Went on vacation to Japan for three weeks and was stuck with the worst wifi known to man, even though I had hoped and planned to get some writing done at least on the airplane to later upload. But here we go, instead. And of course the first half of my chapter was deleted ... again. Because I love computers and they love me. So very, very, very much.
Thank you for the wonderful feedback to the last chapter! Was great to read the reviews whenever I managed to catch a beam of internet connection, so my thanks goes to all those that followed, favorited, and of course reviewed. While I have not been able to reply directly to you, please know that I've read and appreciated every single one of them.
Enjoy the chapter!
When Ravens Fly
Chapter XII: Walking through the Night
A whinny carved through the nighttime quiet.
The smaller streets of Dale, leading the Dwarves further away from the inn, were bathed in shadows. An overcast sky smothered the stars, and when Fíli peered upwards the moon was but a hazy circle of silver. An eerie glow of light. The hour swiftly approached midnight. They were likely expected back at Erebor with impatience – perhaps even with a scolding word or two. But nonetheless he did not regret his choice in following the minstrel.
He had finally come to learn the story behind the Dwarf cloak that had unexpectedly caught his interest.
His strange curiosity had been quenched.
Brushing a hand against his tunic, he hovered briefly over the inner pocket where the letter was securely tucked away. The task he had accepted. They had bid her a pleasant evening, and the young woman had thanked them over and over. Gratitude radiated clear in her face.
Now he even knew her name ...
Unknowingly, the corner of his mouth tilted into a smile as he returned his gaze to the road. Perhaps he had been too forthcoming in offering his assistance, but he saw no harm to come from him doing so. The strict rule set upon the entrance to the Lonely Mountain was to keep order; they could not allow just anyone to flock inside.
Not even a minstrel wishing to pay a visit to her companions.
It was already troublesome enough to find lodgings for all the Dwarven families eager to help in the restorations. Traders and performers, setting up stalls and attracting crowds? Not to mention the more unsavory kind that would likely slip inside if the watch was lessened? No, it would be much more than they were fit to handle – at least for now. Once the lower levels were clear of rubble and the mines running steadily, then they could open the gates for more trade.
But one single letter could do no harm, and the minstrel merely wished to keep in touch with her companions. If Fíli had been in her shoes surely he would have asked the same. Fíli hoped he would have time tomorrow to seek out the blacksmith and his family, or at least be able to hand over the letter within the week.
The road ahead turned and forked, widening, and the darkened cobblestones became illuminated with the dancing light of torches.
Lit sconces hung from walls, lining the street, and turned the air warm against their faces. They were approaching the central part of Dale, where the broad roads led to and from the city. To his left, a faint white against the dark sky, he could see the spire of the Lord's mansion peaking above the roofs; soon they would be back to where they started earlier in the day.
Ahead, wobbling unsteadily from one foot to another, a pair of drunken workmen headed home. Slurred words were passed when the ponies clip-clopped by, though they did not appear to stem from ill intentions and the Dwarves spared little thought on it. When the road finally allowed it, Fíli pulled his pony up next to Kíli's and the brothers left the city side by side.
The guards at the gate knew their faces well and swiftly allowed them passage with a nod.
Crossing the bridge, planks creaking beneath the weight, the open plains stretched far into the distance. A clammy fog lay heavy over the swaying grass, bending with every stroke of wind tumbling down from over the mountain ridges. The view, beautiful in the daylight, was but a dull, unending sea of grey between them and their destination. It was somewhat disquieting, and so they turned from the sight and looked no further than the dusty stones below.
The path cut clear through, but as the mists drew close and enveloped them, it did not take long before the dampness soaked into their clothes. With the air smelling of earth and the fog gathering, it soon grew colder. Fíli drew his cloak tighter, pulling the hood down over his head until even his brow was covered. It did not take long before the hem was lined with grey drops, trickling down over his skin and into his beard.
Their vision was hindered, and so they carefully and slowly led the ponies forward. While the roads were well visited and kept, any loose stone or bump could snatch on a hoof. Fíli did not wish to break one of the ponies' legs just because he had delayed his departure. Holding the reins tightly in one hand, he patted the coarse mane comfortingly; his gentle pony tossed its head merrily in response and neighed softly. Unpertubed by the weather.
A roar rose in the distance, growing louder upon their approach.
Here Celduin's waters fed the lake, and where the two clashed white foam rose to life between large boulders. The lake winked out at them in the dimmed moonlight, glimmering through the hazy cloud cover. Stone pillars emerged through the fog ahead, marking the crossing and the only safe way spanning the rapids – unless one did not mind a swim through chilly snow-waters.
