Sorru for the delay. Just a reminder, I'll answer ALL reviews, so, feel free! And thank you for keeping up!
Next day was most of the same, but the much Tilda felt physically better compared to the day before, the more she felt anguished and guilty. She rode mostly with Bard, sometimes with Bain, the comforting smell of family helping to soothe the habdabs that shot her from fitful sleep to shrieking terror at the most random moments. She preferred to ride Broda, and her brother complied, but Bard's aching joints complained at riding the massive horse of the Rohirrim.
One of the reasons she preferred to ride Broda was exactly that the splendid beast was taller than the average Dale horse, and she could see further. The landscape wasn't much of her interest, they were still under the eaves of Mirkwood, but a certain dwarf was her target whenever she could spot him.
Like her father and brother took turns at riding with her, so did Thorin, Dís and Fíli with Kíli. Eventually, Dwalin took the charge, but whenever it happened it was under the hovering of the other three royals. Tilda recalled how long it took for him to fall under the physic ordeal since they were both captured, and how long it took for him to recover after the Battle of Five Armies. It seemed that the longer a dwarf took to fall, the longer it took to stand up again. Kíli took far to long to fall. And it was her fault.
=^.^=
Legolas woke up again after what he surmised had been a long, long time. He had no record of camping, of day or night, only that it had been a long time since he had any clue of what in the Valar name was happening.
Dark green greeted him from beyond his closed eyes. He was aware that his body was being moved, most probably on horseback, but with a comfort no single-yet-unconscious ride would provide.
It was all wrong.
He left home weeks ago, didn't he?
It should be Durin's day festivities. Ten solar coranar (1) from the (insert an awful curse here, Legolas thought) Battle of Five Armies. To pay respects to the dead, for dying to protect the ones who needed protection. To pay homage to the warriors, who fought in the stead of the ones who couldn't. To remember the fallen ones... Because one day, they were the standing ones.
"Whooh..."
There was a light whispered sound and, by the accent, directed to an elk
An elk?!
Legolas opened his eyes wide, suddenly aware of to whom the voice belonged, and what elk it was that was carrying him.
A haughty smile greeted the surprised stare directed at him. A wink of those steely eyes, plus a discreet squeeze, made clear the haughtiness was way less real than the care, and love, of a father to his son.
"Ada..." (2)
"[I'm here, my son.]"
It could be such a trite phrase, if it weren't so many issues that should prevent it...
Legolas brought to mind every reason his father could claim to not set foot on Amon Lanc since his grandfather's demise, as much as his dizzy mind could deal with.
First, it was Dol Guldur; now, a fortress of the Enemy, not the elven city it was build to be. Second...
"[My king swore never to set foot on the fortress his father held before his fall.]"
His own voice was strange to his ears, unused to his own language, unused to be free to speak. And then, did he use that freedom to speak freely, or to conceal his feelings and real questions beneath a mask of diplomacy?
Thranduil brought Legolas closer to him, a thumb moving an imaginary strand of hair from his brow.
A deep inhale, a little gesture, and the shadowy treetops gained a mix of jade and emerald green, speckled with gold, while the left side of Thranduil's face seemed to peel flake after flake until just crude scars of burned flesh showed, a milky unseeing iris where a vibrant shine would be expected.
"[That king didn't know what he said. He didn't have an offspring.]"
Said offspring pursed his parched lips, deciding what would be the best approach to what happened and to find out what in Erú's name was happening now.
"[I was ambushed.]"
"[I know.]" The majestic elk Thranduil used to ride huffed, as if the conversation were too much noise to the beast. The king resumed, and supplemented. "[And I know how it feels. I've been ambushed too.]"
"Ada..."
"[Hush, little leaf. Rest.]"
"[But I want to ask something.]"
Thranduil the father smiled. Legolas the child always had an intriguing question on his lips, mostly when it was time to sleep or to go to his preceptors.
"[I'm sure you want.]"
"[No, wait, it's serious!]"
