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.

33. The Darkness of a Soul

Thorin heard the sharp intake of breath from several of his companions as it became clear who this was. The king shot out his free hand just in time to feel the bulk of Dwalin strain against his hold. His eyes, however, did not leave the figure of the cult leader.

The face was that of his brother, true, but there was a dead quality to the eyes… Cold. Uncaring. As the one facing him were a stranger, not blood kin. Heart clenching painfully, Thorin shook his head, knowing that he could not dwell upon who this had once been. The Frérin he had known no longer existed.

"Let me at him, Thorin…"

There was pure rage in his shield brother's voice, and much as Thorin would be inclined to indulge him, now was not the time. He had other priorities. Their foe, meanwhile, was laughing again, sending a chill down his spine. Realizing that Dwalin had stopped struggling, the king fisted his hand around the other's arm anyway, fingers on the underside of the warrior's forearm moving in an abbreviated form of Iglishmêk that the two had long worked out for such situations. A tensing of the other's muscles in deliberate sequence let Thorin know Dwalin had received the message clearly and he let go, allowing the warrior to make a show of defying their opponent.

"Bah!" Dwalin spit to the side, face in a snarl of hatred as he glared across the chamber at his one-time prince. "You were never worth the effort. Runt."

The warrior turned, catching Fíli in a firm grip before Thorin had to turn his attention away from his brother to do so. Not that it was Frérin, not anymore, for he was lost to them as surely as Durin IV's son had been. For a moment, the king cursed Radagast's absence, so typical of a wizard when they were needed, and then told himself that it did not truly matter. Frérin had obviously been given the dark taint when Sauron was gaining strength, and even were such magic able to banish it, his brother would never wish to live with the knowledge of the actions he had taken. No, this one would be settled by death, there could be no other conclusion.

"I am surprised that one did not lose his speech with his hair. His head was always too thick for either one to stay lodged."

"I did not come to bandy words with a misguided child, Frérin. Let us have my nephew and we will be on our way. This time."

Thorin deliberately allowed his voice to drip with disdain, knowing it would infuriate the other. Sure enough, the scarred features twisted into a caricature of their father, the curse of the Durin line showing through as rage filled the lone eye. Frérin made a move as if to step forward, then caught himself, making Thorin smile ever so slightly in triumph.

"Do not goad me, brother, for you have no comprehension of the power I now hold over your pathetic lives. Frankly, I am surprised you cared enough to search for such a weak, un-dwarven creature. Did you know that he was so scared he wet himself? My goblins found it most amusing, and so, were perhaps a bit overzealous in forcing more down his throat. It appears they broke him. Oops." The tone was anything but sorry, a mocking sneer. "You should leav-"

The twang of a bowstring overrode whatever the cult leader had been about to say and the figure across from them ducked, snarling in pain as the arrow lodged in his arm. Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, Frérin was gone. Thorin glanced over his shoulder at Legolas even as he eyed the snake still intent on barring them from Kíli.

"Where was he?"

"I do not know, it was not my shot. Tauriel?"

"A ledge about forty feet above the main door, just below the ceiling."

"Smoke and mirrors." Dwalin growled after following the elf captain's pointed finger. "That was ever Frérin's way. Too clever for his own good."

Thorin bit back the retort that came automatically to his lips at the criticism of the little brother he had once loved dearly, even as some part of him admitted that the warrior's words were only the truth. Frérin had been cocky, certain that words and tricks could get him out of anything, even when his actions were seen as dishonorable by their grandfather's court.

The illusion he had just used, with mirrors along the chamber walls and the polished black stone of the surface opposite them, was all too typical of him. Had they come in the door they should have, they would never have seen the figure hiding high overhead, only the image directly across from them.

How Frérin had railed against the life fate had given him, the younger brother, the spare who was meant to be sword and shield for the elder! It was one reason that Thrain had broken with tradition, allowing Dwalin to continue to train as Thorin's closest companion instead of allowing Frérin to assume that role, as was customary with siblings born less than thirty years apart. The memories were strong as the youthful voice, so full of confidence, rang out in his head in an argument that was never meant for his ears.

Somewhere in the wastelands of the east, three years after the fall of Erebor.

"It is my place, Father, not that of a distant cousin whose muscles outweigh his brain! Thorin doesn't need strength to defend him, but cunning, why do you deny me that?"

