Most of the chapter was deleted (twice), so I apologize if it feels sub-par. I'm just amazed I had the self-control to actually write anything rather than smashing the computer into smithereens or throwing a foot through the screen.
Quick lore or story-notes that I feel worth sharing in relation to the story:
- The Battle of Five Armies is actually also inspired by the book version, even though I in chapter 1 said I would mostly follow the movies. I 'lied', so to speak, but basically same-same.
- Even though I quite like Tauriel's character, I am not including her in this story because, even though I tried fitting her in, I just couldn't place her within the plot. So yeah, basically means the entire Battle of the Five Armies were without neither her nor Legolas, since he wouldn't have otherwise left Mirkwood.
Thanks for the reviews!
To M (guest): I think I'll stay clear off warnings, since, as you said as well, either a general note or none at all would probably work just as well. I'm sorry you found my note to come off as begging for reviews, because that was certainly not my intention, though nonetheless I'll be careful for it not to come off as such in the future!
To obsessed reader (guest): If you enjoyed the quick, fleeting meeting with Fíli and Kíli I'm sure you'll like this chapter. Nothing but Fíli! His next meeting with Ranel (or first, since we're now watching it from his perspective) will be in chapter 7 unfortunately, but I hope you'll like it!
Enjoy a rather short chapter 6!
When Ravens Fly
Chapter VI: In the Open
Life had returned within the great halls of Erebor.
Dwarves from every corner of Middle-earth gathered beneath the mountain, eager to rebuild and restore the kingdom to its previous repute. To bring the stories of old back to life once more. The forges burned bright in a sweltering heat; hammers upon anvils resonated in the depths, as blacksmiths worked without rest; broken pillars and chambers were cleared, built anew yet better by the skilled hands of the stoneworkers. Greater. The seat of the King, no longer left vacant with the returned leader of Durin's Folk, was the shining beacon of hope for the Dwarves. A new, bright future.
But the kingdom had not been retaken without sacrifice.
Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, had, upon receiving word of the retaking of Erebor and the death of Smaug, marched with an army of some five hundred Dwarves to assist his cousin in the kingdom's defenses. Five hundred heavily armed and most skilled veterans, having seen war before, arrived on the eastern slopes at the gates of Erebor. Many of those lost their lives at the mouth of the valley before the great kingdom, where the armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves clashed against the vast host of orcs and wargs. It had been a mesh of screams and howls, blood and death; shields splintered and swords clashed, beat down on and carved through flesh.
On two spurs before the gates of Erebor they created a choke-point, sloped down into the valley, and the defenders had the upper hand against the first wave of attackers, but soon they were forced back by the superior numbers beating down on them. Like an endless wave that swept them away with the tide, bringing nothing but death; their enemies unrelenting, crazed and blood-thirsty, with nothing but thoughts to maim and kill. It was in these moments, when the battle turned for the worse, that Thorin Oakenshield's rallying charge was cut off, unprotected from the rest of his army and hard beset.
His attack crumbled and the mesh of battle degenerated into chaos.
While the King under the Mountain fought with great courage and strength, worthy of all tales later retelling the battle, felling many a foe until the ground was soaked in the dark blood of orcs, he soon collapsed from his injures. His nephews, princes from the House of Durin, stood by their fallen uncle, willingly forfeiting their own lives to defend their king with both shield and body. They fought beyond breaking, until their minds saw naught but crimson red, the clouding of their vision, and they could no longer grasp their weapons.
Until blades shattered into hundreds of fragments.
When the bowstring snapped, when he could do nothing but watch his brother fall.
When he screamed in despair. Called the name of the one dearest to him.
When darkness soon claimed him ...
Fíli bolted upright in the bed, skin covered in a glistening glaze of cold sweat, the nightmare – the memory – still vivid even with his eyes wide open. His breathing shallow, jagged, he stared into the darkness of the room and tried to suppress the unwelcome images. Sparks of pain, searing through his flesh, travelled down his left arm; clenching and unclenching his fingers in an attempt to regain control, he could feel the involuntary convulsions fight his mind. He should feel lucky, happy, to be alive, is what the healers told him.
