Chapter 17: Scars of the body, scars of the soul
The boat drifted out of the elven territory and down the river, it was enchanted Thorin guessed for it needed little handling, to stay its course downriver. With all that lay behind them Thorin was exhausted and glad Mirkwood when vanished in a distance. He heard familiar steps approach, it was Fili, who had come out of the fight in the gardens with many scratches and his blond mane unusually disheveled. Nevertheless he actually hugged Thorin. "I thought the elf had killed you."
Thorin returned the hug if quickly, keeping an arm around his nephew. While he still could perceive the strong likeness to Dari in him, it did not hurt anymore to see it. "He almost did," the dwarven leader replied. "It was a very close thing."
"What do you mean?" Fili asked, worry shining so very clearly in his eyes.
"My soul was ready to leave this world… I found myself wandering the Grey," Thorin said. "But I was not alone; someone wanted to keep me alive…"
"Who?" The younger dwarf asked.
"It was your father who found me and guided me back to the world of the living."
"My father…?" Fili asked softly.
"Yes, Dari, he found me wandering by the dark river." Thorin explained. "Without him I would have been lost."
"But… what was he doing in the Grey?" Fili asked, he had heard stories of the Grey and the passage of the Neverseas for all his life. "I thought he would have gone home to the great forge… he did die an honorable death…" He looked at Thorin. "You said he did!"
Gently Thorin clasped the confused dwarf's shoulders. "He did die an honorable death, Fili," He repeated, seeing the doubts in his nephew. "He was sent to the Grey… permitted to go there. He came for me…"
Fili relaxed a little. "So… he found you?"
"Aye, he found me there," Thorin said, and he actually found he could smile at his old friend's memory. "He said he wants to wait a long time before seeing any of us, and then he expects heroic stories about dragon killing."
"Then we had better find a way to defeat the dragon, hadn't we?" Fili asked, he may not fully understand what his Uncle spoke of, but he could see that whatever had happened had healed an old wound in him and he was happy to see that. If Fili was completely honest, he remembered so little of his father, that he hardly missed him at all. Sure, he had cried as a boy, when Thorin had returned from Azanulbizar bringing the news of Dari's death. With their mother busy aiding the many wounded survivors, the two dwarfling brothers had cried for their father and soon found the anchor they needed in their Uncle. If Fili missed his father, it was because he saw the pain Dari's passing had brought Thorin.
"We better had," Thorin agreed, both their eyes straying to the bow where Kili stood alone, arms crossed in front of his chest, long hair flying in the wind. The dwarven leader could easily tell that Kili was imitating his own posture to keep people away. He sometimes wished Kili was as open and uncomplicated like Fili, but the younger brother possessed all of the moody temper of Durin's line. Lightly he squeezed Fili's arm. "Get some rest; I will look after your brother."
Kili did not move when Thorin approached him, his eyes remained fixed on the horizon, feet planted firmly on the planks of the bow, arms crossed in front of his chest, the whole posture combative and inapproachable. "We should be on the river for at least three days," he observed, like Thorin had only come here to discuss their journey forth. "That should give our men time to rest."
Where had he learned to retreat into the leader role to not let anyone see his wounds, Thorin wondered. It was not something he had done only a year ago. "I heard they took you for interrogation," he said directly, treating Kili according to what he read in his demeanor, as a warrior and a Prince, not a frightened boy.
"They only remembered they had questions after you nearly died," Kili replied dryly. "Even Orcs ask first and kill after but I guess Elves are quite new to behaving like them, so we should make allowances for incompetence."
Thorin could read between the lines of this jab so easily, he had done the same in the past, make a joke of a bad situation, never showing how much he had been hurt. It was a good sign Kili did that, it showed he had not been broken. "What happened?" he pushed on.
"They asked questions, I refused to answer, they got angry and upped the game, I broke free, killed a few guards, Boromir came and got me out, end of story." Kili said gruffly. "Maybe Thranduil should send that dungeon master of his to study under Azog…"
"Don't even joke about that." Thorin snapped, shocked at the crude humor, the brutal joke Kili had just made. "It is nothing to wish on anyone… not for anything."
