Chapter 32

Into the Past Part 6: Powerless

Never use force, you'll just embarrass yourself. Unless you're cross, in which case... always use force!

Doctor Who

Elvaethor

Elvaethor wished he had been allowed to remain in the forest, with nothing but trees and birds for company. He found that the presence of others was often unbearable in recent centuries. And of all the places to come, Erebor was the worst.

Was it not bad enough that the memory of his friends would not leave him, not one waking moment, not one second of sleeping? Did he have to come here and have his nose rubbed in his losses?

The world had gone on without Dari and Inga. Their passing had made no mark on these people. When asked about them, the names would mean nothing to their ears. They lived before their lifetimes. They had done no great deeds or accomplished anything noteworthy in all their days. They had only loved and their tale had ended in tragedy.

Since then Elvaethor found that his taste for merriment had deserted him. He could pretend and he had made a brave effort to that end at the beginning of the evening.

Until he had seen him.

The dwarf likely had not noticed him, engaged as he was in conversation with the fellow seated opposite him. Elvaethor's eyes had glanced over the hall, taking in who was there and what they were doing. They had not been meant to linger, but Dari's spitting image had drawn his gaze.

And his heart had stopped beating.

It had only been for a moment, but Elvaethor felt himself whisked back to the past, to happier times of friendship and contentment. Then reality caught up with him and he knew that those times were as dead as his friends. And he was no more capable of travelling back in time to meet them once more than he was able to lift this Mountain and move it.

When he looked closer, he could see that the dwarf who looked so much like Dari was not all like him. There were dissimilarities. He reckoned that this dwarf was taller, the nose was a little bigger, the shape of his mouth slightly different. And he was older than Dari had ever been; his hair was greying and something about his eyes betrayed that he had experiences of life that Dari had lacked.

He had never grown old enough to live through them.

So Elvaethor had turned away and blocked out the proceedings. Thranduil had demanded his presence and that order he would obey. But so long as he had not been ordered to interact with the people present, he would not initiate contact on his own.

Which was why it came as a surprise when somebody else did.

'Master Elf, might I beg a moment of your time?'

Elvaethor looked and almost staggered back into the wall. The one who so resembled Dari was in front of him, urgency written all over his face. It was an expression Elvaethor recalled only too well.

'Of course,' he blurted out before his better judgement could prevent him.

'It has come to my attention that you are a healer of some skill.' The dwarf said this with absolute certainty. 'My wife lies gravely injured. My own people's healers can do nothing for her, they say. But I believe you can boast greater skill. Would you see to her?'

The words sounded formal and confident, but Elvaethor could taste the underlying anxiety in every syllable. It was in his voice and in his eyes. He hid his hands from view, but Elvaethor could have sworn they were not steady.

He recoiled. 'I never made such claims.' And after his greatest failure he could never make them without being untrue.

The dwarf never once looked away, eyes beseeching Elvaethor to stop dawdling and get on with business. There was a determination in them that betrayed he wasn't used to folk saying him nay and he would not accept refusal. 'Then make them after you've tended to my wife,' he said impatiently. 'Or don't make them, as you will. Will you see her?'

He should. Elvaethor knew that. It would be cruel and cowardly to walk away, but every fibre of his being begged it of him. He had gotten involved before and it had not ended well. With such a poor record he would be of little use, especially if this lady's injury was as severe as the dwarf implied.

'Your people have great knowledge of the healing arts as well. I would not claim to know better than they.' He felt a tightening in his stomach that he could not rationally explain. Fear, his mind whispered to him. Fear of failure.

'Maker be good!' the dwarf growled. 'This is not the time for false modesty, Master Elvaethor. Will you come? I would beg if you required it of me.' From his whole posture it was obvious that this was not something he would do without reservations on any other day.

'Do not beg,' Elvaethor replied quickly, too quickly perhaps. 'There is no need.' He remembered Dari begging of him to save Inga. But it had already been too late and Elvaethor had been powerless.

'You will come?'

The badly concealed hope in that question decided him. 'I will come.' He could not in good conscience do anything else. And if he failed here tonight, perhaps he could find out if the dwarves had any of that Dorwinian wine. If so, he might decide to indulge in it.

