The Price of Brotherhood (6/8)
By the grace of Aulë, they had survived their encounter with the Pale Orc. Thorin had faced him at the river, an indecisive skirmish in which the white warg had been slain, but his shield – the shield that had for so long been a symbol of his victory over Azog the Defiler – had been lost to a crushing blow.
There were other minor causalities. Ori had contrived to get himself an ugly knife wound when, ignoring his orders stay behind and guard the ford, he had rushed into battle when Gandalf's strange reinforcements arrived: a herd of animals following a great black bear.
Thorin could see Ori now, sitting on a section of log by the long table while Dori picked at his bandages, scolding under his breath about how it would scar – and how dare he be so stupid, and what was wrong with his head, and why didn't he listen – all while Ori's brow turned increasingly cranky and petulant. Their middle brother, Nori, was by them, wearing an expression that Thorin couldn't remember him having before. He leaned forward when Dori turned and began haranguing him too, seemingly content just to be near them.
Thorin, who had seen his shaken face when they returned with Fíli from the orc camp, could understand how he felt. He felt a sharp pain from his arm, which had been injured when his shield shattered, and grimaced. He could never repay Nori for what he had done, nor any of the others, who had all risked their lives.
"Are you hungry?" a voice asked, and Thorin turned to find Bilbo , holding a plate of cheese and bread, and the thick, rich honey Gandalf told them had few equals in its strengthening and restorative properties. Without waiting to be invited, the hobbit climbed onto the window seat and set the platter between them. He encouraged, "Eat, please. You've barely had anything since we got here, and you need it."
'Here' was the lodge of Beorn, the terrifyingly valiant man who had come to their aid the night of the battle by the river. He was a skinwalker, descended from the first men to come down from the mountains before even Dúrin's time, and he had the power to turn into an enormous black bear. He had since welcomed them into his home, begrudgingly, at first – until he had seen Fíli. After that, he had done all he could to help them. His wonderful animals served them, and they were promised safety. No orc had ever set foot within the thorn-hedge, Beorn had told them with a fierce, angry eye – and none ever would. They could rest easy and tend to their wounded.
Wounded. The word set Thorin's teeth on edge, for such a word did no justice to the harm that had been done to Fíli. This thumb and forefinger tightened around the bowl of the pipe he had been holding in his hand, and the wood creaked.
"What will we do now?" asked Bilbo, looking up at him from below a fringe of curls, tousled with the passage of hands drawn repeatedly through them. There were stress marks trailing from his brown eyes, and Thorin reflected that, though he had seemed so ill suited to the wilds and the difficulties of a long journey, he had withstood them with admirable steadfastness. Certainly without him and the risk he had taken, they wouldn't be a company of fourteen once more.
Propping his pipe in his mouth, Thorin considered. The next leg of their journey would bring them to the perils of Mirkwood, a journey of many days that could only be made on foot. Beorn had said ominous things about the growing shadow of those woods. Spiders. A poisoned stream. Vicious animals. And at night, a darkness so complete that it threatened sanity.
Yet such a journey could never be embarked upon in the way he had planned with Gandalf. Fíli could not be moved. Though he clung to life, he burned with fever. The many cruel wounds wept with infection. And he would not wake, except to moan and mutter and sometimes to cry out his brother's name.
Thorin withdrew his pipe, the sweet smelling smoke stinging his eyes; they watered. He did not know what to do for Fíli, or even yet for Kíli. To Bilbo, he answered, "We'll stay here for now. Bombur can still barely walk, and Dori won't let Ori set foot over the threshold. We all need time...to recover."
From another, Bilbo's look of deep sympathy would have been offensive, but Thorin couldn't bring himself to be angry. Not even when the hobbit said, "You should go sit with him, Thorin. Maybe he can hear you. And even if he can't, Kíli is about done in. He's slept even less than you."
Though it was only the gentlest censure, it still bit deep. Thorin turned away, absently tapping his pipe. "You saw him today?"
Bilbo placed a hand on his arm. "They need you."
Reluctantly, the dwarf lord heaved himself up, leaving Bilbo to pass through the wooden lodge. The huge firepit was roaring as always, trailing a sweet smoke that hung with an aroma like apples over the entire room. He passed Balin, who was looking decades older than he had only weeks ago. Stalwart Dwalin was beside him, an untouched tankard of mead by his hand. The dark eyes of both warrior brothers followed him as he made his way to the more private parts of the home.
A long hall, and then a door that was wedged open a fraction, so that light shown through – and sound. Thorin recognized Bifur's strange, hoarse voice droning on and on in his distorted version of the dwarves' ancient tongue. Bifur looked up when he came in. He was sitting cross-legged at the bedside, where he had kept a very constant vigil, unaffected by the sight of the gristly wounds or the sounds and smell of suffering.
None of them understood his diligence, but Thorin was grateful. He nodded to the older dwarf, his eyes glancing off the wicked axe-head that had healed inside his skull. Somehow its proof that impossible, maiming injuries could be survived was no comfort.
