elf capable of making, and he winced as his friend howled. Aragorn kept pulling, drawing the arm back until the bone that had been emerging from the skin was level with the bone still inside. Legolas smacked his head against the wall, his howls of raw agony echoing down the hall. Eilonwy start crying, but her tears and her sobs did not stop her from pressing down on Legolas' upper arm.
Gritting his teeth, Aragorn held the bones in alignment. "Gimli, hold firm, do not let him move! Eilonwy, put on the splint, now!"
With a little sniff, the girl released Legolas' arm, and though Gimli had been the muscle restraining the elf all along, he felt her absence, tightening his grip on the elf's arm. As quickly as she spoke and ran, Eilonwy seized the splint from the ground, and with a grip gentle as only a child could manage, she lowered it onto Legolas' arm. Aragorn grabbed it at once with a single hand, shifting it into place and tightening the straps around it.
In movements almost as fast as the girl's, Aragorn wrapped a bandage around the splint, and then another, tight and even. Legolas ground his teeth together and groaned, but Aragorn did not hesitate, winding a final bandage around the elf's arm. Then, he let out a slow sigh.
"Eilonwy, is there a sling in that basket of bandages?" he asked in a low voice, and she nodded, hurrying over and rifling through until she found a large sling.
She passed it to Aragorn with shaking hands, and he draped it over the elf's neck, deftly suspending the bound limb in the sling. Then, he put a hand on Legolas' shoulder.
"The worst is over now, my friend," he said in a low voice, and Legolas hung his head to his chest.
Lip trembling, Eilonwy leant against Legolas' left side, and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. "It's alright, pet," she whimpered, and in that moment Gimli realised that the child was likely reciting something that her parents said to her when she was ill, or afraid. "So far, so good, so far, so good. You're being very brave."
Tears on his cheeks, Legolas rested his face on the girl's hair, and Gimli could feel the elf shaking as he leant into the embrace.
"You did well, lad," said Gimli, a lump in his throat as he patted the elf's shoulder. "And you too, lass. You'd make a good dwarf with such courage."
"No," Legolas murmured, his eyes still closed, and his voice clouded with pain. "She is clearly closer to an elf, with so fair a face and such gentle hands."
Eilonwy pulled away, a slight frown on her face, and Aragorn gave a small laugh.
"They are both trying to compliment you, child," he said. "But they are right. You have done very well. I have one more task for you."
She stood up straight like a little warrior, and Gimli wondered what it was that Aragorn was planning to have her do – the child was almost as pale as Legolas, and still trembling.
"There are other injuries to tend to, but I cannot leave Legolas alone. Will you mind him, Eilonwy? I would like him to stay awake just for a while to make sure that he does not go into shock. Perhaps you could tell him some stories? That would be a great help to me."
Gimli nodded to himself. That was a good task for a frightened child. "I'll fetch you both some water, or some tea if any can be found." Gimli did not know much about healing for the nephew of the renowned Óin, but according to Bilbo a cup of tea could fix almost anything.
But Aragorn shook his head. "I do not think Legolas should eat or drink anything for a little while – the risk of shock is still imminent. Keep him warm, and alert, Eilonwy. Gimli, there is more we can be doing."
Gimli nodded, standing up and patting Legolas' good shoulder. "I'll be back soon, my friend."
Legolas nodded wearily, and Gimli followed Aragorn away, tugging a little at his beard as he went. He felt utterly drained, and more than a little nauseous. To see anyone in so much pain was hard enough, but for it to be a friend – he would have rather been through it himself. It was only now that he noticed he was shaking, and he wanted to run back and do something – anything – to take away the pain that was tormenting his friend.
But there was nothing he could do, and he knew it. Legolas had already had half a vial of pain tonic, and according to Aragorn, it was too soon to allow the elf to sleep. So Gimli distracted himself, striding outside to help move the dead.
When he returned two hours later, it was to find Eilonwy tucked into Legolas' side, playing with his hair and telling him an animated story about a magical pig and a golden bauble. Pain was wrought into the elf's face, and his eyes were slightly glazed, but there was the hint of a small smile on his lips whenever he glanced at the child.
Now with the blessing of Aragorn, Gimli passed them both a small bowl of broth.
"You might have to be his hands, lass," he said softly to Eilonwy. Then he turned to Legolas, putting a hand on his shoulder. "How're you doing, lad?"
Legolas looked up at him, with a wry smile. "See, Eilonwy? All dwarves ask stupid questions."
Eilonwy giggled, but there was an almost firm tone to her voice as she spoke. "That's a little mean, Legolas. He's just trying to be nice."