If one knew where to look they would then be able to see small runes chiseled into the stone, marking the border between the realms of Men and Dwarves. Its purpose was not a sign of warning, but served rather as a guiding post for any Dwarf-friend's keen eyes. Protection. Those who sought it would always find it within these lands.
High above the clouds parted, and the light of the silvery sphere filtered down. The stones shone clearly, a white shimmer in a sea of grey. Several other rocks would be lining the road towards the mountain; each a beacon for a weary traveler on a journey long and perilous.
The way leading to the Kingdom under the Mountain.
The road followed the shore for half a mile more, and often they stirred nesting birds into the air with loud caws and bulrushes fluttering beneath large wings.
Then the path bent north and the Lonely Mountain towered tall in the distance. Fíli rolled his rigid shoulders, the coldness seeping deep into his skin, and he flexed his gloved fingers. The injury in his shoulder vexed. He hoped someone had kept the fire burning in his chambers for, unless work awaited him, Fíli planned to immediately seek the comfort of his blankets and pillows upon return.
He stifled a yawn; Fíli would have gladly allowed his pony to lead the rest of the way back if not for his brother's odd antics, always springing to life when least expected – and even less desired. This moment was no different ...
"Rattling, clanking – can you hear it, brother?" Kíli spoke in the silence; voice low as he caught Fíli's questioning glance. The brown-haired Dwarf grinned wickedly and cocked an eyebrow. "The spirits stir the dead bones in the mounds ... A pale, icy light gleaming in their eyes." He pointed out into the mists, where the dark of night met the dark of the earth. "Minions of the Witch-king, reaching out through the fog for unsuspecting travelers. Barrow-wights!"
Shaking his head, Fíli sighed heavily before shooting Kíli a look. "Really? Now is the time for that?"
"But I saw them!" The younger Dwarf argued, voice hushed into a frantic whisper, although with little conviction – mostly due to the grin he could not wipe from his face. Then, he whispered, "In there, in the mist. Shadowy figures made from dead bones."
"Should we tie you up and leave you here with them?" Dwalin's question trailed up from the front. The warrior had spent the ride in silence, keen eyes vigilant in a watch of their surroundings, and one hand gripped the handle of his axe tightly. But now he turned in his saddle to look back at them. "Barrow-wights and other spirits are no joking matter, lad, you should know that."
"Not to mention they only dwell between the Old Forest and the North-South Road," Fíli added good-naturedly, pointing to the west far beyond the plains. To lands far, far away. "Which of course isn't anywhere near here. You know that."
Pulling a face, Kíli huffed in exasperation and threw up his hands.
"Very well!" He exclaimed. "I merely found this silence uncomfortable; a little humour could shake off the dreadful weather, but you two grouches smothered any chance for that. So enjoy your sorry, drowned state as you so prefer. I hope you both catch a cold ..."
Fíli chuckled. "Perhaps another topic rather than evil wraiths of old would suit your purposes more?"
Rolling his eyes, Kíli agreed with a frown. "You wouldn't leave me out here either way."
"If you keep trying my patience you can be sure I will," Dwalin stated, once more shooting a glance out over the foggy plains. The wind rustled through the long grass, like sleak creatures swiftly brushing through the undergrowth towards them. A chill ran down Fíli's spine. "How do you even know what a Barrow-wight looks like? You haven't ever seen one."
"I read it in a book," Kíli responded proudly.
Dwalin, under his breath, then muttered, "I didn't know you could read ..."
Fíli's laugh echoed into the darkness for a long while after.
The road continued through the landscape, and they rode on for an hour more before yellow lights finally emerged in the mists. Two large braziers flanked the entrance, burning oil throughout the night; the flames stood tall against the darkened stones, sending flakes of ash high into the air, and shadowy figures patrolled back and forth with spears and shields.
A call rose up into the quiet as the lookout spotted their approach, breathing life into the guards once more. Nighttime visitors were rare; and seldomly welcome.
Dwalin held up a hand, shouting a response in return before wary archers took to the ramparts against hostile visitors. The wooden boards complained below the ponies when they crossed the drawbridge; Fíli nodded his greetings to the guards before they passed through the thick wall, stealing a last glance at the grey clouds before entering the cavernous expanse beyond.
As he had predicted, they were indeed expected and stableboys stood at the ready to take the animals off their hands. The great entrance, despite the late hour, was bathed in warm light; Fíli's damp clothes clung to his skin, uncomfortably, and he quickly unclasped his cloak. Water trickled onto the floor, pooling around his boots.
Kíli shook his head, sending droplets flying, before stretching aching muscles. "Let's not disturb uncle tonight. He's likely fast asleep by now," he said, already making his way further into the mountain's deep darkness. "It would be rude to disturb him."
