A/N: Hello, dearest readers, I have no words to thank you enough for bearing with this fic.
There are some notes I want to post only at the end of this story, but I can tell in advance that what I planned for a certain dark character matched incredibly with canon. The ten years gap between the Battle of Five Armies and what is told in Faith was intended only to have Tilda as a young adult woman (believe me, it was meant to be a short fic…), but it turned out to be the exactly right timing to mingle my plot with some canon happenings, and dude, I want to hear from you if it worked well.
The verses intermingled with the last scene belong to The Professor, Fog on the Barrow-Downs chapter in The Fellowship of the Ring.
Mizz Alec Volturi, I don't know if Thorin would be the mammoth or one of possums… believing he has everything under control and doesn't need help form anyone!
Celebrisilweth, the dwarrow would be lost if he didn't, be it now or ten years prior…
Welcome on board, Gothic Angel 1342 and Jakerin, and have a nice ride!
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The Darkest Hour
Bilbo's interpretation of the orcs' intentions wasn't exactly precise, as the infamous Necromancer had been banished to Erú knows where by Galadriel, soon before the Battle of Five Armies. But this he couldn't know, and what his enhanced senses told him led to this assumption. He wasn't very wrong, as would be found out later, but also somewhat far from the mark.
When Radagast explored the fortress and collected the wicked sword used against him, he was made aware that an ancient evil that should not be there was, in fact, roaming on Middle-earth again.
When the brown wizard met the grey one at the High Fells of Rudhaur, it was clear something, or rather, someone, who should stay inside, grabbed whatever opportunity was offered and made his way out of the cursed catacomb.
A pity this was not looked deeper into along the last ten years…
"Are you sure they're keeping no watchers?"
Bilbo heaved a sight at the question.
"Impossible to state with certainty, Thorin. They might, they might have seen me and allowed me in just to bring in more potential victims. But I don't think so. I feel... I felt they're overconfident, as if they believe none can threaten their plans."
Thorin shuffled his boots on the dry ground.
"I would be overconfident too, if I had a Necromancer on my side."
The hobbit put a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to be reassuring.
"Thorin… Last time, there was a dragon on their side. Then, when there was no dragon anymore, there was Azog. Which was as bad as any Necromancer, in my accounting. And we won."
The eyes of the dwarf king were as humble as when he asked his Company to follow him one last time.
"But it wasn't us who killed the dragon. And when the dragon was dead, I was too stupid to acknowledge the one who killed it, and to honour my words of when I needed his help."
"And yet, you woke up from that nightmare. Made amends. Faced the true enemy. And won."
A bitter and almost silent chuckle left Thorin's lips.
"I don't know who you call the true enemy, but allow me to enlighten you: I only won him when I looked into the right mirror."
This made Bilbo frown in confusion, take a step back to gaze at Thorin with wonder, but no clarification would be possible in that moment, as Bard was approaching, long bow in hand and a stocked quiver on his back.
"My people are ready. I had to box Dunwine's ears, but the Rohirrim agreed to tie the horses. If they don't turn into orc meal, we'll have means to get away from this foul place faster than on foot. Half a dozen will stay behind to make sure."
Thorin grasped Bard's forearm, showing trust and gratitude in a gesture.
"Thank you, my friend."
"There's nothing to thank, my friend. Don't forget it's my daughter in there, too."
"Bard, if… when… when they both are sane and safe home… I'm willing to face the Council and the Seven Fathers themselves if need be."
"What do you mean?" Bard frowned.
"If your daughter… and my sister-son… if they don't want to…"
The king of Dale clasped his free hand on Thorin's shoulder, and if Ori witnessed it while working on his famed "Collection of the Meaning of Words, Spoken and Unspoken" he would have some difficulty on stating it as the translation of 'trust', 'accordance', 'concordance' or 'agreement'.
"By my word, Thorin, they'll do as their hearts rule, or nothing at all."
Seeing how Bard's words sounded true, and he could tell it was true because he knew the man from before people insisted in putting a crown on his head, Thorin finally smiled.
"Then let us seize what chance we have and get those bairns back to Erebor!"
