Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
Guest (Jessie) – Oops? Sorry about that jolt, but I'm afraid I don't have a lot of good news for you with this chapter, either. Thank you so much for leaving a review, and I am very glad you are enjoying the story!
23. Missing
"Uncle!"
Thorin spun at the desperate cry to find Therin running toward him, face red and clothes covered in rock dust.
"Therin! What-?"
"Where's Kíli?!"
His and Fíli's questions overrode one another as the panting young dwarf waved a hand back the way he had come, almost toppling himself as he fought to regain enough breath to speak.
"A-a rockslide! I- I could hear fighting from the other side. Kíli-"
Thorin cursed as the boy broke off, barking orders even as he longed to take off at a run himself.
"Dwalin, I need our strongest dwarrow with tools and weapons. Frodo, examine the maps, see if there is another way around to that corridor. Bofur, you're with us, we may need your mining expertise. Kifir, find me a healer to come with us. Nast, extra patrols, I want every available dwarrow out, cut them off at the lower levels if you can. If that bunch realizes who Kíli is..."
Suddenly running out of orders to give, Thorin gripped Fíli's shoulder in reassurance. The blonde was shaking under his hand, face pale and clammy as the reality of what could happen set in. There was no need to tell the prince the sort of sport a group of goblins and orcs might have with a lone dwarf, let alone the cult. Frérin had been identified by his armor alone. The mere thought of finding Kíli like that twisted his stomach and heightened his impatience.
Frodo came running back, a rolled parchment in hand as he swiftly dodged bodies hustling in every direction. Next to them, Therin hastily put aside the water skin he had been gulping from as the hobbit spread the map.
"We were here." Therin tapped a corridor that had been little used by the company in the day they had been on this upper level. "I- We argued and when I turned to leave, I must have stepped on a trap stone. Kíli yelled at me to run just as it started to sink under my foot, so I leaped, and then the stones were falling everywhere. I tried to call to him, but I heard an orc or something speak and ran to get you."
Thorin could hear the guilt, the doubt in his youngest nephew's words, gripping the boy's neck reassuringly.
"You did well, Therin. Stay here and rest, help Frodo with the map."
One large hand on his shoulder alerted the king to his best friend's return, making Thorin turn to see the small crowd of dwarrow, plus a few elves and men hastily adjusting armor and readying weapons. The amount of volunteers was a silent testimony to how well-regarded the prince was by most in the camp. It was not only Erebor dwarrow who were here, either, as a Blacklock and a Stonefoot both hastened over to join them. Thorin gave them a nod before raising his voice to be heard above the shifting of metal and the stomp of boots.
"Go!"
The king's heart sank as he came upon the area only minutes later. When dwarrow made fall traps, they were most often loaded with slabs of stone shaped like the top of a table. These did more damage while tending not to break into pieces, ensuring only the target was hit and making it easier to clean up. Someone had found or reset this one with stones ranging from large boulders to small debris. Had Kíli not warned Therin, had the younger prince not felt the release of the trigger stone, this would have looked like part of the ceiling and wall naturally gave way. That meant it would take much longer to clear a path to where the prince had last been seen.
Fortunately for the nerves of both Fíli and Thorin, Bofur immediately took charge with the cheerful calm he always showed.
"Right, then. Team one, right side, team two, left. Three and four take what's passed to you and get it out of the way. Watch stability, we don't need anyone buried. Everyone else, stay back and out of the way."
The last sentence was directed mostly at Thorin and Fíli, bringing an instant reaction from the younger dwarf.
"No! I have to-"
Just as impatient, the king still had the presence of mind to restrain his nephew as Fíli made a move to try joining those at work. Bofur, however, already had them moving rock at an astonishing rate, taking full advantage of the greater strength of dwarrow and the height of the elves. Occasionally, work would pause while someone called out to the missing prince, but though all strained to hear the slightest cry through the stone, none came.
Time seemed to stretch into days for Thorin as he stood there, palms sweating as dire nightmares flashed before his eyes. He began to mutter to himself, low Khuzdul words; first a prayer to Mahal, then 'he's fine, he's safe, he's fine...' over and over.
He could not, would not, allow himself to slide into the despair that clawed closer with every moment, every unanswered call. The image of the crumpled form, covered in blood, eyes staring unseeing at the sky, would not go away. From the low moans that accompanied each pause, he knew that Fíli was suffering the same. He would not lose his nephew in that way again!