But the Dwarf knew better. Never again would he be able to wield his dual swords with the same fluency as he used to. The healers had struggled relentlessly in an attempt to save the Line of Durin, only succeeding with the assistance of Tharkûn and his magic. Only by a hair's breadth. The recovery had been slow and exhaustingly painful, and while most wounds faded into nothing but white scars, emblems of battle and valor, some never truly left. A blade had carved through tendons to the bone, nearly severing his arm from the rest of his body and left Fíli with an unquenchable feeling of being crippled. Incomplete.
He had stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, both willing to give every last drop of blood and their lives to protect Thorin. To protect their King. Fíli had never imagined survival against the overwhelming onslaught; a worthy death, killed in battle. But the Valar appeared to have other plans. Throwing aside the covers, knowing well no sleep would come to him after the dream, he ran a calloused hand across the scarred tissue; an unbroken line trailing from the collarbone to the scapular. Rough beneath his fingers.
Picking up a discarded robe, he quickly shrugged it on and moved over the cool floor to the large, intricately carved fireplace, cut straight from the very rocks of the mountain. Soon flames licked over the wood, orange and yellow, making contorted shadows dance across the walls. He knelt a moment longer, gaze darkened in thought as heat seeped into his freezing body.
He felt no regret. He truly did not. They had managed to protect their uncle until the bitter end, yet he could not help but wish his injuries would not have been so permanent. Never had he admitted it openly to his family, confined in them, because he felt too ashamed. Without a doubt Kíli knew his brother's thoughts without having to ask, but Fíli never could quite put his feelings into words and remained silent.
His fingers found the small silver bead clasped to one of his braids, touch running across the indentations and he paused.
Sigin-tarâg, Longbeards. The House of Durin.
How could he ever expect to rule – to bear the burden of others upon his shoulders – if he could not even handle his own? Raised under the stern guardianship of Thorin Oakenshield, a leader who had protected his people through the harsh perils of exile, Fíli knew such weakness had no place within the heart of a Crown prince.
Fíli squared his shoulders with newfound resolution, suppressing the haunted calls of the night, and the Dwarf stepped close to the large desk near the fire. He had declined a separate bedchamber and study, more than satisfied with having everything together, and as such required less time travelling to and from rooms. Taking a seat he eyed the bleary pile of parchment, all awaiting his signature and seal. Most were mundane tasks, yet he had been taught to never leave his name on something he did not truly, and wholeheartedly, agree to. It would not be a first if a greedy merchant or nobility would attempt such trickery to steal a name for their own uses.
He pulled the first parchment closer, features settling into boredom as his eyes flickered down the words.
The royal quarters, where both he and his brother had been assigned chambers, were not without some natural light; narrow channels had been dug through the rock, allowing the first rays of morning to filter down until the room was bathed in a dim, golden glow. Some hours passed and the sun had risen, yet the pile seemed no closer to finished upon closer inspection. Food supplies; trade to and from the mountain; wishes and requests for an audience with one or all members of royalty; minor disagreements or arguments in the need of settlement, yet all believing it worthy of their king's time.
While Fíli's sleep was riddled with nightmares, he was not sure Thorin ever had the time to even sleep.
At that thought, Fíli declined most requests on behalf of his uncle.
Regarding the parchments with distaste, he rubbed the brink of his nose to release a building tension, slowly weighing his mind down and breaking his concentration. Though he should not have worried about the threatening headache, for something far more distracting decided in that moment to barge in, slamming the door open with such force that the massive wood was knocked into the wall. "Rise and shine, brother, it is time to greet the morning!" The brown haired Dwarf, with a grin and both hands placed firmly to his hips, looked expectantly to the bed.
"You know," Fíli said slowly, giving the other Dwarf a chance to orientate himself. A half-smile played at his lips, even though he well knew his brother's intention had been to startle him in his sleep. "Unlike you, I have far too much work on my hands to have the luxury to sleep in late." He folded his fingers against the smooth surface of the table, before adding in hindsight. "In fact I am fairly certain so do you."
Kíli walked over, and it was then Fíli noticed the younger Dwarf's attire. The usual tunic, made of fine cloths of silk and cotton, had been replaced with one of sturdier materials, sticking out beneath light plates of armor suited for travel. A quiver was fastened to his back, bow slung across his shoulder. "Anyways," the brown haired Dwarf said, halting in front of the desk and with both hands clasped behind his back. "You will have no work today."