The dwarf turned on his heel and marched out of the hall, fully expecting Elvaethor to follow him. He did follow, though every instinct told him to run. But he had never been known as a coward and he could not begin today.

'I do not know your name,' he observed. 'Though it appears you know mine.'

'I am known as Fryr,' the dwarf replied. From the way he phrased it, Elvaethor was reasonably certain that it was not his real name. He would not press the matter.

'Your wife, what injuries did she sustain?' he asked.

'She fell down a flight of stairs.' The replies were short and to the point.

More clarification was not forthcoming, so Elvaethor merely accompanied Fryr in silence. He had a feeling that the dwarf had no patience for words, too anxious about the fate of his wife to carry on a pleasant conversation.

He knew that dwarves loved fiercely and that their love, once given, ran deep. Dari had not been unusual in that. His only oddity was whom he had bestowed his love on. Others of his kind would choose to marry eligible folk from their own people. Or they would love their crafts so much that there wasn't time to love another person as intensely. There had been room in Dari's big heart to love Inga above everything else, yet still have space enough left for his children, his craft and his elven friend. Elvaethor had never taken that friendship for granted.

Because he knew a little about dwarves, he could tell that this Fryr loved his wife in the same way that Dari had done, placing her above all others. And he had seen what the loss of such a loved one could do.

He would not care to see it again.

Fryr held the door open for him and beckoned him into the healing rooms. 'Quick,' he said. 'There may not be much time.'

Elvaethor did as he was bid, but was not yet permitted to see his patient; his view was blocked by another dwarf who had come up to them the moment they came inside. To his surprise he recognised the Queen under the Mountain, with the King himself sitting on a chair behind her at the bedside.

'I've brought help,' Fryr announced. 'Is she…?'

The Queen took his hands very gently. 'She lives.' Worry was etched into her forehead. 'The healers are stunned by it. It seems your lass is clinging to life.'

'Too stubborn to die,' Thrór declared. 'She'll live, I tell you.'

The strained expression on his wife's face spoke of her doubts.

'I will do for her what I can,' Elvaethor vowed. Privately he wondered at the presence of both the King and the Queen here. There was a mystery here that eluded him.

The Queen moved aside and Elvaethor could see the lady he was to tend to. And the world came to a shuddering halt there and then. He had very reasonably expected to see a dwarven lady in the bed. After all, Dari had been unique. No other dwarf had ever done what he had, nor would any repeat his actions.

And yet, the lady in the bed was undeniably of the race of Men.

'We do not have much time, Master Elf,' Fryr reminded him brusquely. 'Do what you came here to do.'

Elvaethor turned to him, stunned. 'She is…'

'Gravely injured,' Fryr said pointedly.

He was right. Any questions he had would have to wait. But there were so many, all of them bubbling up in his chest, only barely contained. Was it possible? Obviously it was, or he would not see what was now in front of him. Then how? Why were the King and Queen under the Mountain here? Who were this dwarf and this woman? What had happened?

Worse of all was the hope and the first stirrings of hope that took root. He had not thought to see this in his life, for however long it would be. He had thought such bright lights extinguished forever when Dari and Inga passed.

Yet here he was. And something was tugging at his heart.

Even if she lived, this lady, she might not welcome his attempts to get to know her. Her husband had not given off many signs that he was interested in any other aspect of Elvaethor's than his healing skills. Then again, Dari had only come to him in the slightly misguided understanding that all elves were poets, so naturally any elf would do for the purpose of helping him compose a line or two to his chosen lass. He hadn't meant for Elvaethor to stick around after the fact.

The wound on the woman's head was ugly. It confirmed Fryr's explanation of a fall down the stairs, but if that was all there was to it, there would not now be a guard on the door. Elvaethor feared, though he did not ask, that she had been pushed. One of her kin perhaps, who resented the match she made? Inga had certainly endured much from her people when she chose to marry Dari, and very serious death threats had been among the injustices she'd had to endure.

'It is bad,' Elvaethor reported after the initial examination. 'But not so bad as to give up all hope.'

The strength of the emotion in Fryr's eyes almost stopped his heart. Fear, hope and a love so strong as Elvaethor had not seen in centuries. He did not think he was meant to see it and so he averted his eyes. Besides, this battle was not yet won and as intrigued as he was, he could not afford to become attached.

