The Price of Brotherhood (2/8)

A terror was upon the goblins of the Misty Mountains as Azog the Defiler roared with rage, a sound that reverberated in the foothills and shook the very stones, sending small rocks pinging around their worthless heads. His pale arms rippling with muscle, and his terrible pink-rimmed eyes livid with fury, Azog towered above the gathering.

When word reached him that the goblins had snared his quarry, he had driven his forces over the pass, eager to have the heir of Durin's line at his mercy. Instead he arrived to find his promised prize gone, and his impossible anger was beyond the understanding of civilized men.

"You promise me the head of my enemy, yet you have nothing!"

The Great Goblin genuflected uselessly, his repulsive body a limp, sagging sack before Azog's powerful form. His voice high and strung out, he protested, "The wizard came with white magic. My whole goblin army –"

"Yes." Disgusted, Azog peered down at the cowering, inferior creatures, who squealed in fright under his very gaze. His warg, bristling with silver hair under the waning moon, bore her needle-sharp teeth, sending them into an even more pitiful show of cowardice. "Your whole army, and yet Thorin and his entire company still escaped from you."

Curiously, these words caused the group to stir with something other than fear. The Great Goblin's globular eye twitched, and he said, "There was one that didn't escape. We crunched him as punishment for invading our halls, but out of respect for you, my Lord, we did not kill him."

Azog's simmering anger stilled for a moment, curious. "Not Thorin, of Thrór."

"No, but one of his people."

A hissing in the strange dialect of those creatures, and the mountain parted to admit a group of sturdy goblins dragging a body. They cast it at Azog's feet, where it lay, mostly naked and much bloodied, though not yet broken beyond mending. Azog put his hand beneath its chin and heaved it up so that the face was brought to bear. His fierce, otherworldly eyes narrowed. The goblins had hacked at their captive's beard and hair, leaving the creature looking shorn. One eye was entirely closed, but when the orc put pressure on its throat, the other winked, and some consciousness revived. A thin blue slit met his gaze – fixedly, if not openly defiant – and Azog saw the flicker of recognition, and of fear.

Not Thorin. Azog had an image of his enemy branded in his mind, and this one was too young – very young – with tallow-colored hair. But though most dwarves looked the same to him, Azog could detect a bearing of nobility when he saw it, and indeed with this one the resemblance to his enemy was too great to be overlooked, even in so destroyed a countenance.

His low rumble of laughter disturbed the gathering of goblins. Even his own orcs backed away warily as Azog tightened his grip around their captive. "You have much the look of Thorin, don't you, little one," he spoke to the dwarf, who offered a token struggle, though he could not even lift a cruelly twisted arm. The blue eye had no comprehension, however. He was perhaps too young to be acquainted with the Black Speech. Had he even laid eyes on the object of his king's quest?

Azog raised his eyes to the Great Goblin, who was looking back at him shrewdly, though still with great wariness. "We squeezed him, but he would not tell us the way his company was going."

"That is no mystery," Azog answered, but he was pleased. "Thorin will not reach his mountain. I will have his head before he comes within sight of Erebor." He threw the dwarf to his eager lieutenant, before stooping to lay a caressing hand alongside the blond head. Understanding the menace of that action all too well, the pack of warg-riders recoiled, but their leader merely leaned in to breathe very close to the dwarf's face. "Meanwhile, I will not be bored. Not since Thráin have I had one of the line of Durin under my hand. You don't understand me now, khuzd, but don't worry. Thanks to these snaga, your 'king' may be weeks ahead, and you will have time to learn my language very well."

He waited, his enormous hand pressing against his captive's neck and head, until the dwarf began to tremble. Then he signaled for his men to secure their prize and mounted his beast, his leering face set toward the rising sun where, all too near, his final vengeance would be achieved.

From the neck of an Eagle of Manwaë, Thorin's put his face to the sunrise and tried to untangle his black thoughts. Almost as they had left the roots of the mountains, an orc patrol had found them. They had fled to the edge of a precipice and there they had been given passage by these birds to a place named Carrock, many days journey to the east. It would save them much time, yet all Thorin could think of was that with every stroke of the great wings, he was being carried farther and farther from the goblin halls and from Fíli, who had been left behind.