"Y'know, I think we should take her on with us instead of you, Legolas," said Gimli, sitting down beside the elf. "She's far more agreeable."
The child giggled again, and returned to undoing one of Legolas' braids. Gimli was a little surprised by this, but he reminded himself that braids were not as sacred to men and elves as they were to dwarves. That said, if it had been, he would not care. It seemed to be calming Legolas down to have the child play with his hair.
"Or perhaps she can take your place," whispered Legolas. His voice was weak, but Gimli was glad to hear him teasing. "Leave the bad smell behind."
Gimli shook his head, giving a low whistle. "With any luck Aragorn will agree to knock him out before his insults get any weaker, eh lass?"
As if Gimli's words had summoned him, Aragorn appeared with Boromir at his side. They helped Legolas to his feet, and brought him to a chamber with rows of makeshift beds, setting him down and passing him a vial of strong sleeping tonic.
The elf was asleep almost before he hit the pillow. Aragorn sighed, propping a line of rolled blankets and pillows along the elf's side to stop him from rolling onto his arm, but Gimli did not think that would be necessary. Already, Legolas was sleeping like the dead.
"Is he going to be alright?" asked Eilonwy, in a voice as tiny as she was.
"I think so," said Aragorn, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder. "He will be a lot of pain for a while, and there is still a risk of infection, but he is an elf, and that should help him. It will take more than a sword to the arm to take down Legolas Thranduilion. Thank you, Eilonwy. You've been very helpful today, we are very grateful."
She blushed, and did a clumsy curtsy. "You're welcome, m'lord. Is there anything else you ned?"
"No, thank you." Aragorn smiled. "Run back to your parents, child."
The girl stiffened slightly, but nodded, and scampered away down the hall. Gimli rubbed his jaw and stared at Legolas.
"He looks like a corpse," he murmured.
Boromir put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "He'll be on his feet in no time, I am sure of it, Gimli. He is strong, and Aragorn is right. He'll be slaying more orcs than you again in no time."
Gimli punched Boromir's arm.
"Come, Gimli," said Aragorn gently. "Let us get something to eat, and catch some rest ourselves. Legolas is out of danger, for now. There is nothing more we can do, and the healers will watch him through the night."
With a heavy sigh, Gimli allowed himself to be led away for food, but when Aragorn and Boromir went to sleep, Gimli returned to the side of the elf. He folded his arms over his chest and sat back against the wall, watching Legolas' chest rise and fall.
He kept his watch until morning.
Kíli was colder than he had been in years. Blankets had been bundled around him, over the restraints that bound him tightly to the board-like stretcher beneath him, and his hood was fasted by his chin with a broach, but still he shivered. It was four hours past midnight, and the light of the stars was cold, and far away. The wind ripped right through him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could not rub his aching arms, or tuck his hands beneath his elbows. He could not hunch up, or curl up, or blow on his hands. All he could do was wiggle his fingers.
There were straps over his legs and his hips, and across his chest and arms and forehead, keeping him tightly secured to his uncomfortable bed. Making sure that he could not move. There was also a hollow tube of wood, cushioned on the inside, that Tauriel had wrapped around his neck. She called it a neck brace, and this, too had been bound to the board.
Kíli knew what was at stake. He knew what could happen if he moved, if his back was twisted or hit – he knew what he could lose.
But he hated it.
He had thought that it would be easier after the first day, but it was not – his arms and back and head felt like beaten iron in the forges, and after ten minutes of incessant itching, the inability to scratch his nose was almost unbearable.
Yet his discomfort was nothing besides his fear.
The last time Kíli had been this incapacitated, he had been bound hand and foot in a cold cave. He had been tortured. He had thought that his brother and father were dead. Now, he was even more powerless than he had been then, and panic kept clawing its way up his throat, making it harder to breathe in the thin, cold air.
He fought the feeling back down every time, breathing from his stomach and dragging calmer thoughts to his mind, but that was getting harder. The waves of fear were becoming fiercer, more frequent, and he began to regret pushing to leave Mirkwood.
Only Bilbo and Fíli had fought to stay. Fear for Kíli and Dís fuelled a fierce fire in both of them, and for a while, Kíli had agreed with them. But Thranduil's words turned in his head, and they frightened him. He could not see Thorin falling to the Gold Sickness again, but the Sorrow Sickness was another matter entirely, and almost as dangerous. What was more, the idea of bringing support and supplies to Erebor was a grand one.