Thorin froze outside the tent, hand dropping from where he had been about to part the flap as he heard the frustration and pain in his little brother's voice. What had happened now? He had warned Frérin to stay clear of their father and allow him to deal with anything that came up! All the two had done lately was fight with one another as Frérin took every order as a personal assault and Thrain fell back on his stubbornness to deal with his younger son, each talking past the other instead of to them.

"Because you do not understand the world, Frérin, not everything can be bested by clever words and sneak attacks! Until you realize that, you are more of a threat to your brother then his foes! Have you thought of what will happen when one is cleverer than you think and catches you in your lies? It will not be you alone upon whom their anger falls!"

"And why should I not approach them thus? All elves and men do is lie and cheat us, you've said it yourself! Why should I not meet them at their own game? We are not in Erebor anymore, we cannot deal from strength and trust it will knock over those who are not so honest! You refuse to see what they are doing to us, Father! They threaten our people and all you will do is cling to your honor like lice to a dog until it sucks you dry!"

The sound of flesh meeting flesh had been horrific in the young prince's ears, and he tore aside the rough tent flap in time to see Frérin turn from their father, one hand hovering over an already reddening cheek. There had been no more discussion of training that day.

Frérin had never been one for close combat, preferring distance and stealth to take down his foe, an impossibility in a massive melee such as Thorin knew they went to on the steps of Khazad-dûm. That was why Thorin had argued strenuously against his brother's inclusion with the army coming here so long ago, and why Frérin had railed against him the night before that final fateful battle, leading them to part with angry words regretted ever since. He had long been his brother's defender, but when their father had at last relented to the younger's pleas, their roles had been reversed, Thorin now seen as the threat to Frérin taking his rightful place.

"I cannot deal with… him now, Dwalin. Do not speak of it again. Fíli."

"Yes?"

His nephew's voice answered from almost in his ear, making Thorin start.

"Hold up the Arkenstone, light the room."

It was the only chance they had of forcing the viper to leave without risking themselves or Kíli further. At least the younger prince still breathed, that much he could see, though it was much too shallow for his liking. Fíli edged next to his uncle, body quivering with suppressed emotion at the sight of his little brother and his inability to go to him. One hand came up, and multi-colored light danced through the room.

A sharp crack had them all ducking only to realize that the stone clay encapsulating Kili's marked hand had burst, showing its own colors as the snake on him wreathed in agitation. Smoke poured from its mouth and sensory pits, then a burst of bright flame and the serpent's body fell limp, shriveled and blackened.

"Kíli! Help me get him loose!"

The blonde had already hit his knees, heedless of blood and other fluids on the floor, his sharpest dagger flicking the dead creature from his brother before sawing at the tight leather bindings. Bofur, Nori and Thorin were quick to move to the other limbs, and the king felt the heat radiating from his younger nephew with grim dismay. The boy was burning up from the inside.

"Hurry, Thorin! He's doubtless gone to get aid!"

Dwalin's urgings received nothing more than a black look as Senata joined the older prince, hand hovering over the now clearly distended shoulder.

"Dislocated. I need to replace it before we move him. Someone take the blanket from my pack and soak it in water from the skin in there."

"I have it."

Kifir assured the healer, roughly shoving the pack into Therin's arms so he could more easily rifle the contents. He pulled the blanket and water container, pouring the latter over the former without heed to slopping. The thin wool soaked up the contents, a hint of a familiar heady herb wafting through the air to remove some of the stink. Kifir and Frodo then spread it out between them, ensuring it was completely soaked before bringing it to where the dwarrowdam knelt. Senata glanced up and gave them a nod before turning back to her work, Tauriel and Legolas beside her as the two others who knew the most of healing within their small company.

"Now!"

It was a firm command, hands holding and manipulating the prince's injured limb in concert as the three eased the bone past swollen, torn tissues to slide back into its socket. Tauriel pulled a long strip of white linen from her pouch, expertly looping it around the abused wrist and then around Kili's torso to ensure the arm could not be inadvertently moved.

Distant shouts sounded through the stone and Thorin risked a glance toward the entrance to see that Dwalin, Einarr, Faramir, and Baldur had been busy piling any loose rock they could find against the door. They needed to leave before goblins began coming down the very walls from Frérin's perch. As if reading the king's thoughts, Senata nodded with a tight smile.

"It will have to do for now. Lift him while Tauriel and I wrap the blanket, then we leave."