He had walked that path before, had seen where it led. He did not think he was strong enough to face it again.

And so he worked, used all the skill of his people to hold on to this woman's life. Her injuries were bad, but she was clinging to life with all the stubbornness of the dwarves. Fryr assisted him where he could. His skill in the healing arts was rudimentary at best, but Elvaethor would not send him away. He did not know he could even if he decided the dwarf needed to be removed. The determination in his eyes betrayed that he would not leave his wife's side even under duress.

The King and Queen left after some time, as minutes turned into hours. Fryr had frozen in place, his wife's hand in his. He uttered no words, no pleas for her to wake, to fight. There were no declarations of love either. That didn't mean however that he did not feel the sentiment. Dwarves were creatures of actions after all, whereas elves were made of words and song.

'She will live,' Elvaethor said at long last. The battle had been long and hard, but when dawn came he knew it had been won. Partially at least. 'But there is no telling what damage the wound to her head may have done,' he added with heavy heart. 'Not until she wakes.'

Fryr held his gaze. 'But she will wake?'

Elvaethor understood that he was clinging to whatever hope he could. 'Yes, she will,' he confirmed. 'I cannot tell you when, but she will wake.'

The relief was written all over Fryr's face. 'Good,' he said, all the verbal indication of that relief. He rose to his feet. 'Would you remain here with her for a while? I have business to attend to.'

That was a surprise request, for two reasons. For one, Elvaethor had not expected him to leave his wife alone, not for any reason. His love for her ran too deep for that. But the moment he was told that she was out of danger, he decided to leave her. In the hands of an elf. 'You trust her into my care?' He could not disguise his shock.

Fryr held his gaze. 'She has been in your care for the past night and you have not failed in your duty,' he pointed out.

Perhaps it was that simple for Fryr. After all, dwarves did not believe in overcomplicating matters. But neither were they very fond of elves. 'You have barely known me for a few hours.'

There was an almost smile tugging at the dwarf's lips. 'Your reputation precedes you, Master Elf. My wife will be in safe hands.' His words rang with certainty.

He had left the room before Elvaethor had recovered the gift of speech.

Thráin

What he had done was wrong.

Thráin was only too well aware of the crime he had committed in the eyes of the law. Yet he felt a remarkable absence of guilt. Aye, he knew he had taken the life of another, but it was the only course of action open to him.

Of course he would give it his all to prevent Thorin from ever wedding that girl in the first place. His goals were unchanged. And if that worked, well, none of this would have ever happened, so he would not have killed her anyway.

But if he failed in the execution of his duty towards his son, then this was the best he could do for him under the given circumstances. Naturally Thorin would not agree with that assessment of Thráin's actions, but Thráin was his father and in this case he knew best.

He had not planned to do this before he did. It had been an impulse, a spur of the moment action. All he'd intended to do was to find some solitude away from the noise of the great hall. Feasts were generally chaotic and loud and Thráin had his fill of loudness generally long before others. So he had gone out and found a little niche at the top of a flight of stairs where he had found refuge before. He would sit quietly and re-join the celebrations before he was missed. After all, it was his duty to be present and he would not be found wanting.

He'd sat there for a little while when he heard singing and it was coming in his direction. It was a pleasant enough voice, a little high to belong to a dwarf, but there were enough men in Erebor tonight not to make him think anything of it.

Then he'd looked into the hallway. Kate had walked in his direction, the direction of the stairs. Obviously she was in high spirits. Well, she would be, he though vindictively. She had won that little spar at the forge. She had gone as far as to compare him to the men, which was an insult he would not soon forget. Even worse, she had behaved as though she had every right to take him to task like that, in front of his uncle and his father. The worst was, that they had both agreed. Grór had bought the axe – in the privacy of his own mind Thráin could admit that the craftsmanship was sublime – and rather than offer a reprimand for her quick tongue, Thrór had invited her to the festivities.

The world had been turned upside down.

So yes, he was angry with her and with the whole world for accepting this mannish woman's place in it. It should never have been hers. She should not have reached so high. And if she had, she should certainly not have been rewarded for it. That was not the way the world worked.