But deep down, if Kíli was honest, it was a childish selfishness that had swayed him. The plan had seemed stable, doable, and he wanted to be home. He did not want to languish in Mirkwood, of all places, he wanted to be home, with Thorin and his family, to know they were safe.
He just wanted to go home.
A tear slipped down his cheek, leaving a chill in its wake, and he closed his eyes. He should have stayed. He knew that he should of – it was a foolish idea, a child's wish, and he was a fool for fighting so hard. Of course the other dwarves would argue to return to the safety of the mountain, of course Vinca would agree with Dís. Kíli should have listened to Fíli and Bilbo.
But it would be worth it.
If they could just get there, just be in one piece –
He would be home. He would get to see Thorin.
He would still not be able to move. Perhaps his legs would never move again. Another tear fought to escape him, and there was nothing that Kíli could do to wipe it away. The fear was rising again, hot and thick in his throat, and his breath began to flee from him.
He was not captured.
He was not defenceless.
His brother was with him, riding on the back of the eagle that carried him.
His mother and father were close behind.
Slowly, painfully slowly, his breathing slowed, but his forehead was sweating, and now he felt colder than ever. He shivered, wiggling his fingers.
Then he heard something, something that was not the wind rushing in his ears, or the near silent wing beats of the eagles.
Fíli had cursed. Quietly – so quietly that Kíli would not have caught it had the wind not carried the sound to his ears. His heart sped up again, pounding against his ribcage. He longed to call 'What?' to know what was wrong, but he was not supposed to make a sound. They were still very high, but if they were heard – if they were spied…
He glanced to the side, more frustrated than ever that he could turn only his eyes, and not his head. But as they flew, he began to see flickering lights below. Fires. Hundreds of them, near thousands of small flames in a long curve.
Fire around the mountain.
The cold passed through Kíli's bones and into his soul.
They would not make it.
There was no way that they could fly over the army unseen, no way that they would ever reach the hidden door. They would be shot down, they would be massacred. Fury and fear surged through his veins, both screaming at his helplessness, and he closed his eyes and lips as tightly as he could. He did not want to cry. It was not noble or wise to cry, it was not the warrior's way. It would bring no comfort to his family.
But there was nothing else he could do. The tears flowed freely, and only ran faster when they began to sink lower. They were low enough to make out the camps of the orcs now, between the light of the fires, and the stars. His breath shuddered in and out, silent sobs racking his chest and sending a throb of pain to his lower back.
Then came the sound he had waited for, the harsh cry of an orc sentry, a barked order to fire, and then a yell from Fíli.
"Ready!"
Tensing as much as he could, Kíli waited for the arrows to hit, wondering if it was a fool's hope to wish that some of them may survive. But the arrows did not hit. One sailed up beside him, already slowing down. It spun slightly, and then fell, back to the ground as harmless as the feathers that fletched it. They were, by a hair's breadth, out of range.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kíli could see Vinca leaning over the side of the eagle she rode, shooting back with a bow on her own. She would have gravity on her side, but Kíli could not see whether or not she had hit anything. With Soren dead and Kíli broken, they had lost their two best archers.
Fíli gave another shout, and the birds began to turn, flying faster and faster in a tight formation that made Kíli's head spin. He felt very sick. His fingers scrabbled desperately for something to grab, something, anything, to hold onto, but there was nothing in reach. He could not even grapple with the blanket above them. The eagle tipped to its side as it turned, and for a moment Kíli could see the others in front and behind him, twelve eagles with dwarves and elves on their backs, and sacks of goods in their talons. Then, the eagle carrying Fíli and Kíli broke away, and they began to descend, faster than arrows could fly. Kíli could not help but scream, squeezing his eyes shut and praying with all the strength that he had.
Everything stopped.
Kíli opened his eyes and saw a dark sky above him in place of an eagle, and rocks on either side where the sky had once been. Behind him, he could hear Fíli breathing heavily, hear the scraping of metal on rock.
"Fee," he gasped, shaking all over. "Fíli-"
His brother's voice came fast and breathless. "I'm here, I just, need to find the – there! Hang on, Kíli, Bilbo's coming."
There was the swish of heavy wings, and then Bilbo ran to Kíli's side. His eyes widened in horror.
"Oh, Kíli," he murmured, putting a hand on Kíli's forehead. "You're pale as death."
"'m fine," Kíli gasped, but there was a great screech from above, and Kíli heard footsteps, and Bragi's voice yelling.
"No time, no time – Fíli get that door open!"
Kíli could hear the others landing, hear the shrieks of the orcs and the smattering of arrows against rock, and he closed his eyes again.
What else could he do?
