Chapter 14 : Respite
Daeron grasped the edge of his barrel as it hurtled down the river, his knuckles white as he fought to keep it upright. The water churned and frothed, splashing against him, while the dwarves' shouts of surprise, fear, and excitement filled the air. They had been pursued by orcs for some time, but even the monsters couldn't keep pace with the river's swift current.
Daeron groaned. His right shoulder burned, and his arm trembled with the strain, begging for respite. His injured leg was beginning to shake as well, threatening to give out. He shut his eyes for a brief second, focusing on drawing deep, steady breaths. He had endured countless wounds in the past—the scars on his body a constant reminder of the cost of being a ranger. But even for him, this pain was becoming unbearable. He opened his eyes, locking gazes with Kili, and offered a weak smile before shifting his focus back to the river.
The current had slowed, the violent jostling of his barrel easing. Daeron loosened his death grip on the rim and sighed in relief as the pain in his body subsided slightly. The river widened, and its turbulent flow became gentler with each passing moment. Ahead, Daeron saw the mouth of the river spilling into an enormous lake.
"Swim for the shoreline!" Thorin's voice rang out from the front.
With great effort, Daeron leaned forward and dipped his hand into the water, paddling awkwardly with his good arm. Each stroke jarred his injured shoulder, making him clench his teeth to fight through the pain. His head began to throb, and his vision blurred as the exhaustion and wounds took their toll. His movements grew sluggish.
"Come on, Daeron!" someone called, urging him on.
A hand reached out and grasped his, pulling him the rest of the way to the shore.
"Daeron?" Bilbo's concerned face swam into view. Daeron managed a weak smile.
"Well done, Master Baggins," Daeron said slowly as he dragged himself out of the barrel. He took a few shaky steps on the rocky ground before his legs finally gave out beneath him, and he collapsed. Several dwarves shouted in alarm, and he heard the sound of footsteps rushing toward him.
"That doesn't look good," Bofur muttered, eyeing Daeron's wounds closely. "We've got to get this cleaned," he announced to the others, his expression grim. He inspected the wound in Daeron's leg and grimaced at the blood pooling beneath it.
"I'm sorry about this," Bofur muttered, before swiftly yanking the broken arrow shaft from Daeron's leg.
Daeron let out a groan as the arrow came free, more blood spilling from the wound. Bofur worked quickly, cleaning the wound with water from the lake, then tearing strips from his tunic to make makeshift bandages.
"This'll have to do," Bofur said. "We don't have proper gear. If we did, I'd boil some water to clean it properly. Now, let's see about that shoulder."
Daeron winced, dreading the removal of the arrow still embedded in his shoulder. He could feel its weight pulling at the wound, the pain radiating down his arm. He had grown accustomed to pain; fighting orcs in the North had left him scarred and injured more times than he could count. But he had always had access to healers, skilled in the use of herbs, roots, and salves to fight infection. When he was alone in the wild, his ranger's gear allowed him to tend to his wounds—temporary fixes until he reached the nearest town. If he were in Rivendell, his Ada, the greatest of healers, would always be there to ease his pain. But now...
"Do it," Daeron said calmly, though he braced himself.
Bofur eyed him skeptically for a moment before nodding. Calling over two other dwarves, they held Daeron's arms down. Without a word, Bofur carefully gripped the arrow and pulled it free. Daeron's body jerked, his arms shaking as the pain ripped through him. He groaned, struggling to keep still as the agony washed over him.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Dwalin said, gripping Daeron's arm firmly. "Not many men would've gone for that floodgate like you did."
"Don't die on us yet, lad," Nori said seriously before a small grin spread across his face. "We've still got a dragon to slay before you get any rest."
Daeron chuckled weakly, the attempt sending a wave of pain through his body. "I wouldn't dream of it." He sat there, his mind replaying the events of their escape. If the orc had been slightly more accurate... He silently gave thanks to the Valar for their protection. His thoughts drifted to Tauriel—she had saved him again. Twice now, he owed her his life. Amidst the chaos, he could still picture her fiery red hair, catching his eye even in the thick of battle. He paused, frowning slightly. Had she called his name when he was struck? Or perhaps it was just after he'd fallen into the barrel? Maybe he was imagining things. After all, he was just a ranger. Why would she…
"Can you keep moving?" Thorin asked, walking over to them, his face neutral, though Daeron swore he saw a flicker of concern. He opened his mouth to reply, but Bofur cut in.