Kili turned to him; he had yet to clean the blood off his face. "You think so? Good. One of us has to retain some noble attitude." He turned and stormed off, to the other end of the boat.
Angered Thorin wanted to follow him, but found himself stopped by Dwalin's huge hand around his arm. "Let the lad go," the bald warrior said softly. "What they did to him… I can only guess at it all, but give him time to deal with it and come to terms with himself."
A horrible realization settled on Thorin. "Dwalin… no… they did not…" He did not dare to think of it, no Elves, not even the worst of them, would do that.
"Not directly," Dwalin replied, calming him a little. "I only sensed a little of what happened when they used that artifact on him… I do not have skill to sense artifacts, not beyond what you once taught me."
Thorin relaxed a little, for one horrible moment he had feared the worst and was glad that Kili had been spared that. He curbed his temper and did not follow Kili. "How is it you read and understand him so easily, old friend?" he asked Dwalin, it was far from the first time the powerful warrior had shown an understanding for the young Prince whom he had used to call an imp and train on the practice field.
"He is much like you," Dwalin said with the hint of a smile. "Only a tad more emotional, he gets that from Ida, I guess. Black dwarves have a fierce streak to them, but everything else is you."
Thorin looked at the bald warrior and did not perceive any ruse, Dwalin meant every word. "I guess you are right," he agreed. "let us find some sleep, who knows what will await us downriver?"
Night had fallen as the boat glided over the waves. Kili had tried to sleep, but the dreams would come, carrying him back to the Orcs, to the clawed hands of the pale one. The first time he had woken, he had hardly been able to curb a sob rising in his throat, he had cried until drifting off again only to end up in another dream that left him so sick, he had to throw up.
Standing by the boat's side, looking on the dark water, the young dwarf tried to somehow calm his racing heart, hoping he had not woken any of the others. Nice dragonslayer you are, he told himself. Pathetic. A few sick Elven games and you go to pieces. He swiped his hand over his eyes getting rid of the last traces of tears; he had to get a grip again, to somehow find control. For now he simply resolved not to sleep. Walking to the bow, he let the cool night breeze caress him and cool his hot face.
The stars were bright above, summer slowly waning he could see The Dragon sink beneath the eastern horizon, The Raven and The Hunter rising more to the center of the dark dome, and Neryaja, the bright star of the wanderer began to shine above the northern firmament again. How often had Fili and he followed the cold star that was said to guide wanderers home? Of all the stars of the winter skies he loved this one most, maybe because it would shine for those who were far from home.
"Can't sleep?" He heard Thorin's familiar voice; the dwarven leader had chosen his place of sleep near the bow and had been woken by his approach.
"I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you," Kili whispered softly, trying to sound like a warrior should but his voice cracking slightly. How often on their long wanderings had he crawled to Thorin, when he had been afraid or had bad dreams? How often had Fili and he snuggled up to their uncle in the dark cold of winter nights somewhere on the road, too small to yet understand that the life they lead was irregular? With Thorin close the world had been alright, his strong arms around them all they needed to know that neither the wolves howling in the snows, nor the Orcs lurking in the mountains nor the robbers and highwaymen would harm them. And in this moment Kili wished for nothing more than to be that small again, only a dwarfling and allowed to seek shelter from the storm. "I… I just was thinking," Kili eventually said.
"About what?" Thorin asked, sitting with his back to the side of the boat, eyes on Kili.
"Nothing really," Kili evaded the question, hugging his arms around himself a bit tighter. He had to keep it together, he told himself. "just restless thoughts."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Thorin asked. "Sometimes nightly haunts are best driven away by bringing them out."
"I'd rather not," Kili shivered, arms braced closely against his body, like to stave off the cold wind.