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It had been a beautiful courtyard, long ago. The higher terrace of the fortress had been a place of meditation and star gazing in times of peace, although a lookout at all times. Oropher preferred the crenels decorated with geraniums, but only because bougainvilleas have thorns and could, potentially, hurt the wards. Thranduil liked how the wind sang between the flowered stems, offering a distant memory of distant Doriath and long gone Luthien.
This Legolas gathered from old tomes at the king's library, but no word from the lips of his father. Amon Lanc was taboo, and no mention of the place was allowed in court. Oropher's death weighed too heavy, the fall of his fortress was a reminder of Thranduil's self-perceived failure. As if he, or anyone by the way, could be blamed for anyone's death at that war. Anyone but Sauron himself.
At least that ancient evil was gone for good, the blond prince mused, as he and his fellows in captivity were carried to the place. But what new shadow was responsible for their current situation?
"Up with the cattle!"
One of the chief orcs cried, commanding the lesser ones to uplift the prisoners' iron poles on a makeshift structure that would keep them pendant over the large stone table at the centre of the once beautiful yard, upside down. Cauldrons full of Erú-only-knows what witchery burned along the encircling walls, radiating eerie lights everywhere.
"I'd retch if I had anything in my stomach."
"Would only be fair." Legolas observed on Tilda's remark.
"But would it serve us?" Asked Kíli. "If it is, I'll retch my guts out."
"No. Hold your strength. Whatever you have."
It wasn't much, the strength Kíli and the other two still held, but it would have to do. The majority of the orcs, the smaller and weaker ones (more famished ones, more malnourished ones) were leaving the terrace, some obeying their bosses' orders, others shoved by the stronger ones in charge. The limit between obedience and fear was tenuous amongst orcs. Something was about to happen.
Nine orcs remained, large uruks from Mordor, if Legolas' knowledge on that horrid race was anything to go by. One of them placed, with a flourish, a shallow, golden bowl on the stone table, large enough that the three prisoners, if suddenly loose from their bounds, would hit their heads falling on it.
Something was about to happen.
Cold be hand and heart and bone…
A small dagger, metal black as night, moved from the stone table as if by an invisible hand. Mesmerized, the prisoners watched it come and nick at their throats, leaving a trail of blood dripping, dripping from their necks onto the golden vessel. The dagger moved on its own volition, tracing heathen signs on the very air bellow their heads. Then it stood still, dropped on the stone table as a toy a child had gotten tired of.
…and cold be sleep under stone…
The orcs boomed a monotonous chant, auto hypnotic. Once their voices engaged in the enchantment, nothing seemed to stir them. They were vessels of sound, used by whatever power was above them to vibrate some uncouth theme, inherited from the cacophony spread by Morgoth amongst the Ainur in the Time before time, distorting and corrupting the Music proposed by Erú himself.
The orcs chanted, eyes closed, marking the beat stomping their iron clad feet on the stone floor.
…never more to wake on stony bed…
Thank the Powers, their trance didn't include dance… But it was enough to distract them from the current prey.
Said prey made its best to find alternatives.
"I see stones I can use to hit them hard enough, if I only can reach them." The dwarf whispered to the two faces so close to him that he could feel their breath on his skin.
"I can use this bowl bellow us as a weapon, if I only can grab it." The elf contributed.
"I have a broken nail." Completed the woman.
"Tilda, please, I totally understand your anguish, but broken nails are not a priority right now!"
Tilda squeezed her eyes and wrinkled her nose to contain her anger at the elf.
"It is not a finger nail, it's an iron nail that I can use to picklock our shackles!"
Her words were accompanied by actions, taking advantage of the trance state of the orcs.
…never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead…
She was able to pick her companions' locks, but to deal with her own was harder. If she weren't so tired, maybe… Soon Tilda felt that the 'nick' that made her bleed wasn't such a little nick, her blood was coming down as a steady fillet, making her dizzy.
Her companions noticed it.
"What is taking you…?" Kíli was fumbling with whatever held his feet, sheer strength deforming low quality iron. But even hands used to the forge are not as strong after a fortnight of crumbles of stale bread and barely a sip of water.
"M´a sleepy…"
"Tilda, no! Keep awake!" The dwarf cried.
