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.

29. To Face Death

The next time Kíli woke, he knew for certain that he was in serious trouble beyond being a prisoner and attempted sacrifice. His mouth was parched, and his body hot, even with what should be cold stone at his back, a fever rising from one of his many wounds or from his own abilities, it did not truly matter which. Left untreated for much longer, either one was a death sentence as sure as the bite of the vipers that crawled on him. Now, even should he by Mahal's good graces be rescued, he might still be a dead dwarf, and that thought was deeply disturbing.

A dwarrow warrior should accept, and even welcome, the possibility of death without flinching, especially one of the fearless sons of Durin, for few of his line ever died in bed, old and toothless. That is what he had heard over and over in the old tales as he grew up, what he saw in the histories he studied as a young adult, and what was expected of him now, as a ruling prince. And he was a total coward and failure, fear having settled next to his heart like an old friend, to expand with every breath, every surge of pain, every faint whisper of sound that turned out to be nothing more than stones creaking or a rat scurrying by to avoid attracting the attention of the vipers settled upon him once more.

Thrice before, he had faced this ultimate nemesis as an adult, and he thankfully retained few memories of any of them. The first time had been the morgul poison on the arrow he was shot with while they were escaping Mirkwood. He recalled most of that event now, at least until watching his uncle and the others leave for the mountain, but after that, there was very little beyond pain and vague glimpses of people. Tauriel had healed him, that he had remembered, finally, but little else. He knew he had been within Erebor at some point, as he could bring to mind a picture of Smaug's massive pile of gold, but that was usually quickly followed by the gleam of madness in his uncle's eyes, so he chose not to dwell on it.

The second time was in the Battle of the Five Armies, where he had actually met his death. Kíli had been told that it happened, and even had it described to him by various others who had been there, but he retained no active memory of it. He was certain, however, that some part of him must recall what happened, even if not consciously; Nightmares that left him jolting awake breathless or jumping at the crash of thunder were proof enough of that. Images of the malice in his foe's face, or the feel of the blade running through his chest to end his life would make sleep impossible, sometimes for days, but he did not know if it was actual memories tormenting him, or the imaginings of a too active mind that had heard the stories several times.

The third instance was similar, when he had been poisoned by the tip of an arrow scratching him on the way back to Erebor from Minas Tirith. Mostly, he remembered the feeling of alarm at seeing his brother lurch forward, and the pound of the arrow into his own back knocking him against the pony's neck, then the fighting. He and Fíli had fought back to back, as was their preference when possible, with him loading arrows and firing as fast as he could until forced to defend himself with his sword.

That type of close combat had not only been physically exhausting, but mentally as well as the archer struggled to ensure his arrows would not take a friend instead of foe. One had shot a cultist about to take his uncle in the back; that, he remembered all too clearly. The fear had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he had loosed the arrow without even thinking. After that, it had been another blur of alarmed voices, hands, pain, and numbness, only alleviated by the reassuring arms of his brother holding him close.

Now, though… He did not fear dying, he realized. No, it was being alone, with the curses of phantoms haunting his waking and horrors his dreams as his skin grew to feel tight and stretched, as if his insides were too large for his body. He had no idea how long it had been when the goblins and their cult masters returned to check on him just that even their footsteps approaching sounded as loud as thunder to his ears.

They were not pleased that he still lived, gabbering in their ugly tongue for long minutes, leaving Kíli wondering if now would come the time when they simply killed him. Such fears – or hope?- had ended, though, as they began to taunt him in Westron, the tear tracks down his face and the mess he lay in seeming to delight them. Clawed hands forced his jaw open again, pouring in more of the drugged water, which was a blessing, at first. He knew that he should resist, refuse to open his mouth, but some of the euphoria still lingered, and he could not bring himself to care beyond the relief of the water in his mouth.

Starved tissues reveled in the cool draught as he fought to gulp it as fast as he could, not caring that he was complicit in their attempts to drug him further. What did it matter, anyway? The drifting and euphoria were not that bad when compared with his reality, though he could wish for an end to the hallucinations. Instead, he began to weep in sheer relief, which made the brutes laugh all the harder, jeering as their hands poked and prodded at him, getting close enough to his face to feel their hot breath though he could not see them.

"Are you in pain, little dwarf? Good!"

