Sooo, Kíli messed up. And I kind of hate myself for it, but oh well… let's see how the brothers deal with that situation now. Or if they even have any chance to deal with it, before something worse happens.
And I know I didn't update straight away yesterday, but nourss… can I still have my own Arkenstone? I'd love to have my own Arkenstone!
Thank you lads for all the lovely reviews and sorry for straining your nerves like that! Enjoy the next Chapter! Chapter 40 already… holy shit. Still can't believe it.
Thick flakes of snow slowly wafted from the skies, covering the ground like a white and icy carpet. The Halls of Erebor had grown colder and colder with each passing day and still the Dwarves endured, shivering and anticipating the bloodshed to come. It was useless, Thorin knew, to attack before Dáin and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had arrived, thus he waited. And waited. And waited. They were all drawn to the large fire of the hearth in the Hall of Thrór and lingered around it, sometimes chatting, sometimes in deep silence.
To Bilbo's surprise, it seemed as if Fíli had not told Thorin of Kíli's betrayal and instead pretended like it never happened, occasionally speaking to his brother but most of the time each youngster sat on his own, surrounded by the Dwarves they had begun to relate to the most. Fíli sat with Balin, Glóin and Óin, the old noble ones, abiding their time until they could finally defend their family's honour once more. Kíli on the other hand sat with Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Ori, Dori and Nori, the outcasts, the merchants and miners, not of noble blood but ordinary Dwarves. The tension between the brothers was not bearable for the poor Hobbit and Bilbo blamed himself entirely for it.
One morning, he tried to approach Fíli about it, finding the young prince alone for once in Frerin's old chambers. Though quiet, Fíli talked to him alright but it seemed as if all the happiness was drained from him, his bright blue eyes dark and clouded.
"Look, if only you two could make up- I'm sure everything would be better then", Bilbo tried, curiously glimpsing up at the Dwarf and he realised, for the first time, that Fíli must have grown a little in the past months, for now he was nearly a head taller than the Hobbit, almost matching Thorin in height. "Try to understand him, hm?"
"I do understand him", Fíli smiled a little. "I think the day when I won't understand my brother anymore will be the day we both die. But even though I do understand, I cannot support it. You might not know what it's like, Master Baggins, but as brothers we will never be separated. No matter what happens, we will always be connected, one way or another."
Fíli vacantly looked at the deep, thick scar that ran across his palm of his right hand. The scar that had remained after he and Kíli had sworn, not to die on each other. And a small glimpse of joy returned to his eyes as he traced the line carefully and lovingly.
"But we need to learn that we will have to go quite separate ways one day. We can't stay sons and children and nephews forever, we need to move on. And maybe we won't move into the same direction."
It pained the Hobbit, for he sensed and knew that Fíli suffered just as much as his brother, though he didn't show it as much. Slowly, everyone noticed the differences in the brothers. Kíli was outspoken and up-front with his emotions, laughing and crying easily with an alluring charm and a natural talent to make others happy. Fíli was a little more reclusive, serious even, a scholar and literate and unusually wise for a Dwarf, though maybe more reliable and trustworthy than his ever-chatting brother. They used to be one entity but had now started to separate a little.
"It will kill him, you know?" the Hobbit muttered, though he did not mean to hurt Fíli. "Being separated from you will kill him one day."
"I know", Fíli looked at the thick snow falling outside the window. "And when he dies, I will die as well."
For a long time Bilbo did not understand those words. But the more time passed and the more the brothers brooded and suffered, the clearer it became to him. Should one of them die, whatever the reason might be, the other would die soon as well. For a broken heart could be as lethal as an arrow to the chest or a knife at the throat.
It had been four weeks since Dwalin had set off for the Iron Hills and the cold wind that came gushing down the Lonely Mountain had already killed off a notable number of Thranduil's troops. Thorin was still in high spirits, believing his enemy to draw back and return to the Mirkwood with his army, when a loud banging at the Gates disturbed the Dwarves one night.
Armed with pikes and claymores, they opened the smaller door within the Gate, half expecting a shower of arrows raining down on them, but nothing the like happened.