He could not know that his whole posture was one Thorin could read, knowing it from other moments of pain they had been through. "Come here," Thorin invited him, much the same way he had done when Kili had still been small, he looked at Kili and there was neither anger, nor impatience in his eyes. It was an expression Kili knew well, he had seen it when he had been small, in unguarded moments, when Thorin's eyes had allowed him to say all the things he would not voice.
Sighing Kili sat down beside Thorin, curling up he had as like a child and burying his face in Uncle's shoulder. He felt the strong arm curl around him protectively, and he closed his eyes.
Thorin was shocked Kili had never done this since he had been a dwarfling and he had never thought he'd do it ever again. Never having been shy, he had done this the first time a few days after Dari's death, and later whenever he was afraid or had a nightmare. He had outgrown such childish behavior when he was about fifty-five, but now it was all back. Thorin knew this was a youth, a child really, seeking shelter, hurt and trying to hide. Again his worries returned, what had happened to Kili? He knew his son, Kili was proud and stubborn, he had worked hard to grow up quickly and reach the level of independence and skill he displayed, traditional dwarves, like Dáin's people would call him older beyond his years, among the Exiles he was a reasonably well matured dwarf nothing more. For Kili to revert to such a child's search for protection something must be so badly wrong, Thorin did not want to imagine it. He wrapped both arms around the boy, like he was still that little dwarfling, not trying to talk or ask what had happened. Softly Thorin began to hum a tune, it was a ballad of the Blue Mountains, of the summer by the icy shores of Forochel, after a while he felt Kili relax against his shoulder, falling asleep.
It was during the hour before dawn that Thorin woke, as Kili stirred, he had sat up, swiftly drying his eyes, obviously trying to sneak away before Thorin could wake. The older dwarf sighed inwardly, he had taught the boys to be strong, demanded they grow up quickly, because he knew that this world was not a place where one should expect mercy and that the blows fate dealt out would smash those not strong enough to stand. It took a stern heart and a soul of steel to bear living their lives, that's what he had instilled into them, and they tried their best to live up to his expectations. But there was a small part of him that wished that they still were the dwarflings they had been all those years ago. "Kili," Thorin gave up his pretense of sleep.
The younger dwarf startled out of his reverie, straightening up, unconsciously, he sat in a posture a bit more away from Thorin, drawing himself into the role of a warrior once more. "I am sorry, I disturbed you."
"Kili," Thorin repeated the name, gentler than before. "You did not disturb me. Whatever happened… allow yourself to find strength in others when your own runs out."
ADL
Thranduil's anger had every guard and servant of Mirkwood walk on tiptoes, careful to avoid their king best as they could. The King had listened to Legolas' words and then dismissed him in a stormy row. He had inspected the garden, pained to see the destruction the dwarves had wrought on his refuge. And Thunaár… how could they murder him? Had they not done enough harm? How could they attack a creature so much beyond their own ugly kind?
On the second day when Thranduil returned to the gardens, he spotted a familiar form in one of the burned Dreamthorn bushes. Hurrying to the limp form, he knelt down to find Thunaár's badly injured body, lying in his own blood. How was it possible he had survived? Then, suddenly Thranduil understood… the tree in the gardens had not been the mother tree, the ancient willow deep in the southern forest had saved Thunaár for now.
Carefully he carried the unconscious Huirorn into the palace, not suffering any healer near him. Thranduil knew enough of the arts to help Thunaár, as much as was possible. With his tree destroyed and his link to the mother tree weakened, his life was not very stable. But thanks to Thranduil's skills he woke during the night. "Did they hurt you?" Thunaár asked in a whisper.
"No, they came for you, the cowards," Thranduil replied, his anger burning coldly. "Do not fear, I will not allow them to come near you ever again. Reserve your strength for healing."
Thunaár reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. "Too late… they took the withy… they knew…" He did not manage to say much more, falling unconscious again, but Thranduil understood. The withy was for a willow tree what the acorn was for an oak. Thunaár could not grow back his original form without it, and confined into his spirit form he was condemned to wither and die, even if his ties to Thranduil kept him from perishing right away.