His smoldering gaze found his other nephew, huddled on another back. The hobbit was with him, one small arm secured around Kíli's neck. With troubled eyes, Bilbo looked across the expanse, the wind teasing his hair. Their unlikely burglar had proved himself more valuable than Thorin could ever have imagined, appearing from nowhere in the midst of their battle on the cliff in time to wield his little blade with inexpert but nonetheless formidable purpose. He had been wrong to say Bilbo did not belong in the company. But that was a mistake he would have to mend another time, for now his thoughts were with Kíli.

They were set down on the Carrock, and there the company made their weary camp. There was no talk of moving, not this night. Óin and Glóin got a blaze going, and not even Gandalf opposed the light. The night was too dark already to face without even that dim illumination. Kíli put his back to it, far outside of the circle of warmth, and though Thorin longed to go to him – to feel for himself that he was there and alive – he did not think he would be welcome.

Instead, Thorin took his council with Gandalf, whose wizened head was bent low over the glow of his pipe. A cloud of smoke trailed from his lips as he sat, his arms wrapped around him as though cold. "I did not foresee this," he said finally, and sighed.

Heavy lines creased Balin's eyes as he slowly shook his head, his brother standing behind him with his huge arms crossed. Thorin himself had never felt so tired. His voice croaked in his throat. "The pass was more treacherous than we imagined. It could not have been known. All signs pointed to that road being safest."

And yet on it he had lost all but the last of his kin, his sister-son, whom he had fostered from youngest childhood. Thorin could see him now as the boy he had been, with his cheeks still bare and his tangled blond hair bound up in messy, adolescent braids – laughing with good humor, always with good humor, for Fíli had never been so impregnable as Thorin. He had always been generous, a future diplomat – the steady, obedient, willing son. Thorin could still see the glow of his eyes on the rare occasions when his uncle had braced an approving hand on his shoulder, the deep emotion buried in them when the songs of Erebor were sung.

Thorin covered his face with his hand.

"Couldn't we go back, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked. His feet were curled beneath him, and he had never seemed so small. His face held shadows that even the firelight could not account for. For some reason, he fingered his vest pocket. "I could go inside again, unseen. Maybe I could find him."

A brave proposal, but it was hopeless. Gandalf's expression softened, yet when he spoke it was to say what Thorin expected. "I wish it were so, but there are a thousand, thousand tombs in that mountain. More than you know. Its heart is riddled with worms. You would never come out, and Fíli would be no less lost."

The curly head fell, cast down. A bough on the fire popped and collapsed into ash. He murmured, "So there is no chance then? None at all?"

"That he's alive?" For a moment, the wizard's bearded chin rose, and he darted a look towards to far side of the rock, where a dark back was all that could be seen of the remaining heir of Durin's house, should Thorin fail. Heavy brows furrowed, and he grasped his teeth around the stem of his pipe. "We must hope that it is not so."

All at once the terrible weight came down on Thorin, the sure knowledge that, not only had he lost one of his company, but he may well have left Fíli in the hands of certain torment. That his nephew might at this moment be shrieking under the influence of the ropes and hooks they had only glanced... Sickened, he stood and abandoned the heat of the fire for the cold darkness. No one made move to follow him save Bilbo, but Balin's hand stayed him.

Thorin faced the sky alone, which was too clouded for stars. There, he struggled to master himself, to push down his grief. Behind him, cloaks were being laid out as the dwarves huddled together for a long, weary rest. A sharp breeze blew, and Thorin shuddered. The autumn was close upon them, and with it would come Durin's Day and their only hope for finding their way into the halls of Erebor. Only days ago, it had seemed like the only important thing, and even now his bones burned, longing with all his heart for home. But though the veil of this night, the goal seemed hollow.

Thorin took off his mantle and walked with it slowly towards Kíli. Without asking permission, he lowered it onto his hunched shoulders, a shield against the cutting wind. "It would be better to be near the warmth of others," he said simply, and when no answer came: "Kíli, you should not be alone."

Though well intended, his words trampled upon a spring, and smoldering eyes, dark as brands in the low light, suddenly burned into him. Kíli snarled, "What good do you think that would do? Should I go curl up with one of the others and forget who should be there instead – forget Fíli," he choked over his brother's name, but soon recovered, his voice rising even more angrily. "Do you think I can go to sleep and forget what they might be doing to him?"

Thorin had to stop the flow of speech before it tapered into hysteria. "Do you think it is any easier for me to think of it? Fíli was dear to me."

Kíli's brows sunk down low, his mouth trembling. He looked up at Thorin, stricken. "Was," he echoed. "You said 'was'."