It was the same script, played by the same actors, only several, several years apart from the original scene. They had played it again, now and then, along the long years of Legolas' youth. Sometimes just for the fun. Sometimes to disguise a serious question.
"[I'm sure it is.]"
"[Can I ask?]"
"[A prince must be versed in all matters. He has the right to ask.]"
Now it was not a game to postpone duties, but to bring it back had a deeper meaning.
"Ada... [Your glamour. You hate to show your scars. And...]" Not an easy thing to say, but Legolas just had to know. His body was reclined in his father's arms, there was no way he couldn't notice. [Why the trees? I've never seen them like this...]"
The war-elk trotted briskly, while Thranduil examined some tree-tops and something beyond them, invisible to younger eyes. A heaved sigh parted his lips.
"[I moved the glamour from me to them, so you could see them as they should be, haven't I been so relapse. It is past time that you learn some hard lessons. To show your beloved ones who you really are is one of them. To show your beloved ones what they inspire is another. Sometimes the inspiration is something that was, sometimes it is something that one hopes will come to be. Sometimes it is something you can't believe you lost.]"
Of all things Legolas could think of, coming from his father as an advice (or lesson, as Thranduil put it), something that vaguely reminded him of the popular saying about asking an elf for advice was the least he expected. It wasn't exactly saying yes and no at the same time, but was as misguiding as if it were. Yet, he could understand the subjacent meaning, and it touched him where he believed to be too hard to be touched, due to his anger at past decisions and deeds of his father.
He decided to repay in kind.
"[I never thought I'd be taken home from the battlefield carried in the arms of my king.]"
Thranduil squeezed his little green leaf, the joy of his house, the apple of the eye of his deceased wife, each day more sure that if even mountains could change in size and shape, it would not be him who would stay cold and unmovable under each lesson Erú bestowed upon him.
"[And in the arms of your father?]"
A slight smile crossed Legolas' lips as he answered.
"[This I could do.]"
=^.^=
The weight of a mountain rested on his chest, and each breath was a struggle. He wanted to move his arms, but they were heavy, oh how heavy, as if bound to a pair of anvils. He could not lift them for the life of him.
The life of him...
Was it even a thing, he thought, that still was, instead of having been...?
"Not your time yet, amrâlimë."
The life of him...
Tilda!
"Nor her time, too."
Kíli was in a slumber-trance state, the same he was used to be the usual when Tauriel's voice reached him Mahal only knew where from. It wasn't the only state it occurred, but was a good predictor. He knew most things didn't make much sense when he was in such state, but the few that did had the potential to be life-changing.
"It is not what you think!"
His elven maiden laughed, a crystal laughter of joy and mischief, of someone who knew more about himself than he did. She knew what it was, and he didn't know what she thought. Her laughter mingled with, and then was supplanted by, another laughter he knew so well it almost hurt to be hearing it again.
"Hush, nadadith."
The voice that greeted him also surprised him, but in a good manner. He didn't expect to ever hear that voice in his life again.
"What... Fíli?"
"We got you. Don't know what mess you plunged yourself headfirst into, but we got you."
It took a moment to process the information, but Kíli eventually got around it. Not completely, but almost.
Kíli could remember the time since when looking to the face of his brother in this position, cradled in Fíli's arms, was a natural thing.
It was since forever. But there was something... sour... since the last time they were face to face. It could not go on unaddressed.
"You know what Uncle did."
"Aye, and I almost made his nose acquainted to my fist because of it."
It was an information Kíli didn't know.
"I... I just couldn't."
"As you shouldn't." Fíli stated, mater-of-factly as if he were a hobbit. He reached with a hand out of the field of vision of the battered dwarf and retrieved a flask. "Here, take a mouthful of this and I might offer you food."
The mention of food made Kíli's stomach grumble, so much the medicine didn't even taste bitter.
Medicine.
The face of the sweetest healer ever came to his mind, unbidden but not unwanted.
How to ask his brother without making him too suspicious?
"How... How did you find us? What happened? Are all..."
At least it was a way of finding out without asking directly about Tilda. No, he wouldn't deny her, never, but it was too early to make another run for his integrity.