"No?" Fíli raised an eyebrow in inquiry, now knowing his brother was planning something.
"No. Today you will go hunting with me. I've been told there are plenty of rabbits on the slopes southeast of the mountain."
Carefully placing his ink-tipped pen to the side, the oldest Dwarf turned his full attention to the other with a sigh and a glare only their uncle – and mother – could rival. "I will not go hunting, Kíli. While you may disregard your own duties and get away with it, I cannot. Uncle cannot do everything on his own, and I am heir to the throne."
Kíli made a face, a mixture of disbelief and resignation, before letting out a long-drawn sigh. "You have cooped yourself up in here for far too long. When was the last time you stepped foot outside the mountain? Wait–" He held up his hand. "Don't answer that. A month. That's how long. Even uncle will have to agree that you cannot continue like this, and if mother was here she would tie you to a pony and drag you out herself. Not to mention Thorin has more counselors than he knows the names of, so yes, you are coming with me."
"Let us pretend I agree with you," Fíli said, thoughtfully mulling over his brother's words that, admittedly, sounded quite agreeable in comparison to the pile of paperwork. It truly had been a long time since he had last breathed the fresh, clear mountain air or felt the wind against his face. He always accepted his responsibilities without complaints, yet he could not pretend he enjoyed them. "How exactly do you expect said counselors will take to me just abandoning today's work?"
"I know for a fact that all you are supposed to do today is greet visiting nobility and, of course, their beautiful, kind-hearted and wise daughters," Kíli said with a grin.
The brothers watched each other quietly for a moment, locked in a battle of wills they both knew who would lose.
With the prospect of spending his day having his ears talked off by ladies of fine bearings and of noble birth, Fíli's struggles against his brother were less than half-hearted. He had quickly dressed in similar sturdy clothes, resistant against both the weather, rocks and branches, but also much more comfortable in comparison to the stuffy, tailored items they were forced to wear at court. Strapping on a belt, he looked to his swords with hesitation before settling with only one blade, that he then sheathed. He could feel Kíli's observant, dissatisfied gaze – yet neither spoke of his decision.
Afterwards Fíli hid his usual knifes, the familiar weight calming, grabbed a cloak and walked from his chambers. Torches illuminated their path, bathing the corridor in a warmth foreign to the mountain's natural darkness; large embroidered tapestries, depicting heroic deeds of old, hung from the walls and smothered their booted steps, otherwise reverberating throughout the quietude. The path met another ahead, and the opening was flanked by two heavily armored guards stationed for the princes' protection. On duty, they did not greet nor speak to the pair.
In the early hours of morning the upper corridors of the mountain were without people; only the forges, burning sustained even through the night, and the servants' quarters came alive with the sun's first climb across the horizon. A few maids scuttled along, handling baskets of laundry like a warrior would a sword, only to slip out of sight when Fíli and Kíli passed.
The corridors and hallways had opened up into the great kingdom of Erebor; a massive open area leading from the great entrance to the very back of the mountain, where the royal chambers were positioned, connected every maze-like part of the mountain with one another; narrow bridges spanned across the dark depths, staircases ran along the stones; some wide enough for twenty Dwarves to walk side by side, and others so small one could imagine only a child could stand without falling off its edges. Countless tunnels and passages were dug through the mountain, leading to cellars and halls, even enormous chambers such as the old throne room of Thrór and several, equally large ones, holding all the reclaimed treasures of the great Dwarven kingdom.
Hammers echoed in the darkness, clanks and rattles.
Shouts in the distance, the first signs of the grand marketplaces awakening and the opening of shops.
"I do feel bad for leaving uncle with the noble ladies," the oldest Dwarf said quietly as they followed the stairs further down. The air was cold, fresh, and smelled like earth and rock. Of home. The very materials Dwarves were created from, and the life beneath the mountain made Fíli's sacrifices worthwhile. This was what he had fought for. He smiled to himself.
"Oh, I always think he looks like he enjoys the company," Kíli mused.
They exchanged a glance, then broke out into barks of laughter at the thought. Thorin, walking the hallways with a trail of giggling, chatty Dwarrowdams feigning shyness while showing excess amounts of skin, always looked like he much preferred to be back in the Elvenking Thranduil's dungeons. Though, unfortunately for both Kíli and Fíli, their uncle was soon pushing two hundred years of age and, as such, was the less attractive choice for marriage. No, the chances at the throne were much higher if the fair maidens were to catch the eye of a prince.
