A.N.: Hello, dearest readers, thank you for your patience, I promise not to abuse it. This chapter is a bit short, but I hope it's up to your expectations.
For anyone of you who like "girls falls into Middle-earth" fics, I strongly recommend the fabulous work by Lady Dunla ( u/4051114/LadyDunla ), starting with The Written World I: Journal (The Hobbit, complete: s/8943459/1/The-Written-Word-I-The-Journal) and its sequel The Written World II: The Book (Lord of The Rings, work in progress, new chapters every Sunday: s/11082697/1/The-Written-Word-II-The-Book). I promise there is no Mary Sue, Tolkien/Peter Jackson's characters are never OOC, the plots are solid, the writing is top quality, and you'll have a lot of fun!
Celebrisilweth, Dís forgot that when she points one finger to someone, she's also pointing three fingers to herself…
That Other Writer Girl, the searching party is running to find them, and Thranduil is very, very angry. That will be enough to fix their situation in due time… probably.
The Weight of a Feather 735 + 534
This time the trio made it far enough to find a bee hive, diligently thrown against the orcs by Legolas' deft hands. What they didn't count upon was that orc stench was able to dispel the bee swarm, as not even the laborious insects could stand the offending smell.
"That was a good one!" Laughed the dwarf, stanching the blood from a cut in his forehead.
"Could be better if my hands weren't shackled." Considered the spanked elf. "Next time we must find something more efficient."
"Next time we must make it further." The woman groaned, taking care not to move too much her split lip. "I would love if we could find a streamlet or a brook, I need so badly a bath I smell almost more offending than the orcs."
"A wash? I could stay without a bath if I could at least drink a mouthful."
"Coming from an elf, I'm surprised. I deemed you would be glad to take a bath even with just a mouthful of water"
"Come on, Kíli, not even a dwarf is able to wash with a mouthful of water."
"We can always do with some fine sand to scrub the dirt off. The Maker provided us with this resource for the days Ulmo is unsympathetic to us and prevents us from finding water."
"Sand?"
Legolas' incredulity was shared by Tilda, who just widened her eyes so as to spare her lip.
"Aye, fine and clean sand. Legend says the Fathers of the dwarves learned this from creatures that dig their own caves, like hamsters and chinchillas."
"I can hardly compare a dwarf to a hamster, but if you say so…"
"Lads." Tilda muttered. "Please. We must focus on escaping."
She knew what the nonsensical talk was about. To dissociate from the current situation to keep sanity. Tilda saw it done more than once, by badly injured patients and by kinsfolk of deceased ones. By mothers who lost their children, born and unborn alike. By a father who lost his only son to a cave-in on the first day the lad was allowed to work in what he dreamed to do. By a blacksmith who lost his right arm in an accident. Sometimes, alienation is what is needed to make the person's mind to survive a challenge; but, right now, alienation would only keep them from their goal, and she could not allow this. She was a healer by trade, and the minds of her patients were matter of her work the same as their bodies. She would not let them down. Even if she herself digressed too, talking about a bath.
"We'll do it again tomorrow. Just allow our fresh cuts to stop bleeding." Kíli promised.
Legolas agreed, drawing what power he could from the tree they were bound to and feigning he wasn't shivering with cold once again.
"We'll do it again. And again. And again. Until we succeed. If they don't slaughter me first, I can fight to escape for thousands of years yet."
Kíli half smiled at the determination of his elven friend.
"I swear it is not envy, but my ability to fight them may reach barely thrice my current age. But I expect us to escape long before I'm two-hundred-sixty-four, of course."
"Then let us fight together one more day tomorrow, as long as our strength allows."
"Aye. On you mark. If you don't have another seizure, of course."
"Nah, that was yesterday."
"And the day before."
"But not today."
"No, not today."
"Yet."
"Yet."
Tilda kept quiet. The lads were digressing again, which was bad, but with focus on their escape, which was good. Legolas' seizures, cramps, shivers from cold and sweat crisis were a disturbing mystery, as all knowledge about elves prayed they didn't get sick, but in between something could be done. Like running away like crazy only to be caught again. That was something she could do whilst looking for another means of escape.
But there was something in their talk that disquieted her.
Two-hundred-sixty-four.
Just an expectation, she knew. An optimistic one, but not by far. An average dwarf could live up to two-hundred-fifty, it was a fact. She knew it.
Kíli was not even one hundred yet.
He would outlive her by one hundred more, if she was lucky and healthy enough, which was warranted by nothing.
It was not fair.
She should have known better.
Bard was out of his mind, even more than when Dunwine explained what Broda, and Broda's saddlebags, were able to tell. Because now it was clear that she had been taken by someone, even if that's not what happened back in Dale.
And, by the state of the camp, it was not by someone overly sympathetic to his daughter.
"Tell me this is not her blood!"
The king of Dale pleaded to everyone and no one in particular, his hand smeared with a dark material, which could have been sticky once but now was dry. The members of the searching party were looking for imprints of feet, broken twigs (or branches, in the case of orcs; orcs wouldn't be so discreet as to just bend twigs; most probably would tear trees down just for fun), indications of from where the assailants came and where they headed to, how long ago did that happen…
"Oi! There's an orc trail we can follow, plain to see!"
One of the Dale scouts offered, but it wasn't enough to bring Bard up on his feet, mesmerized as he was with the markings on the ground.
"Orcs. Filthy orcs. I'll eviscerate them out, I'll…"
"And it will be me pleasure to help ya, of course." Was Dwalin's statement. "But this blood doesn't look like that of a lass. Black blood it is."
Bard hasted to wipe his fingers on some leaves to cleanse them, disgusted.
"I know you're a renowned warrior, master dwarf, and I rely on you. All I know is my little girl is missing, and I'm not reasoning anymore."
"Orc blood." Mumbled Fíli, analysing the pattern of the blood splashes. "Someone put up a fight here." He walked two steps closer to the remains of the campfire, eyes trained on the ground. "Someone booted and... Wait! Dwalin, look at this!"
"Aye, lad."
The warrior tiptoed closer to Fíli, which was quite an achievement if his heavy built is to be considered. Bard followed, curious about anything that could help find his daughter.
Fíli was crouched beside some firewood, lifting some furs to show what was beneath them.
"What do you make of this?"
Dwalin whistled.
"Durin's balls…"
"What is happening?" Asked Bard, too anguished to make something out for himself.
"This sleeping roll was thrown over the logs. It has no blood stains, yet the wood shows lots of blood."
"Meaning?"
"Someone was here after the orcs left. At least half an hour after, I'd say."
"But who?" Thorin approached to see Fíli's findings, anxious to solve the Tilda-orcs-Tilda-more-orcs issue so as to be free to hunt Kíli again. "Any clue?"
"The owner of this, I bet." Fíli lifted the back part of an arrow, broken just below the fletching. "And I bet more: the maker of this arrow."
Thorin grabbed the broken arrow as a lifeline, both happy for the finding and angry at its possible meanings.
"Dís!" He shouted to the other side of the overturned camp. "You were right all those years ago."
"'Bout what?" She shouted back, surprised that her brother acknowledged her for being right at all.
"Kíli's insistence in learning to fletch his own arrows was useful, after all!"