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.

Author's Note: First, a warning that this chapter is a bit dark, so it may be hard for younger readers. Second, I posted another chapter on Friday, Feb 28, when the site was having technical issues. If you did not receive notification, you might want to back up a chapter to start reading.

24. A Darkness so Vast

Kíli lay in the darkness, trying to decide if it might have been better had the orcs and goblins killed him outright. He wanted to cry out, call for help, but knew it was futile as he swallowed hard, tears pricking unseeing eyes and stomach acid burning his throat. How long would he wait in the stillness before the dripping of water onto his face was replaced by the scurry of rat claws or the coarse scales of a viper? How long before his end came, here, alone in the darkness? He could do nothing but wait, playing the events of his capture over and over again in his mind, more terrified than he ever remembered being in his life.

When he had woken from the blow to the head that had abruptly ended the fight, it had been to burning eyes unable to see and filthy, grasping hands that held his body firmer then iron bands. His hands were brutally twisted behind him and tied there, more leather going around his elbows to force them together, multiplying the pain. Whatever one of his attackers had splashed into his face during the short fight, it had done its job, darkness now his world.

The prince had actually been holding his own in the fight, having taken down about half his attackers, when the strange dwarf had deliberately allowed himself to be wounded in order to get close enough to splash the liquid into his face. There had been a burst of pain, but somehow Kíli had kept his feet, stabbing blindly at his opponents. His satisfaction at hearing a grunt of pain other than his own was short-lived, however, as his opponent pulled the blade from his hand and another slammed the stone into his head.

How long ago that had been, he had no idea, so there was no way to know if anyone had come to his aid and attempted to follow them. He had tried to keep his body limp, force them to carry him and slow them further, but his captors had jeered, yanking him about and allowing his body to drag over painful stone until he stumbled to his own feet to stop the agony. Of course, that had not slowed them down at all.

They seemed to walk for quite some time, the prince being dragged along on fumbling feet, when the echo of the stone told him he had entered a large room, the rustle of bodies surrounding the little group on all sides. He had steeled himself, expecting threats of torture as he was forced onto his knees, but someone had just laughed, yanking his head back by the hair.

"What have we here? A little lost lamb? It certainly cannot be a son of Durin!"

The voice was not that of a goblin or orc, not with the hint of a Khuzdul accent. Though he could not see his tormentor, the prince had the mind to gather spit in his mouth, blowing it out with as much force as possible. The other cackled harder, hand twisting in his hair until the prince feared a large chunk might be pulled out by its roots.

"Well, there is some spirit there, at least! Too bad. The idea of a slave was most appealing. No, this one is only fit for a sacrifice, I am afraid."

"To who?" Kíli snarled, succeeding in wrenching his arms out of the clawed hands holding him, even though it meant some hair being ripped from his head.

He stumbled to his feet, head throbbing, running blindly only to run into hands pushing him back and spinning him around. As he stumbled in the new direction, something jabbed at his side, voices hooting and calling from all around. He stopped, head raising definitely as he screamed his next words at them.

"Sauron is dead!"

A foot connected with the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor before his head was pulled up by the hair again.

"Gods cannot die, boy. He will return, and your pain will give him strength!"

"You're insane!"

How many times had his mother, Thorin, Balin, pretty much everyone told him he must think before he spoke? Perhaps he should have listened a bit more closely. His cheek stung as he received a backhand to the mouth, blood trickling from a split lip.

"My, Thorin must have had fun with you! How did you survive to adulthood with that brooding, temperamental beast for an uncle? He never did have much tolerance for a smart mouth."

Kili's breath caught in his throat as he strained to see anything through burning, watery eyes, shocked that his captor not only knew who he was, but of Thorin's personality as well.

"Who are you?"

This must be the leader of the cult. Only a Khazad could know such things about his family, but he could not conceive of one of his own people condoning such evil.

"Did he not tell you, little Durin? You have what should have been mine! Your mountain throne, pretty lass, gold and gems, all should have come to me! Well, now I will have my birthright, even if it must be over your dead body! Prepare him for the sacrifice! Our Lord Sauron will drink deeply of the blood of Durin this day!"

With that, clawed hands had descended upon him from every direction, ripping and pulling, shredding the clothing from his body until he huddled on his knees, shivering and naked in the cold mountain hall. Before he could think to try running again, his head was wrenched back and a foul liquid forced into his mouth, hands forcing his jaw shut when he would have spit it out. Whatever it was, the stuff burned fiercely going down his throat, sweat abruptly prickling on his forehead as he was yanked and kicked, herded off for what felt like hours.

His bare feet were quickly cut up by the rough stone he walked on, blood squelching between his toes with every fumbling footfall, unexpected and unseen obstacles sending him crashing to the ground more than once to lie helpless until grabbed and forced on his way once more. He tried several times to read the rock around him, save himself the falls, but the pain and burning from the drug he had been made to swallow would not allow him to slip into the rock, the loss of even that small comfort bitter in his mouth.

He had grown up on the horror stories of what goblins and orcs did with their captives, tales whispered in the night between young dwarrow out on their first lessons in wilderness survival. The throat cutting with which he and his brother had teased Bilbo so long ago had been the tamest of what might await the unfortunate victim.