Looking at the Huirorn's sleeping form, Thranduil felt not only anger, but the true will to fight again, he had not felt such will in an age. "Do not fear, Thunaár, I will bring back your withy, they will pay for what they did to you." He left the Huirorn to sleep and rest, as he strode out of the room, Thranduil called for Malenior, the warrior he had named Captain-General of Mirkwood after dismissing Lachanar in disgrace. Malenior was a capable and loyal fighter and it was time to muster the army.
ADL
Another day had passed on the river and Kili stood at the bow, watching night fall anew. The day had helped him a little to regain his composure, though he still wondered how he should sleep, for the next days if not weeks. At least he had managed to not tell Thorin of all that happened, on the one hand he was too ashamed to ever share what had transpired in the chair and on the other hand… it would hurt Thorin more than Kili himself, so he kept it away from his father. Steps approached, it was Boromir, the Gondorian had quite a distinct stride. He did not try to make conversation, if someone had mastered the skill of not talking to an art, it would be him. "When you escaped Minas Morgul…" Kili began speaking, he may have shared only a vague memory of the escape but it had told him enough of what had lain behind his friend at that time. "How did you come to term with what happened? With the memories… the dreams?"
Boromir stepped up to the bow, hands grasping the side of the boat. "Time," he said. "It took time. At first I simply kept the pain inside during the day, spending the nights curled on my bedroll, trying to hide from others that I was crying. It wouldn't do to let the other soldiers see, and my brother… I did not want him to see me like that. One friend noticed still, Thoroniâr always was perceptive; he would wake me, whenever I had nightmares. I learned to sleep less, to startle out of dreams quickly… and after a while, I realized it had been more than a year and I was still alive. It gets easier, Kili, time is a great healer. Having a mission also helps."
"So you say that focusing on the dragon will help with the dreams?" Kili asked, wondering if it could work.
"If he gives you enough to worry about for a while, it will." Boromir knew that dreams could eat you alive, burn your very soul. "And you don't have to bear it alone. Your father will not think any less of you, nor will Fili…"
"You wouldn't bring your pain to your brother either," Kili pointed out. "And I understand why. It will not help and it will only hurt them. I wish… I wish I had a forge and a fire, to work all the pain out into hot iron, until there was nothing left inside me anymore."
Boromir touched his shoulder, making him turn so they would look at each other. "You don't want to be empty, Kili," he said firmly. "Empty means dead, ready to be buried. Take that pain, that shame, that guilt like you would take steel and throw it at the enemy, let it burn so horribly that even the dragon will fear that flame." He knew his words might be the wrong thing to say, but when he felt the echo in the bond, he realized they were not; Kili was taking to that idea. He would shape the pain into a weapon.
ADL
Elrohir's horse stumbled with exhaustion when he reached the Wilderland border and the elven camp there. Prying eyes would not be able to discern the tents hidden in the mists, the figures moving through the fog noiselessly. Celeborn, Lord of Lothlorien had brought his army, his best fighters, if his Lady wife was the power that would confront the dark presence in Dol Guldur, he was the sword that would carve her path there. He greeted his grandson warmly. "Elrohir, I had already begun to worry when you took so long."
"I wish I had been faster, but things were not good at all," Elrohir replied. "And I hope that what we did will at least ease the influence on Thranduil."
"So he truly was under a dark influence?" Celeborn asked. He always pointedly ignored the Noldor riders in Elrohir's company. "Come with me, Galadriel will wish to hear this right away, as will Mithrandir." He led Elrohir to one of the tents, where his wife and Mithrandir had been conversing on the power amassed in Dol Guldur.
All three had silently listened to Elrohir's report about Mirkwood. "I hope that burning the tree will free Thranduil from his… from the influence," the son of Elrond finished.
"While I understand why you had to act swiftly," Celeborn said, "Did you have to accept the help of the dwarves? They may well know how to burn trees efficiently…"
Elrohir rose. "Grandfather, forgive me for speaking bluntly, I accepted the help of a warrior I respect and of a dwarf I'd be proud to call friend and while I respect your own painful experiences in the past, the problems we have with Dol Guldur and Thranduil's tree-hugging are enough without adding all the past to them."