"I am not sure he agrees," he responded, shaking his head lightly.
Their walk through the great hall was slowed, halted as they greeted the Dwarves in their path; talking off trade, family, and sick relatives, all the while getting a feel for the on-goings of the people of Erebor and making their presence – their genuine care and interest – known. The marketplace was an open space, filled with carts and tables, selling everything from precious gems and jewelry, weapons; tiny butter knives and longswords; fine fabrics, fur and pelts; to poultry, meat, baked goods, and sweets.
While their new roles and responsibilities within court were less than welcome and remarkably boring, they both enjoyed time with the workers – something they had done already back in their old home in Ered Luin. An old Dwarrowdam, with a remarkably large beard white as newly fallen snow, gifted them both freshly baked bread rolls from her shop upon hearing of their hunting plans. Another gave them two large meat pies, making their mouths water from just the smell – the pies would most likely not survive the entire trip to the grassy plains.
After Fíli's recovery, when he could finally move from his sickbed, the brothers had, slowly at first, explored the Lonely Mountain's winding corridors and great halls, the majestic statues and golden vaults; with hundreds upon thousands gems, rubies, sapphires, even entire arches coated in quartz and topaz rivalling the night skies. Erebor was much grander than their old home in the Blue Mountains, but their speechless astonishment was not without sorrow. The dragon's destruction was not to be overlooked.
The first months after the retaking, when the Lonely Mountain was yet without life, they had often come across small chambers. Here, huddled together, lay their fallen brethren; trapped and without escape, until all they could do was wait for a slow death to claim them. With the assistance of the Iron Hills' soldiers, they could finally put their kin to rest within the stones; there they would wait, in a deep slumber much alike Durin the Deathless' in the ancient times, until Mahal would reawaken the Dwarves to restore the world.
But now, with the slow passing of time, caravans flocked to Erebor and liveliness returned.
Fíli and Kíli stepped through an arched gate, smelling the change on the air. It became fresh, clear but warm, carrying a scent of the blooming flowers of May. The large gates, where the dragon had hauled his great body through in a vengeful fury, were undergoing repairs. The great stone doors were opened, allowing a steady flow of workers to and from the mountain; they brought with them smooth, squared stones that were used to reinforce the walls and gateway, or for the battlements high above the ground level. Two new bastions were starting to take shape, fortifying the defenses of the weakest part of the mountain.
A masonry foreman barked orders over the loud, beating noises of hammers and chisels. Winches lifted thin, even slabs of dark metal in between shouts, until disappearing into a narrow passage connecting the gate's inner and outer wall walks. Before Smaug's ransacking of the Lonely Mountain, the gate had mainly consisted of large stone boulders and with the natural rocks as protection; but now iron and steel between stone would strengthen the entrance, as well as giving archers a better, safer, vantage point against an attacking force. Once the final details would be added to the stonework, several wind-lances and trebuchets was to be placed on the towers and walls.
Neither dragon nor army would be allowed entrance to the mountain.
It did not take long before a stable boy, breathing heavily and with cheeks flushed at the sight of the princes, had fetched two ponies for their use.
One lipped at Fíli's shoulder, almost taking a braid with it, but he pushed the pony aside benignly to instead rub its mane, running his fingers absently through the coarse hairs. Once the animals were saddled and ready for departure, packed with a few apples for the ponies and two waterskins each, the princes quickly mounted and made their way through the opened gate. His gaze turned upwards, taking in the changes so very different from the makeshift barricade they had made eight months earlier. The wall was thick, and any beast of old hoping to barge through could just as well slam directly into the mountain.
A blinding light shimmered through the opening ahead, piercing the dimness until the pair broke out into the open. The blue morning sky was painted with streaks of orange and pale red; cloudless and unending, stretching over the still, mirroring waters of the Long Lake as if heaven and earth came into one. In the distance, on the other bank a faint line of green could be discerned by keen eyes. Mirkwood forest.
Simple wooden scaffolds lined the rock walls, where several Dwarves were carving elaborate runes and figures no bigger than a hand, or working on a pair of tall statues, looming down on any that dared enter the mountain. The ponies' hooves clopped against the stone bridge, bringing the brothers further away from the busily working craftsmen.