It had been easy after that. Kate never saw him until he shoved her. There was barely any resistance at all. Men were very weak. That was well-known.

He remained at the top of the stairs afterwards, still sitting in his little niche out of sight. Thorin had not been long in coming after that. The whole display at the foot of the stairs had sickened Thráin to his stomach. The care, the gentleness, the love… It was genuine, that much he could tell, even if it was wildly misplaced. If the woman was not a witch – and Thráin still had his doubts on that account – then Thorin would not thank him for her death. He would not see that ultimately it was the best thing for him, for their people.

One would think he would have at least instilled a sense of duty. Thorin should have known to place his people above his own sick desires. Maker knew how he had come by them, but Thráin could not condone them. That his own parents could baffled him.

The night passed. The woman's body was removed. Sound carried in these halls, so Thráin had heard Thorin when he had said that she lived when she was found. Thráin also knew that it was not a state in which she would remain for long. She would die before the sun rose.

Thorin found him there when dawn came. All the guests had gone to bed at last, and either way the footsteps marching along the hallway were too steady to belong to one of the drunken revellers.

True to expectation, a moment later he was grabbed by the throat and slammed against the wall. Thráin recoiled in spite of himself. Never before had he beheld such fury and the force of it took him somewhat by surprise. There was something in Thorin's eyes that had not been there in these past few weeks. Soul-filling rage burned in those eyes and it was all focused on him, every last bit of it.

'You would have murdered her.'

Thráin had expected a roar that could have brought down the roof, to match the violence in his actions. But the words were soft, a low growl that was so full of ice that it chilled him to the bone.

His thoughts needed a moment to recollect themselves, but then he realised. 'She yet lives?' Maker be good, was everything against him?

For just a moment he feared that Thorin would tear him limb from limb where he stood. His son's hands were shaking, but definitely not with fear. 'She will live, in spite of what you did to her.' Thorin looked at him with unadulterated loathing. 'I will not ask you how you could so such a vile thing, because I do not care to hear. And I know the answer.'

Thráin gave it to him for good measure. 'It is for the good of our people, the endurance of our line.'

Thorin shook his head. 'No. You are mad.' He barked out a short laugh utterly devoid of mirth. 'Utterly mad. All these years…' He trailed off and shook his head. 'You were never sane. You hid it well, but all that time…' He shook his head again, as if shaking some order into his thoughts. 'You were the worst of all.'

He was making little sense.

It didn't matter. Thráin had more than enough to say to him. 'You are,' he fired back. 'You have taken leave of your senses. You were never free to marry where you chose, especially not one of that race. We are of Durin's line, Durin's ruling line. We can trace our lineage back all the way to Durin the Deathless, father to son for countless generations. You soiled that heritage when you wed that slip of a girl. You should have known better.'

Whereas Thorin had been distracted by his own thoughts just now, the unparalleled rage was back in full force. 'She is counted as a hero among our people, one, an outsider under no obligation to lend us aid, who dared to tread where many others, our own people, did not. She was loyal where our own people deserted us, honourable when they forgot the meaning of the word, brave when they were trembling with fear. And you would have taken her life for their sake?'

Thráin did not know from what future Thorin came. He wanted to know, but did not reasonably expect an answer.

'You sank so much lower than I ever believed possible.' Thorin almost sounded disillusioned.

'So did you.' It seemed they were both destined to disappoint the other. 'I would sooner see our line end than allow you to carry on our bloodline with such a woman.'

Thorin laughed again. There was something just slightly unhinged about it. 'Even if Kate had died tonight, it would make no difference. My line does not end with me.'

Thráin's mind went blank with shock. He had not honestly believed it possible, but he could discern no deceit in either Thorin's face or words. He could taste the bile at the back of his throat.

'If she had died here tonight, what would I have told my children?' Thorin's face was inches away from Thráin's. 'Should I have told them that their mother was murdered in cold blood by their grandfather? Aye? Is that the tale you would have me tell?'

Children. He had fathered children on that worthless mannish girl. He was torn between a sense of complete bewilderment that any dwarf could ever get the job done when their kind held no appeal for dwarves and an ever increasing urge to empty the contents of his stomach on the floor. How had this world gone so wrong? How had his own son, his very flesh and blood, strayed so far from everything that was good and right?

