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We Happy Few

Skyborn Huntress & Orion

Authors' Note:

Let us now fast-forward to the beginning of the end! See end of work for footnotes (i-iv).

Chapter 2 —The Still and Silent Sea

"It is the still and silent sea that drowns a man."

— Old Norse Proverb

A fulgent eye of new autumn moon opened upon the Long Lake. Chill winds were brewing in the East, and they roiled unchallenged across the water, lifting a freezing mist upon flapping cloaks and horses' flanks.

Mathias leaned forward, urging his mare with his heels. His tarp-sealed quiver bounced against his thigh; his hood rippled back, and he tasted the lake's salt tears on his cheeks. The touch was ice. Night was falling fast, and cold. His company had glimpsed snow on the barren heaths coming down from the North. Winter was not far from the Wilderlands.

The patrol rode swiftly now, outpacing the long arms of dusk. There were twelve of them in all; they came two abreast, and Mathias alongside their leader. Yet, when he glanced back, he saw the others as slim shadows rippling over the shoreline.

Lake-town appeared suddenly from the fog ahead. A thousand lanterns glimmered like candle-flares over the black water. Even squinting, Mathias could perceive neither her handsome bell towers, nor her stooped rooftops. The piers were shrouded, where sloops with neat-folded sails made their roost. The streets lay silent. Noble and merchant, fishmonger and sea-wife: night made equals of the dormant peoples of Esgaroth.

As the lighted town neared, so did a great bonfire on the shore before them. Indiscernible between the two points stretched the Great Bridge out to Lake-town's piles. On the near end a small hut sat sentinel, but it looked to be empty tonight. A man's silhouette moved before the fire, and the tip of his outthrust spear splashed suddenly with silver.

"Who rides at this hour, and on what business?"

"We do." Before the flames Arian Crow's-Eye reined in his black courser and lowered his hood. The young ranger chieftain could have had a handsome face: he was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his sharp look intensified in the firelight. Yet, Mathias knew, he did not see the marred half of his face. A scar in Arian's left cheek forever pulled the corner of his lips in a scowl.

"The nights grow colder. Are you the only one on guard?"

"Aye, Master Ranger (i)," said the watchman. His shoulders eased now that he had recognized the riders, and he lowered his spear, instead planting it at his side. He cast a wary glance back at the guards' hut, on the cusp of the bridge. "By the Master's orders, that is. There's a rabble-rouser to be snared in town, I hear."

He glanced anew up at the riders, squinting slightly in the fire's glare. His was a broad, stubbly face with a nose that had been broken countless times, but the look in his eyes was not unfriendly. "And what news comes from the North?"

"More cold's coming before long, and there's a band of dwarves climbing the Lonely Mountain to their deaths," said Arian. He was a cheerful fellow.

Mathias shook back his wet hood. "Evening, Sven. Have you heard anything new in town?"

"I would've told you of the dwarves, but you've already seen them," said Sven the watchman. "Though what a tale they were! Only yestereve the Master supped them at his table and robed them in finery, or so I hear. They say the King under the Mountain has returned, and will make the rivers run with gold."

"Gold won't keep us warm," muttered Arian.

Night was coming on. Mathias bid Sven a good evening and let the guard return gratefully to his bonfire. He was not the only one dismounting for home now; yet others still lingered in the shadows, glancing skyward and voicing farewells.

A rough hand landed on his shoulder as he checked the buckles on his mare. "You needn't go," said Arian quietly.

Mathias blinked up at his comrade. Arian Crow's-Eye was only five years his elder, but he had grown up in the wilds, which made him gruff at the best of times. Yet, it was a well-known secret that he cheered right up for a little brandy. And the look in his dark eyes at present was not unkind.

Mathias smiled, turning back to his horse. "I must. We tarried three days too long in the Desolation. My family will be worried."

"Right. Of course."

Arian knew him too well.

"My sister worries," Mathias emended, looking back up at him. "Satisfied?"

Arian made an indecisive noise in his throat and looked away. "There's always a room and a flagon for you at the Maiden's Bounty. You know that."