When they finally stopped, Kíli was tossed down and held as his bonds were cut only to have his arms and legs stretched out as far away from him as they would go, hands above his head, and each one was lashed tight to metal rings. Knives began to slash, then, cutting into the sensitive skin under his arms and his inner thighs, then along his ribs. None were deep, meant to hurt and bleed more than kill, especially when some foul stuff had been brutally rubbed into them, making him writhe with the pain.

That had only ended when his shoulder had given way with a sickening pop and wave of agony, making him black out momentarily. He had been keeping his marked hand fisted shut, which was thankfully on his other arm, but one of his captors obviously took exception to that, a hard metal soled boot stepping down hard on his wrist.

"What are we hiding, little Durin? Open up!"

Claws dug into his hand, forcing it open, and the dwarf prince felt a ripple of power from the miniature Arkenstone imbedded there. Around him, there were cries of horror, and he gasped as knives sliced into his body. None of them went deep, the creatures once again keeping careful control, but it was enough to overwhelm him, losing that thread of a connection with the stone around him that had been created when he focused on his marked hand.

"Well, now, that is interesting. Cut it off, boys. Just the skin, it wouldn't do for him to bleed out and leave the vipers with only a cold corpse instead of a hot meal."

The fear was overwhelming as Kíli tried to twist away, break free somehow, though logically he knew it to be futile. Desperation, however, was rarely inclined to bow to cold reasoning, so his body bucked, throwing off hands that grabbed at him until a fist slammed his head back against the stone floor and his right shoulder tore further, spilling a renewed wave of liquid pain through him, making him black out for several precious moments.

When he came back to himself, it was with a scream as a blade dug into the skin of his palm. How long the creatures had been at it, he did not know, but he could feel a blaze of raw pain etching an outline of the Arkenstone. Soon, they would try to cut the skin from his palm as easily as he dressed a newly slain deer carcass, but the next sound he heard was the scrape of metal upon stone.

"It won't come, my lord Naragel!"

The ingratiating whine of a goblin twisted the sacred language of Khuzdul into a thing of obscenity, though the word it addressed their leader with was foul enough. Roughly translated it meant blackest of the black, the color of evil, and one of the worst curses a dwarf might utter. Had it always meant that, or was that a more modern meaning that came about because the cult used it for their leader? It was a singularly odd thing to be contemplating when in the hands of the enemy, stripped and tied to the floor as a sacrifice for some of Morgoth's favorite pets, Kíli mused, but his fear had now given way to a numb acceptance. There was nothing to be done, after all. Why fight it?

"Fine. Pack clay around it and bake it, then. I want to be able to retrieve my pretty prize when the scavengers are done with the rest of him."

The clay was cold on his hand as it was surrounded in the slimy stuff, but Kíli simply lay limp, half drifting as the drugs began to fog his mind. How could he be so hot when he wore nothing at all?

"W-water…"

He knew it was a mistake the moment he asked, but by then it was too late. Sudden heat around his hand made the dwarf gasp and his captors used the opportunity to stuff the mouth of a bottle between his lips and upend it. Kíli had no choice but to swallow the bitter liquid as fast as he could to prevent himself from choking on it, and the goblins did not seem inclined to stop at one attempt to drown him, either. Another bottle took its place, more of the bitter drug burning its way down his throat until his stomach felt stretched and much too full. At least it had distracted him from the heat of the clay being baked around his hand.

"Enough!"

That one barked word was all it took for his tormentors to abruptly abandon their amusement, several deliberately stepping on his stomach as they left. Kíli, meanwhile, was trying desperately to prevent himself from throwing up and adding to his misery or even causing his own death. Too many times when he was little, he had heard the whispers around the refugee camps of an elder left alone and found dead the next morning when they were unable to roll, choking or drowning on their own vomit. That was not the death he wished to experience, no matter that it would spare him the viper's bite.

So long as he lived, there was hope. That was what he told himself over and over as his blood grew hot, body temperature soaring with the foul brew that they had forced down him. Tremors rocked his body, pulling at already sore, abused muscles as he moaned in pain, back arching as the cramps started. His head drummed a steady beat in time with a heart that would no longer stay in rhythm, racing erratically. His mind was foggy, no longer quite awake, but not truly in a dream.

"It was quite the experience, being in the company of orcs like that. I shan't forget it, that's for certain!"

A thrill bordering on euphoria tingled in the dwarf as he heard that wonderful, musical tone of hobbit speech. Were the voices he heard real?

"M-mer-ry! Pip-!"

"Do you remember that foul stuff they gave us, Pip? It burned going down the throat so, I thought I would choke!"

"Oh, yes. Woke me up, though. I never would have had the energy to keep running otherwise."

"Not a trip I would ever care to repeat, though it might be a salutary experience for some hobbits I could-"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

It was Bilbo's sharp chiding that allowed some part of the prince to recognize the memory for what it was, though somehow he could not bring himself to care. Fur brushed his feet and he giggled, flexing his toes to try flicking the offender away. So what if every square inch of his body ached and he had been laid out as a feast for the rats and stone vipers?

Giggling again for no reason that his mind could supply, he allowed himself to sink deeper into the euphoric fog created by whatever he had been given, no longer having the strength to fight.