Following close behind, Fíli was inclined to agree as the warmth had invited drowsiness into his heavy bones. He wanted nothing more than to sleep the entire night – and day – away. But at the same time, it was unlikely their uncle would close an eye without knowing his heirs were safe within Erebor's halls.
When the open spaces narrowed, and corridors and stone staircases led to the upper levels, the two princes bid Dwalin a good night. Whether the captain of the guard would return to his own chambers or report the happenings of the day, Fíli did not know; instead he grabbed his brother around the shoulders and steered him towards the royal quarters.
Their booted steps reverberated between the pillars, carved right out from the rock that stretched down from the roof. Solid stone, lined with torches and tapestries, and dark openings leading to new corridors and rooms in the underground maze.
But Fíli knew the way well.
The amount of guards on duty increased until one was stationed at every corner, armed and alert to every little movement and rustling in shadowed corners. Eyes, gleaming in the fire light, trailed the brothers' movement; though of course none questioned the late hour upon which the princes chose to visit their uncle.
And while his body felt heavy, reluctant to walk the opposite way from his own room; shoulder sending aching spikes down the length of his arm; he came to a halt in front of a pair of great, sturdy oak doors. Deep engravings covered the surface, intricate beyond any other wood-carvings found in Erebor.
Precious gems inlaid within the wood, creating an illusion of deep caverns and open skies; green forests and rolling rivers.
All that passed by these doors knew well who resided within. Uzbad undu 'Urd.
King under the Mountain.
The private study of Thorin Oakenshield. Interrupting the calmness of the hall, Fíli carefully knocked on the door. His brother muttered lowly about berry pies and a midnight hunger, but he, too, squared his shoulders when a deep voice reached them from beyond the door. "Enter."
Pressing down the golden doorknob, cold in his hand, the pair stepped in.
Inside, the candles, unattended, had mostly died out and left the room in a dull glow; only the fireplace burned still behind a heavy desk across the floor. Piles of parchment created columns on the table, between tomes and books dusty with age; a serpent, molded in dark stone, served as a paperweight.
Its folded wings gleamed in the light, ruby eyes ablaze.
To begin with their uncle did not look up from his work, as his entire attention was fixed on a long note rolled out in front of him. Quill in hand. A tray of dinner perched dangerously close to the edge of the desk, almost completely untouched.
"Good evening, uncle," Fíli steadily greeted, hands clasped behind his back. His clothes were cold in the heat, the dampness subsiding yet the clammy feeling remained. "We have returned from Dale."
"We apologize for our lateness of the hour," Kíli chirped in, sounding abashed like no one else possibly could. "Some unforeseen events came in our way." Even though he had played quite the part in the late arrival ... Fíli suppressed the urge to smack his brother over the back of the head.
At least until after they left their uncle's presence.
"Have a seat," Thorin's deep voice called them forward, the feathered end of the quill motioning to the upholstered, dark green chairs before the desk. The brothers needed not to be told twice, and shortly after Fíli sank down into the soft paddings and quietly awaited their uncle's attention.
The fire crackled, making shadows dance across the walls. Fíli loosened the roll of parchment, brought with him from the meeting with Lord Bard, and pulled it from his belt. Rolling it over in his hands, his eyes danced over the signs of battle before him.
While Thorin had never shied from a fight, it was only after the clash on the slopes of Erebor that white lines of scar tissue marred his features. The line of Durin had tethered on the brink of disappearance; and the leader of their company was nothing more than a blurred vision of bloody gashes and cuts when exhaustion claimed Fíli on the slopes before the mountain.
One especially deep scar traveled from beneath the dark hairline, splitting the eyebrow and carving, jagged sharply, to the left towards the ear. The blade had narrowedly missed Thorin's eye. But, if anything, the king's injuries only added to the reverence his subjects regarded him with; be they common miners and tinkers, blacksmiths and traders, even the lords and ladies of court.
A King who had given his all for his people.
"Tell me then–," Thorin began, finally turning his gaze upon his nephews; deep-set blue eyes regarded them without betraying thought nor feeling. The quill's tip clicked against the marble ink pot. "–how is the state of Dale?"
Fíli cleared his throat.
"The masons will soon finish the last work on the ramparts and outer walls, and they can then return their attention to Erebor's defenses."
More than thirty Dwarves currently put years of expertice to use in the city of men; a workforce they, too, could use in the rebuilding of the mountain. But the defenses of Dale could not be compared to the rock fortress, and Thorin would not leave his closest allies open to an attack.
"The spring barley has suffered some due to the great downpours during May, but it should not stop the harvest come next month," Fíli continued his report dutifully, listing off the points of discussion previously held between the princes and the lord of Dale. "Bard holds true to his promise and will trade half the crop to the prices agreed."
