Hello, you all. I could write a twelve-chapter true story about everything that happened in the last (Mahal smite me, is it really that long?) two and half years, but you deserve better. Suffice to say, we are alive, and mostly healthy able to survive for the foreseeable future. After this one, I have 13 chapters ready, and the last 3 I believe I'll be able to finish before the 13th is posted. I intend to post one chapter per week. If I finish the last 3 chapters sooner, I might post more frequently.
Thank you for your patience!
Where the Shadow Lie
Bilbo was scared beyond reason. Wait, no, there was more than reason to be scared of, he was currently facing a freaking ghost, and a powerful ghost to say the least, one convict servant of the darkest darkness, a king fallen to the greed for power...
And he – it? - knelt before him.
Or what could be deemed to be kneeling when a wight surrounded by dark shreds collapsed to the ground, the shadow of a crippled hand outstretched as if begging for a blessing.
Or some charity.
Anyway, the hobbit was sure he had no alms to impart to that... thing.
Sting pointed straight to the creature's supposed face, Bilbo mustered all boldness his Tookish inheritance could afford.
"Not by my will. Now... Now go! Go away from me!"
The creature tilted its head (or what should be his head if there were any body to account for) and all but melt to the ground. That's what it looked like to Bilbo, the dark shreds of clothes crunched to the ground like some laundry stuff.
"Of course, my lord! Never keep more leaders together than needed, else the enemy may take advantage against us!"
Khamûl's voice was a whisper, a hiss, but Bilbo understood all of it, even knowing the words wouldn't make much sense if he hadn't the Ring around his finger. The real nature of the Ring was getting more and more clear to him.
And it was scary.
"What are thy orders to this loyal servant now, Master?"
=^.^=
Thranduil used to like the secondary staircases, long ago. Whilst on diplomatic duties beside his father, the side corridors and halls where the place to float-stroll and be regal. Likewise, the training yards were the place to drill his skills as a deadly warrior and an overmastering leader.
But the simple and silent staircases used by the servants were where he used to find peace in the midst of turmoil. Better than cushions in the library, where attentive eyes surveilled his every movement and silently judged every tome he had in hands.
In the secrecy of the staircases, Thranduil could sit down and enjoy a book for its romance, or mystery, or humour. Better than his studio, where any one who intended on interrupting whatever he was doing thought it was allowed to, just because if he was the prince of Greenwood he was supposed to be two-hundred percent available to matters of state, defence, commerce, and gossip.
On the other hand, the sparse servant going up and down those staircases were mostly minding their own business. If the prince was found laughing at a satiric drawing of late King Thingol of Doriath drooling over Melian, none would judge him.
The memories of pleasant hours of peace had been buried under the rubbish of the War of the Last Alliance, deep under the pain for the loss of his father alongside so many of his brothers in arms.
Thranduil swore on that day that he'd never again set foot on the fortress Oropher could no longer rule.
It is easy to swear something when you don't have a son...
Also easy to keep your oath when your son isn't being tortured and used as sacrifice!
Sauron took his father.
Thranduil would not allow Sauron to take his son!
=^.^=
"Durin's beard..."
Dís rushed to the heap of limbs in the corner of the staircase. Dirty white rags barely concealed the malnourished bodies of children – yes, in her eyes, children! Even if not of her race... even if not younger than her...
Dís had been young, far too young when Smaug took Erebor. Her age, in the account of both dwarrow and men (and mostly elf), was that of a child. But it didn't take from her the responsibility of guiding her people, of helping where she cold. She was not strange to directing people twice her age, or her size. Unfortunately, not strange to the unfairness of people dying under her watch.
Thranduil was not different, and had already rushed to feel the pulse of all of them, to her surprise. In her bad references of the elven king, he would be the one to care for his own offspring and none else, but then.. Time could change things, huh? Or teach people, at least.
"They're all weakened, but alive. We must take them away from here at once. Whatever drained their life force... will continue to do so if they're close enough."
Thorin rushed forward, but was stopped by his sister.
"No. Dwalin carries Kíli. Bard gets his daughter, Thranduil his son and leads our way. Me and you cover them."
"Dwalin would be better at covering..."
"He'll not be be slowed down with Kíli in his arms, and we have haste." Dís whispered, loud enough for him to hear but not enough to human's ears. Elven ears were a lost cause, what she would take care wherever it was possible, anyway.
Thorin rolled his eyes and obeyed. He'd never admit the weight of his nephew would slow him down, but to start an argument right then would be unproductive.
"We'll talk about this later." He promised.
"Only if I'm proved wrong." Dís countered and weighed her war-axe in her hand. "King Thranduil, the fastest way out of here, if you please...?"
=^.^=
Bard would gladly face Smaug with a pocketknife than to face what was before him. Forget pocketknives and even arrows, he would gladly face Smaug with his bare hands than to face this.
"Can I move her? Thranduil, can I move her? Can I take her?"
He was as afraid to take his daughter in his arms as he was the day she was born.
Possibly more, because then he knew those little squirmishing things weren't breakable as they seemed, having two already. But the babies were healthy and strong, and his grown up younger one was, right now, frail, and he didn't know how much she had been through in the past several weeks to leave her that way. It reminded him of his beloved wife, worn out by the fever that took her soon after Tilda's birth. He would not allow it to happen again, not if it was in his power.
"Aye. We must take them away from here as fast as we can." The elf stopped a moment to wipe a drop of sweat from the brow of his son. "Follow me, I know a safe path."
=^.^=
His Master was brilliant! That was the only conclusion Khamûl could reach after finding the current body his Master used. It had been a shame, he knew, that the disgusting Powers in the West were so jealous of his terrific looks that after the island incident – Anadûnë, was it (1)? His mind wasn't completely right since Master gifted him his beautiful ring, but who cared? - Master was prevented from wearing a face as charming as his good intentions, so, no, no way an appearance prepossessing as was his true nature would ever be usable again, was it? No, Master's delightful and charming looks were forbidden to mannish and elvish sight, so how could he walk inconspicuously amongst those fools?
With the body and the face of something resembling half a human, of course! No, not a human cut in half (which would have its own charm, in his humble opinion), but... What could be more disgusting to look at than the little creature Master disguised into? No beauty, no power, just a little wight that would cause no real difference in the great scheme of things, something actually insignificant!
But the power was there, he could feel it, it attracted him as fire did to moths, but Khamûl knew Master would never burn him! Not again, anyway. One descent to Samath-Naur was enough for any Nazgûl to last a life – or an unrestful afterlife, whatever.
Master's actions, grimaces and feigned surprise were a relaxing sight to Khamûl's weary eye sockets - no time or real need to reconstruct material eyes when you can see with your soul, huh? Or what remained of his soul, anyway...
"What are thy orders to this loyal servant now, Master?"
(1 – Anadûnë: Adûnaic name of Númenor)