The limp, broken body was awkward to pull up, made slippery by sweat and blood, but none of them were about to drop him. Fíli's low cry of distress matched that of his uncle as they took in the cuts, swollen and red, that littered the body of the brunette prince. Even with the movement, he showed no sign of awareness, head hanging limply over Thorin's arm. The king allowed himself a moment to press a kiss to the hot forehead as the cool athelas and water soaked blanket was snuggly wrapped, then Dwalin appeared, holding out his arms.

"Let me take him, Thorin."

Fíli looked rebellious, but a hand on his arm stopped any objection. Far better that their wounded kin be sheltered in strong arms able to run with him if necessary than jostled on a stretcher, and Fíli's ribs would never withstand the strain of carrying his brother so far. Nor, were Thorin to be honest, would his own wounded arm. Dwalin collected his burden to him with all the delicacy he would have shown had he been handling one of the elaborately painted egg shells the hobbits were so fond of making in the spring.

A shriek from above heralded the arrival of the first of their foes as a deep boom sounded from the door, the stone shaking from the force of whatever was trying to break in. Thorin swept Orcrist around, skewering the goblin who tried to leap from the wall to land on top of him, the other warriors making quick work of the creature's companions. It was time to go.

"Run! Go! Go!"

Ignoring a twinge of protest from his own bruised ribs, the king twisted around, pushing at Therin and Fíli to move as they fled the chamber with their stolen prize. Ori immediately took the lead, for which Thorin was thankful, knowing the little scribe was their best hope to win out of this maze. Several minutes passed as they ducked and ran through small tunnels and large, pausing only long enough for Ori to fumble at hidden triggers in the dark, all eyes straining for any sign of pursuit. Thorin tripped once, but hands yanked him upright again, and they continued on. All seemed quiet, and he could feel the air losing the heaviness and stink of the cult's area. As they came to another crossroads, however, Ori stopped dead, staring at the pile of rock blocking the passageway helplessly.

"This isn't supposed to be- I can't- We're trapped!"

A cold lump settled in Thorin's gut at the scribe's frantic cries as his eyes strained to pick out details of where they were through the darkness. The cries of their pursuers were audible again, a deep drum beat accompanying them as if coming from the core of the earth itself, warning that none could escape their foul grasp. If they were cut off from the main army now-

"Right, Dwalin!"

The king snapped at the person closest to him without thinking, somehow knowing that the other corridor was a true path. Thankfully, the large warrior did not question it, despite his teasing about his monarch's less than exceptional directional sense, even here. Another doorway, and they were inside one of the large lower halls, a balcony running along its upper left wall. A shudder ran through the king as a voice whispered that this was where Durin V had died.

"Second left, then stairs!"

Thorin gasped, the directions almost lost in the ring of steel upon steel as Fíli's twin swords slashed through the air, cutting down the arrow aimed for his uncle. There were archers upon that balcony now, Tauriel's and Legolas' bows singing a return song. Another arrow clattered against the stone column by his head, and then he had no more time to concern himself with such distant foes. Blue light flashed to the king's other side as Sting took down a goblin who had sought to drop on the hobbit from above, and he turned, his own sword slicing easily through a large orc that Therin grappled with barehanded.

"'Ware the ceiling!"

Fíli's call was acknowledged by the waving of free hands and grunts as two more of the disgusting little creatures were dealt with. A roar of outrage and Dwalin booted an orc in the gut who had somehow gotten in front of them away from his precious cargo, black blood spurting as Einarr's ax finished the fight. The group surged forward, speed redoubling as they sensed escape slipping from their grasp.

They darted through the open door and clattered up the stair, Baldur giving a shout as an orc's hand pulled him down behind them. They had no time to stop or even share the pain of a fallen comrade as a scream marked the end of the valiant Stiffbeard's life. The group could do naught to forge onward.

"Straight!"

The king called to whoever was leading now, not bothering to try seeing past the screen of bodies that paused a few strides past the top of the short stair. Multiple memories supplied the king with their exact location, warning him that they approached another of the three way splits designed to confuse the intruder. The logical choice, a left hand branch that slanted upward, actually dead-ended in an oubliette with spikes on the bottom, not exactly a pleasant way to die. The right doubled back to where they had just been, also not an option, but the center corridor should lead-

Those ahead of the king stopped in their tracks, piling into one another, as Dwalin's voice rang out in deep disgust.

"'Tis a dead end! We're trapped!"