Thorin nodded thoughtfully, resting his elbows on the table as he leaned forward; shadows fell over his face, the orange firelight burning brightly. The king's piercing eyes danced from one Dwarf to the other, before they settled on Fíli once more. "And gathering these news warranted a stay stretching long past midnight, I assume?"
A pregnant pause hung heavy in the air. Neither brother knew how to respond under their uncle's scrutiny, and Fíli scratched his cheek sheepishly before clearing his throat in a hoarse cough. But it was the younger Dwarf that finally broke the silence.
"It is one thing to have reported what lords and counselors see. But to see it for yourself, walk amongst the people and through the city streets, that is when you truly know the state of the world."
An eyebrow raised slightly, the only telltale sign of Thorin's astonishment, furrowed the brow of the king before he laced his fingers on the desk. Fíli peered towards his brother, likewise surprised, yet it was not without some relief that Kíli knew how to respond. He, on the other hand, found himself speechless; the truth could not be revealed unless he would suffer mortal embarrassment.
"And what, then, did you see?" Thorin pressed.
"Beggars," Kíli said.
The corner of his mouth tilted into a wry grin, gaze flickering to his older brother.
"Traders," Fíli added, pointedly.
"That one thief, as well."
"Livelihoods blossoming."
"Drunken men."
"Minstrels and merriment," Fíli said with finality, kicking the chair leg below the table with his boots, making Kíli jump in the seat. Whatever game the younger Dwarf was playing at, he would certainly have none of it.
"A minstrel," the brown-haired Dwarf mumbled grumpily.
"Dale faces its share of struggles, but it is not something they cannot handle."
Thorin rose from his chair, the heavy cloak rustling over the floor as the king made his way around the desk; with outstretched arms, motioning for his nephews to stand with him, he spoke. "Perhaps next time you will not send your personal guards ahead–" The brothers quickly came to their feet just as he placed his hands on both their shoulders. "–or perhaps you should rather go drinking within the mountain?"
Spluttering for words, ears burning, they scrambled for an excuse yet came up with nothing beneath the heavy weight placed upon them.
The King under the Mountain squeezed their shoulders with affection.
"Sleep well, my sister-sons."
Soon after leaving their uncle's study, Fíli then bid his brother a good night – and a quick warning to not so much as breathe a word about the minstrel. To anyone. Unless he wished to be pummeled by the blunt side of a sword at their next practice.
Kíli had merely laughed and disappeared down the hall.
But of course his brother would never betray his truth, Fíli knew that all too well. And so, without worry, he closed his door and slid the lock into place with a soft click. A dull light lay heavy on the room; the embers smoldered within the ashen wood of the fireplace, a deep orange barely enough to illuminate his path across the floor.
Slipping off his damp cloak on his way to relight the flames, he flung it across one of the upholstered chairs, leaving it for the morning light. Crouching, his fingers curled around the icy cold fire iron and soon yellowy red tongues licked up and into life; eagerly devouring the dry logs.
Fíli sat for a while, peering into the fire. Brow creased and mind lost deep in thought, while warmth slowly seeped back into his skin. The numbness retreated, leaving only pricklings in the very tips of his fingers until they, too, disappeared.
Then his hand found his breast pocket.
The letter was untouched by the dampness, luckily, and the parchment glowing as he turned it over in the light. "A Dwarven prince naught but a messenger for a mere minstrel," he mused thoughtfully, smiling faintly at the idea. "Surely songs could be written from such strange nonsensicality just as well as stories of elven princesses can."
He placed the letter on a free space on the desk.
Fíli loosened the belt and slipped off the heavy sword; while hanging it from the weapon stand, his free hand found the daggers from within his clothes. He looked at the weapons, once more feeling a tremble run down his arm.
They would have peace in the region now. The orcs had been defeated; the foul creatures slunk away to their hidden caves in the Grey Mountains, licking wounds and cowering in fear. He would not need his weapons ...
Not again.
The thick woolen blankets were pulled out, and soon warmth enveloped him into his very core.
Darkness swirled beneath the stone ceiling, broken by the crackling flames dancing, and Fíli rubbed his brow. He closed his eyes, inhaling the smoky air, and allowed the day's images to pass across his eyelids in a swift blur.
He wished morning would come soon.
And the day following ... and the next after that.
Until duty called him back to the city of men.
Sleep claimed his tired body, but Fíli could faintly hear the minstrel's voice, singing softly to him of Beren and Luthíen; of their immortal love surpassing even the wrath of Morgoth and the passing of time. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips just as he pulled the covers close.