To the southwest, on one of the mountain ridges that ran like spurs through the landscape, was the outlying slope Ravenhill; the Dwarves of Erebor had once built a guard-post on the high ground, with a view of both the valley of Dale and the River Running, as the rapid currents winded through the green landscape towards the Sea of Rhûn. It was but rubble after the Battle of Five Armies, but several small, moving dots could be seen weaving between the boulders and beams and there, too, reconstruction had begun.
Large ravens soared through the air around the fallen tower, startled from their resting places until settling once more with hoarse cries, faint in the air even from the distance. It was a raven, who had told them the news of the dragon's demise and carried word to Dáin, and Thorin had in return requested special nesting places to be build for the talking birds above the top-most rafters of the structure.
The cobble-stoned path followed the river, starting from the Lonely Mountain to the lake where the path then forked into two; one, well-traveled towards Dale, another bending east to the Iron Hills, and the last bending around the lake to open plains of Rhovanion until meeting up with the Old Forest Road through Mirkwood. Kíli, leading the way, steered them towards the eastern road – more a dust trail, unused for nearly two centuries when there was no trade between the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills.
All that remained of the road were way-stones, poking out from the tall grass.
Once the sloped fields opened up before them and the ponies fell into a comfortable, easy trot, the brothers shared the first pie between them.
"Hard to believe possible," Kíli spoke through a mouthful, brushing off crumbs from his stubble beard and fur-lined coat with a hand. "But this is almost as good as Bombur's cooking."
Fíli nodded his quiet agreement, chewing into the still warm bread crust and gaze trained on his surroundings. While a peace had fallen over the wilderlands, he kept up his guard even then. While most orcs and wargs had been slain in the battle, some had fled into the hills and valleys; returning to the Misty Mountains or hiding out in caves and unclaimed lands between Celduin and Carnen, he did not know. Fingers gripping tighter around the reins, the familiar yet unwelcome pains throbbed beneath his skin.
He had no confidence in his own skills to survive an ambush.
They rode for a few hours, until the Long Lake looked like nothing but a puddle in the distance and the great gates of Erebor vanished entirely from sight behind cliff walls. The chill grey dawn had given way to the Spring heat, soon forcing them to discard their cloaks as the sun baked down from above. Spending most of the time in a comfortable silence, where the two brothers enjoyed each other's company and the warm weather, the two soon finished both the last pie and the bread rolls; content and full, they laughed at the thought of their uncle, by then surely fighting his hardest battle yet against an unbeatable force of noble ladies, screeching for attention.
"Has a fair maiden caught your eye yet, brother?" Kíli asked with a wry smirk.
Fíli held his gaze for a moment, then rolled his eyes in exasperation. Though not with a laugh. "Oh, yes," he responded with feigned seriousness.
Before his brother could respond pass opening and closing his mouth, the blond Dwarf spurred his pony; fresh winds whipped against his face, as he swiftly followed the downward slope. Hooves thundered against the ground, soon followed by his younger brother's pursuit close behind. They raced over the open fields, arrows shooting across green, until finally falling into a slowed pace to spare the panting animals; Fíli patted his mount, scratching behind one twitching ear and down the pony's neck.
Kíli quickly came to his side once more, their legs brushing with how close they rode. "There is?"
Rolling his eyes once more, playfully landing a punch to the other Dwarf's shoulder, he responded. "Of course not!" He leaned back his head to feel the sun against his face, eyes turned to the cloudless skies in thought. No, he had yet to feel the pull of his One; even the slightest of tugs, steering him towards his destined partner. If, of course, Mahal had created one for him. "What about you?" He asked offhandedly.
"Not what I know off," Kíli said with a shrug.
Whether Fíli even wished to be married or not, he was not all too sure, if he ever truly would be for certain. For now he enjoyed his – albeit limited – freedom, satisfied, and more than preoccupied with his responsibilities as Crown prince. Perhaps being a husband and a father was too much? He of course knew the expectations and hope laid upon him; to produce an heir to the throne, to carry on his bloodline, but he had yet to turn eighty-three. It could surely wait. "I am sorry to say, but I have my doubts anyone could ever put up with you, Kíli."
His brother let out a dry laugh and returned the earlier punch. "You do."
"I am your brother."