'Maker have mercy.' Thráin had not heard his father until he spoke. He could not tell if he had been there all this time or if he had only just arrived. 'You did it.'

'Aye,' Thráin said, not bothering to deny it. He was no elf that he had need for falsehoods on a daily basis. 'For the good of our people.'

'I'm beginning to think you are not the one most capable to judge what is and isn't good for them.' Thrór sounded like he was in shock, almost lost for words, which was a first for him. Normally he would not stop talking. But then the moment passed and he gathered himself. 'You have lost your marbles.' He heard the same disgust as he'd heard in Thorin's voice. 'And I will not be succeeded by a madman.' He looked Thráin straight in the eyes. 'You will never be King under the Mountain. Today, this very hour, I will take steps that will exclude you from the succession. Thorin will be my heir.'

Thráin could only stare at him in open-mouthed shock. 'You cannot do this.'

'If not for the healing skill of an elf, Thorin's impeccable instincts and a tremendous amount of luck, you would have committed murder tonight.' He'd never seen this side of Thrór before. All of a sudden the resemblance between him and Thorin was not so difficult to see. Their fury froze like ice. 'I can hardly bear to look upon you. Murder is reviled, an abhorrent practise you always claim belongs to men and orcs.'

'For the greater good…'

'Whose greater good?' Thrór snarled. 'You would have wrought tragedy on a family, your own family at that. Your actions would see your own grandchildren motherless! By your own admission, you would be a murderer. I would be mad indeed if I allowed such a one to lead our people.'

'What will you do?' This was a consequence he had not foreseen. Dread landed in his stomach and made itself at home.

'That is not for me to decide,' Thrór said, looking at Thorin. 'I am not the injured party in this.'

He was effectively placing Thráin's life, his own son's life in the hands of the one who hated him most. Thorin might be Thráin's son, but he doubted it counted for much. He had seen that look in his eyes. It was a miracle he was yet drawing breath.

Thorin held his gaze for long moments. A rapid succession of emotions flashed past, almost too quick to register: pain, hate, loathing, grief, righteous rage and then, at last, defeat. That same moment the pressure vanished from his throat and the force holding him up disappeared so abruptly that Thráin stumbled.

When he had regained his balance and looked up, he saw that Thorin had done several steps backward. 'Nothing,' he said. 'I will do nothing.'

Thorin

It was the hardest decision he had made in all his life. Every fibre of his being begged him to spill his rage in violence. He yearned for justice to be done. This could not stand. He could not allow this to pass.

And yet he had to.

'What?' Thrór's shock made his voice sound distinctly higher.

'I will do nothing to him,' Thorin repeated. It went against the grain. He desperately wanted to do something. He had already failed Kate by not protecting her when he should have and now he was effectively allowing her would-be murderer to walk free.

'Why?' It was the only question Thrór could ask, because from where he was standing Thorin's decision made no sense. 'I have not yet myself reached a point where I would tear him apart with my bare hands, but he very nearly killed your wife. Worse, he did it on purpose. And you would not see justice done for that?'

'I cannot,' Thorin replied through clenched teeth.

And how he hated it. It was even worse because Kate would agree with him if she were here to advise him. He could almost hear her voice in his head, warning him not to upset the timeline, because goodness knew what results that might have. And because she lived, only because she lived, he would heed that counsel.

He turned to Thráin. 'But make no mistake, if she dies, I will end your life myself, timeline be damned.'

He would preserve it for her sake, but it could all be blown to smithereens for all he cared if she did not survive this. Thráin would feel exactly how well Thorin could avenge his loved ones if that sad day ever came. He prayed it would not. It was shrouded in the kind of darkness Thorin instinctively shied away from.

'The timeline,' Thrór understood. 'Durin's stinking beard!'

'Aye,' Thorin said. 'I know you lived beyond this day. I will not change that.' He looked the dwarf who was supposed to be his father straight in the eyes. 'I will tell you this once. You do not go near Kate. You will not speak to her. If you see her in the street, you will take a detour to avoid her. If I see you anywhere near her, I will assume the worst and act accordingly, regardless of the results that may have for the future. Am I making myself understood?'