Thranduil stood by the gate, dressed in glistening armour of a beautiful olive green, the helmet on his silvery head looking more like a crown than anything else. By the bridge waited a large part of his army, already half covered in snow and the Dwarves watched warily.
"No worries, Thorin Oakenshield", Thranduil bellowed against the blazing storm outside. "I came to bargain with you!"
"You are in no position to bargain!" Thorin replied, shielding his view from the falling flakes.
"Oh but I am!"
Carefully at first, the King under the Mountain stepped outside and only then did he notice another cloaked figure by Thranduil's side. He watched surprised as the figure stepped into the torchlight by the Gates.
"Why would you linger around?"
"Curiosity", Bard replied, pulling his hood off. "Should a battle happen at the Gates of my City, I would very much like to be informed about it."
"Fair enough, I suppose", Thorin muttered, wondering about the strange Man amongst them. "You spoke of a bargain Elf! Speak quickly, I don't mean to freeze my backside off in this weather!"
"We could talk inside", Thranduil suggested but Thorin's face quickly showed that he thought nothing of that idea.
"I told you that if you ever entered my Halls again, you would lose your head. And I do not care about your troops standing on my bridge. So speak here and speak now, or return to the fowl woods whence you've came and never speak again!"
"Very well", Thranduil replied, not at all surprised about the Dwarven stubbornness. "There is something in my possession that you might be interested in, Thorin, son of Thráin! It is a precious gem that maybe will ease a bargain between our Kingdoms!"
"There is nothing of Elven make that would interest me", Thorin replied, his arms crossed before his chest.
"I never said it was of Elven make", the Elvenking smiled. When he pulled the shimmering jewel from underneath his cloak, all words got stuck in Thorin's throat and he stared in disbelief. The Arkenstone, the King's Jewel and the one treasure that he had been looking for for weeks, lay in the hands of his enemy and the Dwarven King was lost for words for a long while.
"How came you by this?" he finally whispered, his voice croaked.
Fíli shifted uneasily, standing only a little behind his uncle to support him if necessary. Yet he did not step in and he did not say anything.
"Good fortune!" Thranduil replied, the smile on his lips so arrogant and gleeful that Fíli's stomach turned. "I believe that his jewel is most precious to you. And fortunately for you, I would be willing to hand it over to you, in return for the share of the treasure I have asked of you!"
Thorin did not reply, clenching his jaws in anger and frustration.
"I could, of course, keep this gem as well and we would be even then. It is your sole decision, Thorin Oakenshield!"
The words of the Elvenking riled the Dwarves up and they all drew their weapons, ready to charge at Thranduil's troops with only thirteen if they had to. Thorin himself was close to just leaping at the Elf and cut him in half, Orcrist's hilt in his hands already, when suddenly an entirely unfamiliar blade was held to the Elvenking's throat. Thorin took a few steps back, startled by the sight before him.
"Hand me the jewel, Thranduil."
The Elf looked down at the filthy hand that was held before him and when he glimpsed to his side, he found Bard standing there, the blade of his sword pressed to the Elf's throat. Many arrows suddenly pointed at the Heir of Girion but his face remained stern.
"This is none of your business, Guard of Esgaroth", Thranduil hissed. "You will be pierced and dead before you could even cut me."
"I do not fear your arrows", Bard replied. "I have long lost my reason to live, death does not scare me. Injustice though, I cannot tolerate. Fight all you want. Cut each other's heads off and club each other's bones until none of you is left anymore, I do not care. But I will step in if the battle happens on unfair grounds."
The Dwarves stared at Bard bewildered.
"I do not know how you came into the possession of this rare gem", the Man said, though he briefly glimpsed at Bilbo and Kíli, smiling a little. "But I do know that it is neither yours to keep, nor yours to bargain with."
And there he stood, surrounded by Elvish soldiers, arrows and blades pointing at him and yet he did not step back, still holding his own blade against Thranduil's throat.
"And what do you think you can do to hinder me from this unfair act?" Thranduil sneered, suddenly not as beautiful anymore.