"...and a sea-wife, if ever I feel so inclined," Mathias finished the usual offer for him, unable to help a grin. "I do know. Thank you, but not tonight."

Arian only nodded. "Give my regards to your sister," he said, and then he spurred his horse and wheeled around him, and crossed the Great Bridge first.

Mathias followed more slowly, his mare poking at his heels. Other rangers filtered around him. Some, like Arian, preoccupied themselves with the thought of a hot meal and a drink at the dockside taverns; others pressed for home, and waiting families. But at the market pools their paths estranged: Mathias turned aside, and the sound of his companions faded into the night wind.

Mathias sighed. At long last, he raised his fist and knocked, one, twice, on the mahogany office door.

"You're late," greeted his father's voice.

The door was unlocked. Mathias ventured inside and bowed. His cloak now lay slung over his arm, but his hair was still damp from the mist. Droplets trickled through his blond fringe and into his eyes.

"Evening, Father."

"You're late. Did you not stop to think, dared you even consider for a moment the troubles on my mind? The winter stores remain unfilled; there's rumors of unrest in the streets; and they still whisper of elections... And now look here, mine only son strikes off again with his death wish!"

Mathias had the grace to wince as he lifted his head.

Master Harald sat in his plush armchair before the roaring hearth. His gout-swollen feet were propped on an ottoman; a glass of amber liquid swirled in his hand. Alfrid the housecarl was seated across from him. They were in the midst of King's table (ii), and white was floundering, by the look of things.

"I'm sorry," said Mathias, straightening. "We intended to return three nights past, but winter is already upon the Desolation..."

"And I suppose you stopped to frolic in the snow?"

Mathias did not rise to the bait. "Arian did not think it wise to push the horses—"

"That drunken crow!" The brandy sloshed dangerously within its glass. "You trail him like a lapdog. Are you a dog, or are you my son?"

"Your son, sire."

"Hmph." The Master jerked his head in a nod. "I never approved of these...rangings. Mark me, that was Sivney's thought, through and through. You are a lord of Lake-town, and not one of those moss-coated vagrants."

Mathias could not stop himself. "Mother was one of those vagrants."

"That she was. Was! She saw sense of it in the end." Master Harald gulped his brandy and stuck out an incriminating finger. "But I did not call you here to speak of your dear dead mother. You claim to be my son, so perhaps you will take an interest in what you missed in the North. Alfrid, fetch me the contract."

"As you wish, sire." The advisor scuttled off.

In his absence Master Harald leaned back. "You must have heard the idlers singing in town. The King under the Mountain's returned, they say. Imposters and swindlers, the lot of them, I say. But mayhaps there's some truth in it. It matters not: they'll pay, in the end."

Mathias had seen the dwarves in the Desolation. A sharp-eyed, wary flock they had been. Until Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror had declared himself, Arian had taken them to be brigands. Their plumed silver helmets and hauberks had been the only glimmer for many farthings of dead land.

"I heard you feasted and armed them. Have they paid for such?"

"No!" beamed the Master of Lake-town. "And it cost us seven thousand crowns to host them."

Coin we could have spent on our own food for winter, Mathias thought. He said, "I don't understand."

"I didn't expect you to." Master Harald gestured, and Alfrid unfurled a scroll at him. Mathias ignored the advisor's spiky black hand; he looked up, expectantly.

"They are now in our debt; a rather hefty debt, with interest, but no trouble for a king, I'm sure. And what if their kind should prove false in the end, you wonder? I chose the men who left with them very carefully. As if they were simple oarsmen! Should the dwarves abandon their course for the Mountain, let us say...they will enjoy the hospitality of the finest mercenaries this side of the Misty Mountains. And we will be none the poorer for our gamble."

Mathias pushed Alfrid's scroll away. He had no interest in the details of this particular deal. "So you swindled a band of travelers who asked for your aid. Is that all you wished to tell me?"

The Master's unctuous smile vanished. "Were you here then, you would be a little more grateful. It could have gone quite foul, had I not intervened. The people were adamant about the trifles offered them by that so-called king."

"Then forgive me, Father. I was not there." Mathias bowed stiffly and turned away.