Bifur left without being bidden, and as Thorin approached he saw the dark head of his younger nephew, stooped over the pallet from which he had refused to be parted. His hand was laying on the clean sheets, very near his brother's.
Here, gorge rose in Thorin's throat. Fíli's hand. Though every possible method had been tried to restore them, two of the fingers had turned black and dead. Just last night, Beorn had cut them away, and now there was fresh blood on the bandage. Thorin still remembered the great, dark man approaching him for permission: "Is it his sword hand?" he had asked gruffly.
Struck down so low, feeling as though something of himself was about ready to be cut away, Thorin had barely been able to say, "He wields duel blades."
Feeling each of his one hundred and ninety years, Thorin lowered himself down. Fíli's back was to him, and his bright, clean hair was spread on the pillow, the only part of him Thorin could bear to touch. He stroked it away from his nephew's brow, feeling the scorching heat. A bowl of water stood nearby, and he took up the soaking cloth and wrung it out so he could lay it on the flushed neck.
His hair was so short now, Thorin thought as he moved it out of the way. Óin had evened it as he could, but it had suffered much. Fíli looked more like a child now than he had in many years. So young.
"We were still living outside the Hills of Evendium the last time it was so short."
Startled by the sudden break in the silence, Thorin's chin jerked up. Kíli looked at him with dull eyes that were underlined with deep purple pockets, like bruises. Listlessly, he brushed his brother's bangs with his fingers.
He continued, "Before you brought us to the Blue Mountains."
"You were only nine," Thorin spoke. "Do you remember it so well?"
"I remember." Tiredly, Kíli passed his hand over his face. "In those days, it was just me and Fíli."
It had always been difficult for Thorin to hear them speak about those times, before Thorin had stopped warring and sought a home for his exiled people. After his father and his grandfather and his brother had all died, only then had Thorin returned and taken responsibility for his sister's sons. But by then, much damage had already been done.
"Your mother did the best that she could. Grief –" Thorin paused, wondering how he could speak of grief here, like this. He finished, "Grief affects all people differently."
For a time after that they sat without speaking, giving Thorin time to relive the night when they had arrived at Beorn's house and all the adrenaline of battle was erased by the horror of Fíli's condition. He remembered the frantic work to nurse the most grievous wounds, to brew teas that would speed the mending of invisible hurts within. Innumerable bones set; the impression of terrible violence worked on one who could not possibly bear any more. And – over all – the eerie quiet, because Fíli should have been screaming, but he did not. He remained deeply unconscious, out of the power of even Gandalf to recall him.
"Has he woken at all?" he asked. "Has he spoken any more?"
"He mutters words I don't know sometimes." Kíli looked haunted by the recollection. "Gandalf says some of them are fragments of orc language. Other times he says things in elvish - tua amin, tampa, n'uma..."
"Elvish?" Thorin looked up sharply. "Fíli doesn't know elvish."
The younger dwarf ducked his head, chagrined. He confessed, "That night at Rivendell, when you were speaking to Lord Elrond, Fíli and I went wandering. We were curious. Houses open to the air like that, and the elves themselves, and – Well. We ran into these two, brothers like us, and we spoke to them for awhile. Elrohir let me try one of their bows, but you know Fíli. He was more interested in their talk. All Balin's lessons about diplomacy and statesmanship rubbing off, I guess, and..."
His voice thickening, Kíli stopped. Thorin bowed his own head. Before, if he had known his nephews had been frolicking around Rivendell having conversations with random elves, he would have been angry. Now, thinking about what Kíli had said of Fíli's curiosity about their language, his easy nature with others, his desire to please – now, he only ached.
He cleared his voice. "So he speaks elvish words sometimes. Why?"
"Gandalf says that orcs understand elvish speech," Kíli answered. "He says maybe Fíli thinks he's still with them. That he might be trapped inside, not knowing we got him out."
Bleak, bleak. Thorin could not dwell on it. "What else did he say?"
The wavering report began: "Beorn gave us honey to put on his back. He says it may help as the flesh grows back, but he's worried the scars might be crippling. This knife wound," he traced it with his finger. "Gandalf says It was a poisoned blade. Even now, it won't close. And his hands –" He closed his eyes.
Thorin gently stopped him. "I know, Kíli."
A grieved cry choked it's way from his nephew's throat, and he covered his face. "Uncle, what are we going to do? He's never going to be the same. He'll never be whole again, and not just his body. I'm so afraid for his mind. What if –"
Though the sun shined through the tall, narrow windows, Thorin didn't know that he had ever sat in so deep a darkness. He wanted to reach about and draw both his lads close, like he had when they were still small enough to fit under his arms. But the gap between him and Kíli yawned, and Fíli he could not even touch without causing pain...
Abruptly, Thorin stood.
"I'll come check on him later," he said gruffly, and tried to ignore Kíli's weary eyes as they followed him to the door.