"Can't…"
She struggled to keep her eyes open, knowing unconsciousness would do her no good. But how to fight low blood pressure when you're starving, thirsting and bleeding?
Legolas felt lost. He was a warrior worth his salt, at any accounts, but unlike the day Tilda had been captured, his fae was frail, his energy spent. Besides, his own body had been subject not only to hunger and thirst, but also poison. And his blood was dripping into the golden bowl too, adding pain to misery.
He reached out his hand and uttered some words in the language of his forefathers.
"By Estë, heal!"
It wasn't much. It was a prayer. It was all he could give. It was all he could hope. And he knew it was little.
But he did it anyway.
The words of healing, of stanching, left his lips in an indistinct murmur. The elf was going dizzy too, it was too much on his system.
But he did it anyway.
Until a shout hit his pointy ears.
"Take Tilda and come, or so help me!"
Kíli had freed his own feet and was currently finishing to untie Legolas' ankles, moving to free Tilda's feet too.
…in the black wind the stars shall die…
The cauldrons around them hissed as if disgusted, greenish vapours pouring from them and covering the stone tiles of the pavement. The burly orcs kept chanting, entranced, eyes void of the little intelligence they perchance had.
Kíli ripped a rag of Tilda's indecent gown and tied it hurriedly to her throat, hands trembling to deal with the paradox of tying it tight enough yet not so tight it could choke her or worse, cut the blood supply to her brain. The drawbacks of a tourniquet for a bleeding head…
Legolas caught the idea and quickly ripped two more rags from her not-quite-a-gown for his and Kíli's necks. It wouldn't do much, but was better than nothing. Nothing was a closer description of the rags him and the dwarf had been dressed in amidst their ordeal.
The orcs chanted.
…and still be gold here let them lie…
"Which way now?" Kíli asked in a hushed voice, holding Tilda the better he could, careful not to break the orcs' trance else they'd cut their escapade.
The elf answered in the same hushed tones, indicating a doorway opposite to the crenels with a tilt of his head.
"There's only one way out of here, over there, but I'm not sure about the levels underneath us. I never dwelt here."
"I thought this was your father's former castle." Pointed out the dwarf.
"It was my grandfather's..." Retorted Legolas. He would roll his eyes, if he had any strength left to unnecessary shows of annoyance.
"See, not so different."
"That was in the Second Age, I wasn't even born!"
The urgency of getting out of the Mordor-damned terrace was stronger than the need to have the last word on the matter. Those Uruks were entranced, but nothing granted the other, lesser orcs, would be in the same state. They had no weapons but their bare hands, and carried an unconscious woman. The idea of using whatever was available…
"Did you collect any loose stone?"
"No, I was too busy freeing your feet, why?"
"We have no weapon!"
"Did you get the bowl you say could be used?"
"I feared taking it could wake the orcs. Better deal with the others unarmed than with these using only a feeble platter."
"Clever."
They dragged their poor excuses of bodies closer and closer to the doorway. Pain and weakness reminded the males of the feeblety of mortal bodies. Right, technically, Legolas couldn't die but in battle or fading in grief, but, how much could an elf hunger without dying? What toll did long term mistreat take on one's body? And to one's mind? How long to recover from it, if possible at all?
Better not to dwell too much on it.
"Almost there."
Kíli mumbled under his breath, strangled hope daring to breath each step they got closer to the exit.
A small rumble at their backs made the elf stop and turn, uneasy.
…Till the Dark Lord lifts his hand…
Without the weight of the prisoners, offering, whatever, to balance it, the iron structure didn't hold itself and swayed, unbalanced. It wobbled once, twice… Legolas held his breath, as if the air of his lungs could be enough to change the route of winds.
It was not.
The iron contraption dandled once more.
And collapsed.
"Run!"
Legolas commanded in a voice full of fear, like nothing Kíli expected to hear. He knew they were in dire straits since they were captured by the second orc pack, but even in the throes of poisoned lunacy the elf never expressed such terror.
They left the accursed courtyard leaving a trail of their own blood behind. Not all of it, no, against all odds they were able to deny the Enemy the full potential of their blood, if their blood it was what was needed for that heathen ritual.
…Over dead sea and withered land!
Too late.
Khamul was back.