He heard Fíli open the door, heard the scraping sound of stone on stone, and then Bilbo began to yell. "Inside, everyone inside!" The hobbit grabbed the feet end of Kíli's stretcher, but Bragi brushed him aside.
"I've got him," he said. "Bilbo, go!"
Figures dove past Kíli then, darting into the mountain like rabbits diving into their warrens. Fíli ran the wrong way, grabbing the end of the stretcher by Kíli's face, and then Kíli was lifted into the air, and moving again. It was less smooth than the flight of the eagle, but as the darkness of the mountain closed around him, Kíli let out a sob of relief.
"We've got you, Kíli," murmured Fíli, even as he pushed further inside to let everyone else in.
"Inside, quick!" barked Tauriel. "Shut the door, quickly!"
The door slammed shut, and in almost the very same moment, a harsh dwarven voice roared.
"Freeze! Don't you take another step, or I swear on Durin's name it will be your last. Who are you? Identify yourselves!"
And Vinca breathed a single word. "Ari?"
The dwarf gasped. "Vinca? Is that you?"
"Identify yourself," growled the voice of another guard, one that Kíli did not know. "Don't lower your sword, son of Orvar."
"I appreciate your vigilance," said Bilbo, "but we don't really have time for this. We couldn't get in if we didn't have the key and know exactly where the door is, could we? That at least should tell you something. If you need more, I am Lord Bilbo Baggins, with me is the Princess Dís and Princes Fíli and Kíli, Lords Bofur, Glóin, and Nori, Bragi, Ehren, Miss Vinca Took, and Tauriel and Elbeth, of the woodland realm. Have I forgotten anybody? I don't think I have, we had to leave the wolves in Mirkwood, and Inni's flown back with the eagles… Now, we are in a hurry, we must get Kíli and Dís to the royal chambers so that the elves can check they've not some themselves any damage-"
The guard who was not Ari did not seem convinced. "We will not simply take you at your word-"
"Oh yes, I think you will," said Bilbo, his voice cooling. From the sounds of it, he was showing the guard the bead in his hair and ring on his finger that had been given to him when he received lordship. "And Durin is with me. I think that should suffice. Now, kindly get out of the way."
Kíli closed his eyes, and again they began to move. 'Durin is with me," was a dwarven code meaning that all was well. Had Bilbo said 'Durin is beside me,' he would have implied that he was under duress. Kíli wished he could see the guard's face. It was always hilarious when his tiny hobbit father pulled rank on dwarven guards.
"What do you mean, the elves can check…" Ari trailed off as Kíli was carried into the light of the hall, and his eyes grew wide with horror. "What happened?"
"Not here, not now," said Bilbo, a strained look on his pale face. He patted Ari's arm gently. "We want to go home, please."
"Of course," said Ari, his eyes still on Kíli.
"I would wave," Kíli murmured, his voice croakier than he would have liked it to be.
Ari pressed his lips together and nodded, looking far too worried and grown up to be that little child they had met twenty years ago, who was so intrigued by hobbits. "Come," he said. "The servants' tunnels should be empty – they are off limits now to all but the guard. This way."
He led them through a small, half hidden door, and Kíli closed his eyes again. He breathed in deeply. Home. He was home.
"We're nearly there now, Kíli," promised Fíli. "Nearly there. How are you feeling?"
Kíli went to shrug, and when that did not work, he sighed. Though he tried to keep his voice light, it came out more as a near hysterical whisper instead. "Well, can't feel my legs at all. Makes a nice break from the general achiness. I want to get these straps off, Fee, I – I have to be able to move, I need to use my hands, I-"
"Shh. I know. Soon, Kíli, soon. I promise."
Kíli tried to smile.
Sooner than he had thought to hope, they came upon a familiar, glittering staircase, and he was carried up into the royal wings of the kingdom. Straight through his front door, into the company room.
And despite the late hour, sitting by the fire and staring at the newcomers with an expression of sheer shock, was Thorin.
I hope that you enjoyed that chapter – I stayed up late to finish it, so I hope it was worth it and apologise for the inevitable typos.
Also, as a note, I do intend on going into more detail as to the plan, and why they thought it was safe enough/worth it. Here, Kíli is in a wee bit of a state, but the details are there, and will be revealed in due time, including how the eagles got there and why, who is/was with them, how long it took, what they brought with them, etc. It was not ignored, but nor was it poor Kíli's priority in this bit. Looks like there's more healing to come!
Have a lovely week and I will see you next Monday. As ever, I would be very grateful if you could leave any feedback, I love hearing from you.