Halfway to the office door, Master Harald's voice stopped him in his tracks. "There was a raven, you know. A marriage offer for your halfwit of a sister. A most generous offer: I am tempted to accept."

Mathias tasted blood. He had bitten his tongue. He lies. He must. He wishes to unman me. He swallowed. Aloud, he said, "Who?"

"Kefus Strongboar." Master Harald smiled and lifted his glass.

"Strongboar? The man has two wives already."

"And is the richest of the Lords of the Lake (iii). He trades in silks and scents with the East. Let him lavish his fortune on his new bride. She shan't add greatly to the clamour of his house." The Master chuckled.

Mathias's fists tightened at his sides. He had met the jarl of the eastern shore only once, but he could picture him now: a large man, uproarious and quick to fire, with a beard the color of flames and a booming laugh. He dwarfed most men, a terror on the field of war with tusks on his helm and a great heavy axe in hand.

Mathias's sister was not half his size.

"Nia is thirteen," he began.

"Indeed, almost a woman grown. The sooner she's swaddled in his silks, the better for us all, I say. We might thank the Einir she got Sivney's looks: he shan't spurn her on sight, at the least."

It took all of Mathias's self-control not to turn about and hit something. "I congratulate you, Father," he said stiffly. "Your concoctions come to fruit at last. By your leave, sire."

He left the office without waiting for a response.

"It is done," said the elf-woman, coming toward them. Oin straightened, fumbling his trumpet to his ear. Fili blinked, slowly, and lifted his gaze from the still figure on Bard's dining table.

"The poison has left him now. His fever lingers, but with herbs, and good care, he will weather that as well. I trust you will see to his recovery, naugrim nestaron?"

"Aye, lass. Milady, that is." Oin seemed at a loss for the proper address for the elf; at last he settled on a partial bow. "We are ever at your service for this most miraculous deed."

The elf-woman's eyes crinkled slightly, but she did not smile. "He will have questions when he wakes. But see that he continues to rest: that is the surest cure for him now."

Oin bowed again. The elf turned away and went to the door, collecting her bow and hunting knives. She would leave as she had come: unasked, a spectre in the night. But with her hand on the broken latch, for a moment, she faltered. She looked back upon the ruined kitchen, the upturned chairs, the bloodstains on the floor, and the dark-haired dwarf now slumbering peaceably upon Bard's table. She smiled.

Fili tailed her.

"What did you say to him?"

The elf-woman stirred from her thoughts and lowered her eyes to him. "You are his brother," she said.

It was not a question, so Fili did not answer. He stood with his arms folded, his feet planted apart. She must have seen a dishevelled creature, his tunic too long and rolled up at the elbows, his regal braids dissolved into a tangled golden mane. But his gaze was firm steel, and she could have no doubt that he had once been a prince.

"What did you say to him, at the last?"

The elf had weathered the evening at Kili's side, alone, pouring strange words and magics into his wound. Only once during the long hours had Fili seen his brother stir: and then the elf-maiden had smiled, and stooping kissed his flushed brow, as gentle as a lover. For some spell in the elf's words, he had slept peacefully after that.

She smiled again now, distantly. "Ce polthannen, pe vi cuil eges cuiannenc — nae, vi cuil sen ú-polthon," she recited. "I told him it was but a dream."

You needn't have kissed him, Fili thought.

Dream or no dream, she had presumed too much of their gratitude. He could only imagine Thorin's remonstrance — yet Thorin was far away now. He would never need to know. Besides, had they not both defied their uncle's will now?

I belong with my brother, a part of him echoed, insolently reminding him of his own shame. Rada (iv) must know that, he told himself. But this...

It wasn't right, that was all.

The elf-woman smiled at him, but there was sadness immeasurable behind her eyes. It wasn't a dream to you, was it, he wanted to say then, but even a prince had his manners. He held his tongue.

"Watch over him," she said.

"He's my brother. I always watch over him."

"He is lucky, then," said the elf. And, turning away, she vanished into the starry night before he could say His name is Kili, you know.

Slowly, Kili turned his head to one side and smiled in recognition. "Hullo, Fee. You stayed with me, then?"