"I think it's best if we rest here for a while. We need to gather our strength. Besides, we've got to figure out how to cross the river."
"Do you think the orcs will continue to pursue us?" Nori asked.
Thorin remained silent but finally agreed that they would rest. Experience had taught Daeron that something was bothering the prince. They had lost precious time locked away in Mirkwood, and now his injuries were slowing the company down. Even though Erebor was close, who knew where the secret entrance lay? Lord Elrond's reading of the moon runes hadn't given the exact location—only the time: when the last light of Durin's Day fades. And if the stories about the Dwarven kingdom were even half true, the door could be anywhere.
Then there were the orcs. They weren't after the elves. They were after them. Daeron recalled a conversation from one evening— Thorin had explained the urgency to recapture Erebor. That everyone was lying in wait, assessing the risks of reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, not only for its vast wealth but for the strategic position that it could be dead for all anyone knew. After the fall of Erebor no one had seen the dragon.
"It's possible," Dwalin said, cracking his knuckles. "Those weren't just any orcs. They were bigger, meaner-looking. Hunters."
The air had grown colder, the biting chill seeping into their bones as their drenched clothes clung to their skin, heavy and sodden from the river. Every breath came out in a puff of mist, a sharp reminder of the dropping temperature. The wind swept over the rocky shoreline, carrying with it a dampness that made even the toughest of them shiver.
Daeron could feel the cold settling deep into his wounds, the throbbing in his leg and shoulder intensifying with each gust. Around him, the dwarves huddled together, their faces grim and pale, teeth chattering as they tried to conserve whatever body heat they could. The earlier excitement from their escape had faded into a weary silence, each one too tired to speak, too cold to care.
The riverbank offered little comfort—only jagged rocks and driftwood littered the ground. The idea of finding warmth felt like a distant memory, a luxury from another time. There was wood—plenty of it scattered around them—but no way to kindle a flame.
Without fire, the cold would soon overtake them. And though Daeron could see their exhaustion, he knew they couldn't afford to let it win—not now, not so close to their goal.
His gaze fell on Bilbo—and in that moment, a glimmer of hope sparked. Bilbo had avoided capture which meant he had some of his gear still.
"Bilbo," Daeron called softly, his voice carrying through the frigid air.
"Yes, Daeron?" Bilbo replied, kneeling by his side on the rocky shoreline.
"I think you might be able to start a fire with your blade."
Bilbo's eyes lit up, and he scrambled to gather driftwood. The other dwarves, noticing his actions, joined in, dragging larger pieces of wood while some built a windbreak from the scattered rocks along the shore. Daeron spotted flint along the riverbed and pointed it out for Bilbo to collect. Within minutes, they had a roaring fire, the crackle of the flames sending warmth radiating through the group, lifting their spirits from the edge of despair.
Daeron leaned back against a large rock that Balin had propped behind him, the heat offering some comfort. But the pain in his wounds persisted, throbbing with a deep ache that gnawed at him. Something felt wrong. This wasn't the usual pain of battle injuries—it was deeper, a sharper sting laced with a strange sense of dread. Was it the cold, or something else? He'd assumed most could tell the difference between a wound that would heal and one that wouldn't, but perhaps that sense came from his mixed blood. He wasn't entirely sure anymore.
His thoughts were cloudy, hunger gnawing at him, and the relentless ache in his body made it harder to focus. Drowsiness soon followed and despite his efforts to stay awake, his eyelids grew heavier until darkness swallowed him.
—
Tauriel POV
The last rays of daylight faded, and darkness slowly crept in as Tauriel ran along the riverbank. Her elven eyes cut through the shadows, allowing her to navigate the terrain with ease, even at full speed. She had lost precious time back at the fortress. She knew where the dwarves and Daeron were heading—the river would eventually lead them to the great lake, where Men had built a town upon its waters. The Elves of Mirkwood often traded wine and ale with the Men, who paid them in meat and coin. Tauriel had never visited the lake town herself, though she had heard the stories.