From within, Thorin cursed himself for his gracelessness. He was a warrior, not a father, and ever since his nephews were small, it had always caused difficulties of this kind. For while in many ways the two had always been resilient and cheerful, the insecurity of their early years, the displacement of their race, and the sternness of Thorin's upbringing had still left some mark. Fíli had taken all censure silently, hoarding them up in private, while Kíli wore every wound on his gauntlet. Yet Thorin knew that both boys had suffered at one time or another for his inept handling, and never did he regret it more than at this moment.

Yet to make it right was beyond his power. Instead, he reached out to draw the fur lined cloak more securely around his nephew. When the lad didn't move, he cleared his throat and spoke, "To lose him is an enormous loss, but we cannot hope for more. The way back is shut. We can only go forward now."

"To Erebor," Kíli spat.

"Did you both not tell me, before we left the Blue Mountains, that you would die to fulfill our quest?"

Thorin remembered those days well, when the company was being decided. A large part of his heart, a part that was supported by Balin's council, had wished to leave Fíli and Kíli behind as Glóin had left Gimli. But another part , a part he could now recognized as being goaded by his pride, had exulted in the thought of reclaiming the throne of his grandfather with his own heirs at his side. He had wanted his exiled nephews to be the first to taste the joy of their reclaimed homeland. Never, even once, had he allowed himself to believe that he would claim it only after leaving behind a tomb. Or in this case, a bundle of bones, destined to be cast aside in an anonymous pile among the muck of that goblin din, unmarked, unmourned –

Thorin stopped his thoughts. His shoulders were like the boughs of a blighted tree. He could dwell on this no more. His hopes had already seemed to run out of him. Sleep. "Are you capable of keeping watch?" he asked, and ignored the bitterness in Kíli's dark eyes as he nodded. Thorin acknowledged him tiredly. "Then do so. You can wake Dori at midnight."

He trudged to the other side of the Carrock, as distant from the firelight and its company as Kíli, and lay himself down on the chilled stone, smothered with dark thoughts and, later – in the torment of his dreams – with screams that echoed in his nephew's voice.

Morning, and the faint, far off sight of the Lonely Mountain, resplendent in its white cap. Yet even that sight did not cheer the company. Their hearts were still too heavy, their wounds too fresh, and the road – with its leagues and leagues of wild country and all the dangers of the Greenwood still ahead – seemed very long.

"Though it's possible we're being hunted, we should still make for the Old Forest Road," Gandalf advised. "I'll see you there, if ever I can. Perhaps with the advantage the Eagles have given us, you will make it unmolested. You still intend to go on?"

The wizard spoke only to Thorin, who was braced upon the lookout while the others packed the meager belongings they had managed to salvage from the goblins. "To fail now, after so much sacrifice, would be worse."

"Worse than going forward, and risking the life of another of your friends?"

In the midst of the packing, Ori's high voice could be heard, meekly protesting as Dori and Nori bickered. Bofur was morosely binding up his pack, which he had somehow managed to keep on his back as they fled the tunnels, while his cousin sat nearby and spoke softly to him in nearly unintelligible ancient dwarvish. Óin and Glóin were tramping out the remains of the fire and clearing away the remains, but they paused often to look at Kíli, who was making secure his few remaining arrows, his battered bow. It was almost all they had retained, along with the heavier weapons they had carried out in their hands.

"We'll need to resupply somewhere, before we enter the forest," Thorin said by way of answer. "Everyone is hungry."

Gandalf stared at him without comment. Thorin waited, but there was no argument; from the very setting out of their quest, it had been clear that the wizard himself had some great stake in this undertaking, though it remained unknown. Finally, he said, "There are few dwellings in this land, yet with a little luck we may find shelter. To mend wounds."

That comment strayed too close to the raw, clawing pain over his heart, and Thorin didn't acknowledge it. He merely answered, "We'll go, then. As soon as we're ready to travel."

The last preparations were being made at that very moment. Bombur was being supported by his kinsmen, having wrenched his knee in the fall from the bridge. Dwalin hefted and stowed his war hammer, then pulled Kíli bodily upright. He said something to him, but the younger dwarf pulled free and made his own way to the path without waiting on the others. Thorin's body pulled towards him, unwilling to see him out of sight, but putting Kíli on a leash would never have done, even before. The only difference was that now, another tow head was not bouncing along beside him, to keep him safe.

"Did you speak to him last night?" Gandalf asked.

Thorin turned his face away, and gave the order for the company to depart.