A final stone block was pulled out and Bofur was instantly up the pile, boosting his son through the newly created hole. Under his hand, Thorin could feel Fíli tense, his body shaking from the force of suppressed emotion, which gave way to another low, soul-wrenching moan as Kifir's head reappeared with a shake.
"The prince isn't here, just a lot of dead orcs and a strange dwarf."
"Alright, lad." Bofur's voice was soothing. "We'll find him, don't you worry. Come on back so we can finish removing the boulders and see what signs were left."
"I didn't walk on anything except boulders, Da, Kíli taught me better than that!"
One hand thrust the lamp through, and then Kifir wormed his way back to his father. Instantly, the teams went back to work with renewed urgency. Kíli was either a captive or on the run somewhere, alone. If he were dead, the body surely would have been left to taunt them, rubbing salt in a fresh wound.
"There must be another way through. That corridor can't just dead end."
Desperate blue eyes found his own as Fíli twisted out of his hold to face his uncle. Thorin's fists clenched, worry grating upon his nerves, making his temper short.
"No, it does not, but I cannot recall-"
It was Thorin who let out a growl of frustration this time, one hand slamming into the wall. The simple reality was that Khazad-dûm was too large for any to know the entire layout in their head, even the kings who ruled it. Even worse, as levels were added and populations shifted, so did some of the interior structure of the city. New halls were added, rooms changed, even entire levels repurposed, the ingenuity of the dwarrow finding ways without compromising internal support structures. Ironically, the greatest, most celebrated skill of their race had now become a liability.
A billow of dust into the air drew Thorin's attention as the pile settled, now easily scalable. Bofur had waved his teams back, allowing Thorin, Dwalin, and Fíli through to find Frodo, Therin and a small patrol just arriving from the other direction.
"We have clear sign of orcs headed the other direction. Several of them were bleeding and didn't bother binding wounds."
The patrol leader from earlier in the day, a Blacklock named Einarr, immediately reported as torches lit up the site of a battle.
"You're certain it was all black blood?"
The king questioned sharply, relieved when the other dwarf nodded firmly.
"Quite certain, sire. Stuff has a very distinctive scent when it's still wet."
"Laddie didn't go down easy."
Dwalin noted proudly, carefully rolling one of the eleven bodies, ten orcs and a dwarf. The orc was sliced diagonally across the torso, its entire left arm and shoulder missing.
"This here looks like it's all his."
There was a slight tremor to Fíli's voice as he knelt by the dead cult member, but he was doing a remarkable job of keeping the panic at bay. Thorin just was not sure how long he could continue. Einarr walked over to the golden haired prince, rolling the body over before snorting in bitter satisfaction.
"Well, I can at least report one more we need not worry about. That is Hyrûn. He was sought under a death sentence after the war for siding with Mordor, but had disappeared."
Dwalin made a grumbling noise low in his throat at the Blacklock's words, glaring at the other dwarf.
"And why not just kill him during the war if you caught him with the enemy? Or were you willing to help Mordor, as we heard?"
A piece of rock hit the far wall with explosive force, dissolving into fragments that sent multiple dwarrow ducking as Einarr rounded on Dwalin, getting right into the Warmaster's face.
"Well, excuse me, warmaster, for not having a cozy mountain to hide in and a thousand leagues between our foes and our homes! Unlike you, we had orcs, goblins, trolls, and men, all of Sauron's creatures upon our doorsteps constantly! Did we sell weapons to Mordor and Isengard? Yes! At the point of a sword! When you are told to either sell or see your home burned and your family taken away as slaves, there really isn't much of a choice, now is there?"
"Stop it!" Fíli was between the other two dwarrow before Thorin could move to block him, eyes wild and desperate. "Just stop it! If you wish to kill one another, do so after my brother is safe!"
"Thorin!"
Bofur's summons cut short any words the two might have said to the prince, the councilor holding his torch up to illuminate another orc.
"Looks like our prince was intent upon making orc-ka-bobs!"
The king ignored the flippancy, walking over to grasp the hilt of Kili's mithril sword and wrench it from where it had stabbed straight through one orc to lodge in the breastbone of a second. Such a stabbing was a maneuver of last resort, as the blade was much more likely to be caught by bone and ripped from the hand, leaving the warrior defenseless.
Einarr knelt swiftly, picking up a broad necked flask and allowing a drop of the remaining liquid to bead on his finger. He smelled it, making a face of disgust as he quickly washed the stuff off with about half his water skin. He met the king's eyes squarely.
"Milkweed sap. It's a common trick in the south. The sap is highly toxic, just a bit splashed in the eyes can blind someone for days."
"This finished the fight."
