Date: TA 2941

Thorin: 195 years old

Lina: 192 years old

Lina stood silently in the dark shadows of the Elven King's hall. Though none but her husband could see her, it still felt wrong, dangerous even, to stand in the light of her enemy's torches.

The cavernous Great Hall echoed as Thranduil spoke. His voice dripped with contempt as he gazed down at his captive. The way he arrayed himself made Lina think of a snake. The Elf's lean body reclined easily in his throne of antlers and branches. One leg draped casually over the other while his arms rested lightly on the arms of the chair. An appearance of cool indifference masked Thranduil's thought from those watching him.

While to a casual observer the Elven King might appear to be relaxed, he was anything but. The deliberate nature of his posture made it clear to any warrior that the king would not be slow to defend himself should he be attacked. The staff in his right hand appeared to be ornamental, a trapping of power, yet Lina had no doubt that Thranduil could use it as a weapon if pressed. Here, even in the heart of his domain, the Elf dared not drop his guard. Especially in front of Thorin Oakenshield.

Lina watched as her husband baited the Elven King until the calm mask shattered beneath the taunts and insults. Before he could completely lose his temper with the dwarf, Thranduil swept his arm imperiously, sending Thorin back to his cell in the depths of his stronghold.

Thorin slammed his fists against the door, the wood shuddering beneath the blow. His Elven guards ignored his outburst as they retreated down the passage way. The cell grew darker as the guard left, carrying the torches with them. Yet Lina could still see Thorin as clearly as if they were standing in broad daylight.

"You shouldn't have had to see that," her husband muttered as he slid down the door. His strong hands flexed, his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped as his anger faded.

For a long moment, Lina simply remained silent. She had never seen her husband like this. In Belegost he was always so calm and controlled when dealing with anyone outside of his family, even if they were infuriating. Yet here, in the center of his enemy's strength, he lost it. The memory of the dark dreams rose unbidden to the forefront of Lina's mind. She wanted to plead with Thorin to ask Thranduil to release him to her. They could return to Belegost and rule there. They could make a new life for themselves in the mountains beside Kira's army.

Fear reared its dark head. How could thirteen dwarves and a hobbit hope to retake Erebor when their army could not move and there was no sign of Gandalf? Even more frightening, where were her nephews? Thranduil made no mention of them in his argument with Thorin.

She longed to reach out to her husband. The despair etched on his face sent pangs of anguish through her heart. Lina approached Thorin. His large frame remained slumped against the door of his cell.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," he growled, his hands clenching with anger. "We entered the forest, following the path as we were ordered. I allowed no one to stray from it, as Beorn warned. Yet we did not know where we were. We wandered aimlessly, our food and water supplies dwindling. Then that accursed oaf Bombur fell into the river and insisted upon sleeping. Our own strength was failing, and then we had to carry him as well."

As Thorin recounted his tale, Lina realized he had not even noticed the lack of connection between them. It was as if she had not existed for nearly a month of his life. He was forgetting her.

"What of Fili and Kili?" Surely Thorin would know something of her nephews' whereabouts.

"How should I know?" he snapped. "They have hindered my quest every step of the way. Now they are missing and forcing me to face my enemies alone."

"What?"

"You heard me. Now leave!"

Thorin still refused to look at her. His face was dark with anger. Every muscle in his body was tensed, his hands repeatedly clenching and releasing in agitation.

Lina withdrew to her own body. Her husband did not even seem to notice as her presence faded. The pain, however, remained. It felt like the burning tree on the battlefield Azanulbizar all over again. Except instead of her abdomen, the agony lodged in her chest.

The warm swirling darkness fell away as Lina's consciousness returned to her body. Stars appeared overhead. The dull murmur of the dwarven encampment surrounded her. Yet the stabbing continued.

"You're back sooner than I'd thought you'd be," Kira observed. The warrior was perched on a nearby rock, her pipe resting idly in the palm of her hand.

Lina shrugged noncommittally. Kira took her lack of response as a sign to not press the issue. With a small salute, the old warrior pushed off the rock and vanished into the darkness. Only the fragrant smoke remained behind.

Not for the first time, Lina felt completely alone. Still, it was the first time she had known this feeling in a long time. Even in her darkest moments, she always felt Thorin's gentle strength supporting her. Now she felt nothing.

Her husband was slipping further away from her with every passing day. Thorin's disease was growing stronger as the dwarves drew closer to the Mountain. The gold sickness all dwarves knew Thror had was rearing its head in his grandson. Lina noticed it years earlier, but he'd always kept it under control before. The difference now was the physical distance between them. Once a simple touch, even a word, from Lina was able to drive the darkness from Thorin's face. No longer.

Now her nephews were lost, somewhere in Mirkwood, whether the forest or the halls of the king. If Thorin knew where they were, he refused to tell her. The longer the orc horde delayed the dwarven army, the more likely it was that her nephews would be lost forever.

Before this quest began, it was over. Lina knew that from the start. Yet she could not give up on her husband. She could not leave him, not when she knew the darkness inside him. For him, for her nephews, for their future, Lina had to keep going.