It was odd. For years he had craved reconciliation or at least closure. He'd yearned for Thráin's affection and pride. On some levels his opinions had still mattered, at least until some weeks ago. But all emotion had gone, leaving only freezing rage coursing through his veins. He was not making any idle threats. If Thráin killed Kate, Thorin would make sure Thráin did not live to see another sunset. Perhaps the thought of killing his own father ought to bother him. But the image of Kate's motionless body at the foot of the stairs was still in front of his mind's eye, and it did not.

Thráin looked at him, a mixture of surprise and contempt on his face. 'Mercy, then?'

Thorin shook his head. 'Not mercy.' Thráin had lost the right.

'We can't just let him walk off like nothing's happened!' Thrór sounded both indignant and incredulous.

'If you were serious about the threat, about removing him from the succession, then that is a punishment too.' And it was something that could be done without endangering the timeline as Thorin knew it. Thráin had not been around long enough after Thrór died to lead his people. The burden of kingship had come to Thorin immediately after the battle. But neither Thrór nor Thráin knew how events would unfold. And losing every chance to become King under the Mountain and rule Durin's Folk in accordance with his own wishes was not nearly enough punishment in Thorin's eyes, but it would be in Thráin's.

It is not enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy Thorin, but it was all he could do, all he could allow. It felt like meagre repayment at best, as though he somehow valued Kate's life far less than he did. Thorin was used to making the hard choices – he had done little else lately – but this one sat particularly wrong with him. But my hands are tied.

'I'll tell Theyra,' Thrór said. 'I imagine she will have a thing or two to say on the matter as well.'

She would. And once she was in the possession of all the facts, she would be enraged. And she would not forgive.

'No.' Blow after blow and it never ended.

'Maker be good, lad, I hate to be the one to tell you, but shielding him isn't the right way and Theyra wouldn't thank you for it.' Thorin suspected that his grandfather was angrier than he had let on so far.

'It is not for his sake.' He all but spat the words out. 'But my mother would never forgive him.'

'Obviously not.' Thrór had not expected any different. 'Why should she? After what he did…'

He did not see. Thorin had been cursed with clearer vision. 'Exactly.'

Understanding dawned in Thráin's eyes. 'You have siblings.'

Thorin did not bother to deny it. And he could not unwrite them. Frerin had been his closest friend during childhood, for all that he could be an obnoxious little pest as well from time to time, as all younger brothers were. Dís was his beloved sister, the one who had kept him going when he thought his strength was all gone. And Fíli and Kíli, the lads who were so full of life, who made the world brighter just by existing… If he let Thrór do as he wished, none of them would ever be born.

It was not a price he was willing to pay.

All things considered, Thráin would very much get away with what he had done.

Bitterness clawed its way up his throat, seeped into his bloodstream. It was never fair. After this atrocity, he would not see any justice done. He had to shove his hands into his pockets and clench them into fists so hard he drew blood to stop himself from losing all control and doing something he would surely regret.

'So there is hope yet,' Thráin murmured thoughtfully. Hope for another son who might be everything Thorin was not. That was why he had always looked at Frerin and Dís with pride and hope and affection, and never at Thorin. It was yet another piece of the very complex puzzle falling into place.

He turned on his heel and left then. Behind him he heard his grandfather's voice raised in anger, a rare enough thing, but he could not bring himself to listen. Nothing that could be said now would make a difference. His own inaction burned like poison in his veins. Even though he knew it wasn't so, it felt as though his own refusal to act and see justice done condoned what had been done to Kate.

And yet there was no other choice.

It was the worst sort of torture imaginable.

The combined force of his grief and rage at last brought him to a halt. A scream tore its way up his throat and emerged in the kind of howl that he had not believed himself capable of. It went on for a long time. He did not even think he was fully aware of either himself or his surroundings for a while.

He only came back to himself when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 'Enough now, Thorin.' The voice was gentle, the words phrased as kindly advice rather than a command.

He turned around to see his grandmother. If she was unsettled at all by his display of emotion, she showed no sign of it.

'Give me your hands,' she said, holding out her own.

He did as he was bid and only now saw that they were hurt. In his distress he must have beat them bloody against the wall – he could see the corresponding marks on the otherwise spotless stone – but his recollection of doing so was hazy at best.