"Oh, I don't know", Bard replied casually, scratching his surprisingly clean shaved cheek. "I could cut your head off and immediately be killed by arrows but with your troops being leaderless, your Kingdom of course would never prosper again as it did. Or I could once again urge you to hand the jewel to me and after returning it to it's rightful keeper, I could return to my hometown and pretend like none of this had happened, while you happily kill each other. I don't know about you, but I would very much prefer the second alternative."
Long minutes of silence passed and the Dwarves waited anxiously, their weapons still drawn. The only prove that time hadn't suddenly stopped, was the never ending falling snow, covering the burned and black grassland of the Desolation of Smaug in a thick, icy layer.
When the Arkenstone dropped into Bard's hand heavily, Thorin could not help but sigh deeply. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and opened them when he heard the scrunching footsteps of the righteous Lord of Dale, approaching him through the thick snow. Keeping his word, he handed the jewel to Thorin, who took it carefully and clutched it firmly in his cold hands.
"Thank you", he looked up at the cloaked man. "Friend."
"Don't mention it", Bard smiled and gave Fíli a nod of greeting. Nobody could have guessed how relieved the youngster was, that someone, once again, had made right what his younger brother had done wrong. Thorin had been right before, they may not have been blessed with a lot of brain but a sheer exorbitant amount of luck.
Thorin handed the Arkenstone to Fíli and he took it, holding it as carefully as a raw egg. The jewel shone and glistened in the moonlight and the falling snow, drawing white and silvery spots everywhere and he looked at it most mesmerized. Balin watched him surprised, for it was the first time that he witnessed Fíli displaying any interest in jewels. So far, the youngster had been most untypical for a Dwarf, never caring much for glistening and shining things that lay deep in the earth. The old Dwarf smiled a little, guessing what Fíli's reason behind the sudden curiosity might be. The Arkenstone, after all, was the jewel of his forefathers and would, one day, sit in the backrest of his throne.
"I believe the bargain between us is over, Elvenking!" Thorin yelled, draining out the howling storm. "Since you have nothing to bargain with anymore!"
Thranduil wrinkled his nose a little, looking most displeased. The Arkenstone would have been an easy way out and after the early death of many of his warriors, Thranduil was not keen on fighting. Elves though were no less proud than Dwarves and Thranduil refused to back down so easily.
"You should not be so full of yourself, Dwarf!" he smiled. "Remember, you are thirteen, standing against three hundred!"
"MY LORD THRANDUIL!" a young Elf suddenly broke through the lines of Thranduil's troops. He wore a light tunic and leather boots but no heavy armour, revealing himself as a scout rather than a soldier. His breath came in puffs before his lips and he panted heavily, his light steps barely leaving any prints in the high snow. "MY LORD!"
Everyone stared at him curiously, the bickering forgotten for a brief moment.
"Speak up, what's the matter?" Thranduil asked impatiently, the wish to drive a blade through Thorin's chest growing with each passing minute.
"There is an army approaching!" the young Elf panted. "Too large to estimate the number! They are travelling at a quick pace!"
"That would be the Dwarves of the Iron Hills", Thorin smirked and Thranduil's bewildered glare amused him immensely. "You were saying, Elf?"
"Foul tricks!" the Elvenking spat out but the scout by his side feverishly shook his head, the golden strands of hair flying.
"No my Lord, those are no Dwarves!" Thorin's smile faded. "It's an army of Orcs! They are riding on the large Wargs of Gundabad and they are drawing near!"
The Dwarves stood dumbstruck, staring at the scout in disbelief.
"That cannot be", Thorin whispered.
And indeed, in that very moment a massive army rolled across the grassland, the large paws of hundreds of Wargs pounding down heavily on the snow, making the ground shake and rumble. On their felted backs rode the Orcs of Gundabad, their bone forged armour glistening in the falling snow, their blades shining bright.
At their fore, on a particularly large, black beast rode nobody but Bolg, son of Azog. His heavy armour was covered in snow, his beard and mane dyed in fresh, red blood and his ice blue eyes shone with malice and a lust for bloodshed. The Orcs of Gundabad had left their lair and they had come for the head of the King under the Mountain.