"Perhaps he is too cold for the vipers to find him tasty. Give him more, make his blood boil!"

"Look at this, boys! He's wetting himself!"

Kili's face burned with shame at that, even as he felt himself beginning to drift off again. He had not even felt his body give in to the need! Was the scar tissue on his back swelling again, stealing away what little command of his lower body he yet retained? He welcomed the pull of unconsciousness.

"Make him do it again!"

Goblins and orcs were past masters at turning even a seemingly small kindness into further torment, and were not about to allow him to ruin their fun, however. Hands slapped at his face, forcing him back to consciousness, then they continued to force liquid down him until well past the point where every swallow was a painfully hard lump. Inevitably, he choked, vomiting up much of what he had just taken in, but he was not allowed to suffocate on it. A hand forced his head to the side as a filthy clawed finger intruded into his mouth, sweeping out any debris left behind, which only served to make him gag harder. Evidently, they had no intentions of allowing him such a quick release from his suffering.

"Enough."

It was the same voice that had taunted him, though this time it was a velvety rumble, rich with satisfaction, with impatience giving it just a hint of a rough edge. It reminded Kíli so strongly of Thorin at that instant that he could not stop the renewed tears that tracked down his cheeks.

"Leave us."

He felt the others move away, heard the soft scratch of the claws upon rock as it sent a shudder through him.

"You will die soon, little prince." There was a faint note of regret in the tone, as if the other were a child who did not understand why a broken toy had to be discarded. "Naked, forgotten, and alone. Your body will be a feast for the scavengers, your soul wandering far from Mahal's Forge. There will be no grand procession or royal tomb this time, no Arkenstone to alter your fate. Does this terrify you? It should."

The other could not know how truthfully he spoke. Could not know of the nights that Kíli jolted awake sobbing, stifling the screams at the nothingness as he contemplated the terrifying truth that one day, he must cease to be, all that he had been gone forever.

He had stayed up for days, once, as a child, hiding his sleeplessness from his mother, father, uncle and brother after his first terrible encounter with that harsh reality, only stopped by his body's inability to function in such a state any longer. Kíli could no longer even remember why he had started it, just that it had something to do with a rock engraved with the sigil of the House of Durin and a tiny, cold body cradled in his arms.

A hand roughly grabbing him by the hair yet again broke him from his latest wit wanderings. A mouth was close to his ear, breath tickling as the other whispered.

"Die, child. Die as you should have long ago, unwanted; the extra, unneeded spare, valued only for the life you can put between danger and the true heir."

A steel toed boot dug him hard in the ribs as his head was dropped to slam once more into the unforgiving rock. Hours began to blur after that, as the renewed drug bore him once more to that undefinable place between dream and reality, where he happily became one with the rock, ignoring the indignities being suffered by the flesh. Convulsions irritated the serpents that had sought his warmth once more and trolls leered as they tied him in a sack, discussing cooking tips with a red-eyed hobbit. Elves leered at him through bars only to be chased away by fiery stars, then consumed by the gaping maw of a dragon. Voices, so many voices, boots echoing on stone far away, moving, searching…

Wrong way, wrong way, wrong, wrong!

A crack, a bit of crumbling masonry, so close to falling, to getting their attention-

He felt the stone, was the stone, pushed…

The pain was worth it, all the agony of the rock tearing away from its anchor of countless centuries. A bit of debris hitting the floor, a bridge falling to block the path below, such a little thing! His body was on fire with the power, ripping at him as he poured all that his weakened form had left to give into the stone. He never felt the cracks of the clay around his hand, nor heard the hiss of dismay as a few bands of multi-colored light managed to peek out, like a beacon signaling the far off army to the rescue.

Instead, the fever consumed him as so many came to see the dying prince, hissing out accusations or offering false comfort to the burning body wracked by pain, ghosts who dissolved into the darkness that Kíli could not penetrate. Balin, Gandalf, Bifur, Ori, Óin, even Fíli and Thorin. So many times, he allowed a part of him to believe that the sounds and faces were real, only to lay helpless as they vanished. How long would this torment continue before he finally knew peace? Hands on him, pulling, lifting, more pain, more blood, why could they not leave him alone? Why give the false comfort of wool, wet and cooling, wrapping his tormented and broken body? He blacked out, and knew no more for a very long time.