Their eyes locked, grandson and grandfather had clashed before, sometimes heavily, and this looked like another time they would collide. Yet Celeborn reined in his temper. "I wished to spare you the same pain, the same experiences Elrohir, but I will respect that you chose your own path. Do you intend to keep your word to the dwarf and aid him against the dragon?"
"I do," Elrohir replied. "Once you know all there is to know about Mirkwood and Tungar-Sula's presence in Thranduil's palace." He knew that Galadriel would be able to discern any residue presence and if necessary finish what they had begun.
"This quest is Thorin's, it is the dwarves' task to slay Smaug," Mithrandir spoke up. "Much as your honorable stance might help ease tensions between your peoples… it is theirs to accomplish."
"Then it is good that I already gave my word to help them," Elrohir told him challengingly. "Because I cannot go back on that."
It was Galadriel, who ended their discussion. "Elrohir, if you truly chose this path… it will bring you pain, danger… and maybe a banishment that will weigh on you like a burden." Her vision was still wild, a storm was rising over Erebor and she could not see what would happen, but the whirlwind would harm many.
Elrohir knew that her warning was sincere and honest, she feared for him, and yet… he could not go back on his word, nor would he want to. Pain was always the price of loving this world, and in his heart he could not let go of this dark middle earth, no matter the price. "Then so be it," he replied. "I thank you for your warnings, grandmother, but with your permission… I will see to my men, once our horses are rested we will head out again."
Celeborn looked long at his grandson, albeit darkhaired and with the grey eyes heralding his sindar ancestors, he could see so much of Galadriel's bloodline in him, the will, the fierce pride, the defiance… and also the strength and loyalty. The Sindar Lord knew all too well what price these traits had, what path they had driven some of the Noldor on, and he was not blind to Elrohir's friendships. He cared deeply for his grandson, maybe exactly because of that, because he held all the traits that had originally drawn him to his Lady. "This is your path to choose, Elrohir," he said, and there was no rebuke, only affection in his voice. "It is not for us to decide your fate. May Earendil's star shine upon your path and guide you safely."
ADL
Lachanar saw another column of warriors march down the street, the armies were mustering and there was little doubt what their intentions were. The former Captain sighed, even if had not given the Halfling his word to escape; now escaping had become a necessity. The army's destination was no secret but they needed time to muster fully, it was all the headstart Lachanar would ever get.
It was the first time he was glad for his demotion to patrol captain, his horse was stabled in the outer parts of the city, and few of the elves there paid him any heed. Here among the simple elven people news of his stint in the dungeons had not yet spread. He had shortly returned to the simple home he had lived in for the last century, it was not much, a small place in the trees, still, it was the home he had made in the new life had had to build. Swiftly he gathered up his armor, not the regular guard weaponry, but his own armor, chainmail and leather harness above, sword and bow, along with a grey travelling cloak. The things he needed he stowed in the saddlebags. Looking around the room, he wondered if there was anything else he should take, for he doubted he would ever return here.
His eyes fell on a small harp, it had been a gift long ago, and he still treasured it. Carefully he packed it in the leather case and strapped it to the side of his saddle. He would take it with him, maybe the most meaningful thing from his life. Hurrying down the winding stairs he entered the stables, saddling his horse. Mistrunner had been stabled for days and was eager to get out. When he galloped towards the city gate he saw another marching column, in days past he had been Captain General, it took only passing glances to assess how many were mustered, and how much gear was broken out of storage. He did not like what he saw.
The gate fell behind and he rode on the road east until he reached the border of the woods. On the first hill of the open lands he stopped to cast a long look at the woodlands that had been his home. No more. There was no turning back now. He did not say farewell, but turned his horse northeast, they would have to cross the wilds.
Author Notes
With many thanks to Harrylee94 for talking me through the emo parts. You rock!