Fili straddled the bench next to his head and reached for his brother's hand. "Of course. Where else would I go?"

Kili half-shrugged. His eyes almost slid closed again. "Thought you'd left," he mumbled. "It got awful cold..."

Fili squeezed his hand sharply to silence the unsaid thought. "I never left. My place is at your side. You're... You're all I've got, brother."

Kili said nothing. He was exhausted. Rest is the surest cure for him now. Fili turned his head and with his free hand scrubbed at his eyes. A dull throbbing had awakened between his brows, but he could not bring himself to contemplate sleep yet.

He propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes for what felt like the first time in long days. The bench creaked next to him; a hand touched his arm.

"All right?" Sigrid's voice.

"All right," he echoed. "We'll... we'll be all right." He hardly dared to think it.

"There's some camomile tea left," Sigrid went on. "If you'd like."

Fili considered, and then cracked his eyes open. "You got any ale?"

That gleaned a smile from Bard's daughter, and she promised she would look.

In the meanwhile Fili stretched, cracking his neck from side to side, and for the first time thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow. If he closed his eyes he could almost see the warm glow of dawn, and boats on the water and street-hawkers on the docks. At last, the squabbling of the sea-birds would lift the night's terrible silence.

But he would not close his eyes: it was too close to risking sleep. Aye, and nightmares. He let his restless eyes wander the kitchen, and they found Sigrid's back as she poked through the cupboards. At sixteen, she was taller than him, but certainly fair enough to look upon. Not bad from this angle, either.

Fili had enough sense left to stop that thought in its tracks. He choked on a laugh and rubbed at his eyes. And here I chastised the elf for a kiss.

He was tired. That was all.

Sigrid ended her search empty-handed. She brought him tea instead, which steamed untouched near his elbow as he folded a damp cloth on Kili's brow. He had started to twitch and moan again in his sleep. Any moment now, Fili imagined, he would thrash awake in a renewed fit of fever...

And awful screaming.

His fist closed in the cloth. Droplets trickled down through sweat-streaked hair and evaporated on Kili's heated skin.

The elf said the poison had left you. Fili hoped she was right. He didn't yearn to call her back.

From afar, he heard low voices. The others roved around the house, aimlessly, and Sigrid coaxed her younger sister to bed.

"It's getting late," she said, kissing Tilda's brow. "You should get some sleep. We should all try to get some sleep."

Tilda shook her head. She curled on one of the unbroken chairs, knees pressed to her chest. "I can't. Not 'til Da's home."

"Da is..." But Sigrid trailed off, and shot an anxious look at her brother. Bain shook his head.

Bard had still not returned. While the elf had been working Bain and Bofur had taken the orc corpses out, and thrown them in the lake, but they had not seen him, either.

"Da will come back soon," Sigrid said confidently. She rubbed her sister's shoulders. "Let's get you to bed, and then maybe..."

But her bolstering suggestion was never to be heeded. At that moment the house quaked: Sigrid stumbled and caught herself against Tilda's chair. Kili rolled sideways and nearly fell from the table, but for Fili catching his shoulders. In his lunge for his brother, his elbow knocked the mug of tea, which hit the floor and shattered.

No one heard it.

"What was that?" demanded Bain as soon as the world had settled, running to the door.

Fili said nothing. His heart had jammed into his throat and he looked down at Kili, silently reassuring himself that he was unhurt. Kili was certainly awake now, though hardly wakeful, and as his eyes struggled to focus he grasped at the front of Fili's tunic.

"Fi...?"

"It's coming from the Mountain," said Bain. Bard's son leaned out into the black night, a hand on the doorframe. What he saw, Fili did not know, but it captivated him for a long moment.

Silt trickled down Fili's back, lifting hairs on his neck.

It was Tilda who guessed. "It's the dragon. The dragon's come to kill us all!" Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she buried her head behind her knees.

Sigrid moved at once toward her and rubbed absently at her shoulders as her eyes traveled the kitchen, passing over the ashen faces of the dwarves. Then she paused.

"Da left his bow," she said softly.