Dwalin had stalked away from the others, passing his king a rock a bit larger than his fist that had been resting against the wall as if thrown. Thorin's stomach knotted as he noted the red blood that covered one side, a few strands of dark hair still stuck to it.
"We can do nothing more here. He is gone."
From behind the king arose a strangled keening cry so full of pain, fury, and fear that Thorin's hair bristled up on the back of his neck, leaving him quaking as he spun toward the source. The closest he could think of was the cry of the banshee spirit that the Broadbeams believed haunted part of the ruins of Belegost.
"Fíli!"
Thorin lunged toward his nephew, but he was too far away to stop the bolting figure. Fortunately, someone else was closer, perhaps having anticipated this very reaction. Wyvern, the healer from Minas Arnor, grabbed the shorter dwarf as the prince attempted to dodge past him and into the darkness, holding on grimly. For his part, it looked to Thorin like Fíli used every dirty fighting move he or Dwalin had ever taught him, and some they had not, to try breaking the hold.
Head butting, bringing hands up to gouge at the man's eyes, biting, stomping on the healer's feet, even trying to roll him though the man was twice his height and weight, none of it worked. Wyvern hung on, blood dripping to the floor from a bite mark on one hand, using his greater body mass to allow the dwarf to exhaust himself. Finally, as those in attendance could only watch the heart-breaking scene, the prince sank to the floor, sobbing bitterly as Wyvern continued to cradle him. Unable to stay still a moment longer, Thorin hit his knees in front of the duo on the floor, callused hands capturing his nephew's head to force him to face the king.
"Hear me, Fíli. We will find him. I pledge to you I will not stop until we do. Not this time."
There was a spark of anger in the lighter blue eyes that met his own as the face twisted into a bitter parody of the nephew Thorin knew.
"D-do not promise what we both know you cannot do, uncle! The kingdom will come first, just as in Laketown! Besides, if they have k-kill-"
The prince's breathing stuttered and caught on the word, chest heaving in an attempt to force air past an emotionally closed throat. Fíli's eyes widened, losing focus, and Thorin cursed, recognizing the tell-tale signs of an incipient panic attack. Wyvern, being healer trained, would have better knowledge of how to stop it, so the king reached out for the younger dwarf, willingly accepting the weight as the man began to dig in his bag.
"I need a clean cloth!"
"Here."
Frodo instantly volunteered, holding out a handkerchief. At Thorin's raised eyebrow, the hobbit shrugged.
"Bilbo told me to always carry at least two in my pocket."
Wyvern took the cloth, soaking it in a faintly green liquid from his water skin. This, he pressed gently over Fíli's nose and mouth, the dwarf breathing so rapidly he must have been on the edge of passing out. The prince instinctively reached up to dislodge it, but Dwalin was quick to capture one arm while Thorin grabbed for the other with the hand not supporting his nephew. Fíli, however, seemed to have given up on pulling at the healer's arm and was searching for something to grab, instead.
"No!" The healer barked as the king was about to place his hand in Fíli's scrambling one. "He'll break your bones, give him a rock to squeeze."
Thorin grunted, one hand still supporting the reeling prince while the other searched blindly for a suitable one. His hand closed upon one a bit larger than two fists, slapping it into Fíli's palm and only noting how familiar it looked afterwards. The results were instantaneous. Colors burst forth, filling the corridor with light that pulsed a steady beat as Fíli clutched the Arkenstone to him, breathing perceptively slowing at last. Another minute and he pushed Wyvern's arm firmly away, sitting up from his uncle's support and staring at the stone in shock.
"H-he's alive! He has to be!" Eyes slightly unfocused, he glanced at the healer with a frown. "What did you give me?"
Wyvern smiled, handing the prince the water skin.
"An herbal mixture that calms you. It's meant to be sipped as a tea to keep you steady. Breathing it in like I had you doing makes it work faster, but the effects are also stronger. Don't try standing for a few minutes, alright?"
"And you just had it with you?"
Fíli seemed fixed on the irrelevant point, while Thorin was more interested in the stone his nephew now held. Wyvern huffed a weak laugh.
"I witnessed your reaction to Kíli being in danger before, remember? And that was only a fever, so I came prepared. Drink two mouthfuls of that every half an hour. It won't make you woozy or force you to sleep, but it will help keep your emotions under control."
Fíli's bark of laughter was bitter.
"I hope you have a lot of it, then."
It was the closest any of them would come to admitting the truth – that the search for a single dwarf in the vast city full of damaged stone, enemies, and traps just might prove impossible.