'I'll bandage them if you like,' Freya offered. She did not remark on the state in which she had found him and he could detect no judgement from her.

But now that he had come to his senses, he could not help but feel ashamed of his own conduct. It had been a very long time since he had lost control in this manner. 'I apologise,' he began.

A wave of her hand cut him off. 'Thrór has filled me in,' she said calmly. 'Seems to me you dealt with this the only way any sentient being could deal with it. Come, we'll need the healers' supplies.'

He followed her.

'Is there any news of Kate?' he asked suddenly, as a second wave of shame washed over him. Blinded as he had been by his own misery, he had lost sight of the fact that he should have been with her. Aye, the worst danger had passed, Elvaethor had said, but there was no telling what that head injury could have done. He ought to have been with her all along, not on his own doomed quest for justice.

There is no justice for what happened, not in this place. There could never be. He longed for home, wished desperately that none of this would ever have happened. There was no certainty here, there was only balancing on a tightrope in a gale. And he was walking it blindfolded. He only knew what should be.

It turned out that the price to pay for that was even heavier than he had ever been able to imagine.

'She hasn't woken yet,' Freya reported. 'Your elf is keeping watch over her.'

As Thorin had charged him to do. The Elvaethor of this time may not know Thorin yet, but Thorin knew him. If not friendship or honour, then curiosity would keep him in place.

'Good,' he said.

So he let himself being led into the healing rooms and obediently sat down as his grandmother cleaned his wounds and bandaged him. After his outburst he felt strangely numb and tired. He did not think he had the energy for another fight, but fights were all he could find in this Erebor.

'Go to your wife,' Freya counselled him when she was done. 'And get some sleep. This place is well-guarded.' And since she must know from which direction the danger came, Thorin trusted her word on that implicitly.

Kate was still as he had left her, quiet and unmoving. And Elvaethor was as he had left him, still in the same posture he had been at Thorin's departure. He could have been hewn out of rock for all the moving he did.

Thorin inclined his head in the elf's direction. 'You have my thanks, Master Elvaethor.' The words were far too formal to adequately express his deep gratitude. Without his help, Kate would be dead and well he knew it. And Elvaethor would know the same. 'I am in your debt.' After everything that elf had done for them, that debt amounted to more than Thorin could pay off in ten lifetimes.

Elvaethor shook his head. 'It was a service rendered of my own free will,' he said. 'I do not require payment in either gold or favour.'

'Then you simply have my deepest thanks,' Thorin said. That seemed like poor repayment for a service that great.

'I ask for no more,' the elf replied. His eyes were inquisitive, but his tongue wasn't. Then again, this was hardly the time for questions. 'I shall leave you now for a while, but I will return in a few hours. I would counsel you to get some rest, but I doubt a dwarf would take advice from an elf.'

Before Thorin could think up a suitable retort, he was gone.

The healing rooms were quiet. He could hear the fire in the hearth, but otherwise there was not a sound. No, that was not entirely true. If he listened closely he could hear Kate's breathing. It reassured him, but only slightly.

'Come back,' he told her. At least when she woke he would know what damage the fall may have done, the part that couldn't be seen by the naked eye. 'Fight it.' Her mind was stronger than the minds of many a dwarf, but her body had not been made the same way. Would that it had been.

There was no response from her. Her wounds had been taken care of, concealed from sight by blankets and bandages. But Thorin remembered well enough how severe they were without a visible reminder. She was still so pale, even though there was more warmth in her hands now than there had been. Thorin took it as a good sign, a reason to hope that she would pull through.

'Come back,' he whispered again. I cannot do this alone. His own loss of control was testimony enough. He needed her well and at his side. And he was so tired from trying. It drained him.

He took her right hand in his, fingers gently on the place at her wrist where he could feel her pulse. It was steady now, and stronger. It felt as though a weight came off his chest and he could breathe again.

She will live.

It was with that thought that he fell asleep at last.

Basically, everybody has a lot of issues. This chapter has been an absolute nightmare to write, but I hope it turned out all right.

Next time: Kate wakes up.

Quick thank you to dearreader for the guest review last chapter. It meant a lot!

Thank you very much for reading everyone. Reviews would be very much appreciated.