As she ran, a nagging thought followed her: were they still alive? The last glimpse she'd had of them showed orcs in close pursuit, and they had been weaponless, vulnerable. Her mind drifted to the ranger. She had seen him fall—had watched, helpless, as two large arrows found their mark in his body.
The orc's words rang in her ears: I stuck him with some nasty poison; he's as good as dead.
She quickened her pace, her heartbeat matching the rising panic. Daeron had elven blood, which might slow the effects of the poison, but it wouldn't stop it. Even elves weren't immune; their bodies fought longer, allowing more time for a cure, but such remedies were usually administered immediately after a battle. They weren't in a fortress anymore; they were in the wilds, with no time and no aid. Still, she pressed on, her feet flying across the uneven ground. She could keep this pace for hours, but the further she strayed from the fortress, the more alert she needed to be. The spiders had never ventured this far, but the orcs—the orcs had.
That bothered her the most. Never before had orcs dared come so close to their borders, let alone with such a small force for an attack. It had been reckless. Why now?
The orc's words gnawed at her thoughts. There's a price on Thorin's head. But why? Who would place such a bounty on a dwarven prince who had no kingdom to rule? Tauriel knew Thorin was heir to Erebor, the once-great fortress of the dwarves—a symbol of their power and resilience. She recalled the stories passed down among her people. After the fall of Khazad-dûm, Erebor had risen, a beacon of hope for the dwarves. But then Smaug had come, casting that hope into darkness. Thranduil had always claimed it was the greed of the dwarves that had lured the dragon, yet lately, Tauriel couldn't shake the feeling that something more sinister was at play.
She slowed to a halt, not from fatigue—she had hours of running left in her—but because she needed clarity. She had to think. She reached for her satchel, pulling out some food and her water skin. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to steady her racing thoughts. The pursuit of the dwarves, Daeron's injury, the unexpected presence of the orcs—all of it hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Her eyes glanced briefly at the stars above. Even though the night had fallen, the heavens were still clear—yet she felt none of the usual comfort they brought. Too much was at stake now, and for the first time in a long while, the stars felt distant, unreachable.
—
Daeron POV
It was still dark, and a thick mist had begun to creep in, swirling like a living thing over the ground and water. Daeron had slept little, his body wracked with pain, the persistent throbbing in his wounds making rest nearly impossible. Around him, he could hear the snores of several dwarves, the sound oddly comforting in the stillness of the early morning. The fire had burned down to little more than a mound of glowing embers, casting a faint orange hue on the faces of those who slumbered near it.
Thorin sat apart from the others, his knees crossed, a deep scowl etched across his face as he stared into the distance. Even in the quiet, Daeron could feel the tension radiating from the dwarf prince—the weight of their quest, the burden of leading his company so close to their goal, yet so fraught with danger. It had been a close call, their mission hung in the balance, like someone trying to balance a blade on their hand, any slight movement and it would fall over.
Fili perched on a rock ledge nearby, his eyes scanning the thickening mist. The young dwarf's gaze was sharp, but the growing fog seemed intent on swallowing everything beyond a few feet. Daeron was about to turn away when a faint sound reached his ears—a soft, rhythmic splash, like an oar cutting through water.
He frowned. The sound was faint, nearly imperceptible, and for a moment, he wondered if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. The pain had blurred the edges of his awareness, memories and voices flickering at the edge of consciousness throughout the night. Perhaps this was another fragment of a dream, lingering despite his waking state.
But there it was again—the unmistakable lapping of water against something solid.
Daeron's head snapped up, and his eyes widened. Out of the mist loomed the silhouette of a large man, standing tall above their camp. The firelight barely reached him, but Daeron could make out the glint of metal—the man's bow drawn, its arrow notched and aimed directly at them.
"Who are you?" the man asked, his voice deep and authoritative, cutting through the quiet with a cold certainty.