Bain closed the door behind him. The lock had been smashed, and it swung open again in the wind. "I'll get mine," he said, and ran for the stairs. Meanwhile Sigrid strode toward the open door and took a long yew bow and quiver from their hooks.

Kili tugged again at his front, more anxiously. "Fili—"

But suddenly the tired haze had lifted from his mind. Gently, he untangled Kili's fist from his shirt and went to Sigrid at the door.

"You must leave this place."

"And where must we go?" Sigrid interrupted him. She turned back. Standing rigid, one hand extended to her sister and the other clutched to the gossamer bowstring slung across her chest, she looked suddenly as fierce and unyielding as any shield-dam among Dwarves.

"Girion's Bane will not sate himself with Lake-town. He will burn our settlements from here to the southern shores, and any and all misfortunate things that lay between. So I ask you again: where must we go, Master Dwarf?"

The answer was in her white-knuckled grip; in Tilda's wide teary eyes; but Fili could not bring himself to voice it. Bain came tramping down the stairs, fumbling to belt the quiver at his side. Bofur opened a drawer full of cooking knives, examining them carefully.

The house shook again. Dust fell in his hair, and his eyes watered.

"We must try," he said, for Sigrid's bravery, for Tilda's tears, for the sad resignation in Oin's gaze. Fili straightened and looked around at them all in the flickering lamplight.

"We must try. We cannot know unless we try. And if... If it comes to a choice between dying in the shadows and burning in the light, then I will draw my swords and burn with you, Sigrid Bard's daughter."

Sigrid nodded. Her face was utterly pale, but she did not quaver in the face of their doom.

"Here, here!" called Bofur, tossing him the pair of Mannish swords the Master had allocated him. They were heavier than he was used to, and longer, but Fili did not care as he buckled them at his side. There was no time to gather the silvered armor of the Lake-town guard: and besides, it would only slow them.

"As I fought for your uncle at Azanulbizar, let me fight for you now!" Oin boomed as he bundled up the herbs the elf-woman had left behind. "For the King under the Mountain! For the Dwarves of Erebor!"

"I'll fight with you!" said Bain, plucking at his bow with fire in his eyes. "For Da!"

"And what about Da?" Tilda cried over their clamor. Weapons were seized, Fili pilfered a handful of knives from Bofur's drawer, and the toymaker fitted a plumed helm over his hat. "He doesn't know!"

"We'll go by the eastern docks," said Bain, clapping her on the shoulder as he moved past to stand guard at the door. "I know where he might be."

A strange spell, Fili thought suddenly. A dragon awaited them out on the lake — the Dragon, whose monstrous figure had haunted their journey over hill and under mountain and through enchanted wood. And yet, in the face of oncoming destruction, he hardly felt afraid.

Perhaps... Perhaps he had known it would end like this, or something like it.

Only Kili had not called out allegiance and fevered battle-promises. His brother clung to the edge of the dining table, seated upright but swaying slightly. His eyes were wide and confused.

"Fili? Fili, what's happening—?"

Fili cupped his warm cheeks in his hands and for a long moment held their foreheads together in Dwarvish greeting. And farewell. Kili grasped at his fingers, numbly.

Fili smiled. "I'll burn tonight, brother. Will you come with me?"

Kili did not understand. He blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled and squeezed Fili's hands in return. My place is at your side.

"Always."

To be continued...

Footnotes:

(i) Rangers of the North: After the fall of Arthedain, some of the Dúnedain, despairing of their homes, wandered East, across the Misty Mountains. They became nomads of Rhovanion; some of them lingered around the Long Lake, and guarded that area against evil. Arian's band is one such group.

(ii) King's table: Hnefatafl, an ancient relative of chess, and a popular game in Scandinavia during the Viking Age.

(iii) Lords of the Lake: Lake-town is one of many settlements along the Long Lake, although it is the farthest to the North. Each township is ruled by a Lord or Master, the Dalish equivalent of a Norse jarl.

(iv) Rada: Affectionate shortening of radad, the Khuzdûl word for 'mother's brother'. (As both of us coauthors are linguists, we have taken it upon ourselves to attempt a reconstruction of Khuzdûl from Tolkien's fragmentary corpus. :) )