"Here, this broth is supposed to stay in your tummy. If it hurts, or if you feel sick, tell me."
Kíli tried to take the bowl with his trembling hands, but his brother would have none of it and fed him spoon after spoon of the lukewarm cream soup. How Bombur had been able to mash the ingredients that fine in the precarious conditions a camp kitchen offered, was beyond his comprehension, be he appreciated it from the bottom of his heart. Or of his belly, more precisely.
Between one spoonful and the next, the archer insisted in knowing what happened while he was knocked out.
"Are all... I mean, I wasn't alone, there was Legolas and..."
Big brother's ability, Fíli took his little brother's unspoken words to fill the puzzle.
"The daughter of Bard is over there, weak but alive, like you."
Yet, to Fíli, the daughter of the former bargeman was just another victim of the orcs, even if her supposed kidnapping wasn't a certainty anymore, not since Sigrid's horse was found.
Kíli turned to the appointed direction so fast his head could have unscrewed itself were it not for the bandages around his throat and neck. Fíli almost reached to steady his brother's head, worried the wound could tear open again.
"They hurt her... They hurt her so bad... And I couldn't... I couldn't..."
The archer buried his face in his hands and cried. Fíli took it for granted that it was sorely about shame of his inability to protect a female, as every dwarf had it wired in his innards that women had to be protected by all means, thanks to the illogical proportion of one lass to three or four laddies born in their race.
"Hush, nadadith... She's fine... Or, at least, not worse than you, or the elf." Fíli took a glance at where the elven party was settled, still curious about the behavior of some of their members. "Actually, Legolas was way worse than you both. What did the orcs do, throw him to the spiders?"
"Quite so." The archer muttered. "And they had him for longer than they had us, with all that this might mean."
"Ouch..." Fili glanced at the elf section of the camp. They tried to make it a separate camp, aloft as they pretended to be, but the crown prince could see how many of them engaged in idle conversation and other kinds of tentative contact with people outside their wooden realm. The blonde dwarf moistened his lips and took a breath while surveilling the camp. Kíli followed his brother's gaze and was surprised by the sight of an elk.
"What...?"
"Aye, that surprised us too. But let me tell you everything..."
=^.^=
When they were on the road – or what could pass for a road, path, whatever, in this Mahal-forsaken place - it was Bilbo – of course it had to be Bilbo! - who took the mantle of questioning Thorin. Much to both their disgusts, but it had to be addressed.
Actually, Thorin preferred it to be Bilbo than Dís. Bilbo at least had some good hobbit-sense, which neither him nor Dís ever had.
"So?"
It was a matter-of-factly approach, yet not. Thorin shook his head and answered in kind.
"So."
"No! I mean..."
"Aye."
"But..."
"We haven't discussed it yet."
"But..."
"But we will."
"And you..."
"Aye."
"And the Council?"
"The Council can opine after they have walked in my boots from the Blue Mountains to Erebor and back, twice. And then, thrice in the boots of my sister-son."
"And if they..."
"Then I'll tell them to go chase a dragon."
"Won't Balin..."
"He agrees."
"Oh."
To Bilbo that was kind of unexpected. Balin used to be the more cautious of all the dwarrows the hobbit knew. To have the diplomat at the sensible side of the quarrel was a bonus they all would profit.
A soft clip-clop of a well known pony approached, and Thorin heaved a sigh.
"Sister."
"Brother." Dís greeted in kind.
"If you're here to pester me about..."
"No need." She stated. "I'm sure my fiancé did it pretty well."
"Your what?" King and burglar cried in unison, one in terrified disbelief and the other in delightful disbelief.
"My fiancé." Dís repeated. "Or what? Do you think this courtship isn't gone far enough?"
"Díssy, this is not how royalty..."
She dismissed Thorin with a wave of her hand.
"I know how royalty, Thorin my big brother. And I'm tired of what it does to people like me, or Kíli." Dís cut his attempt to argue with another wave. "Or you, by the way."
"I'm not affected by..."
"Oh, no, I'm sure you're not. If you were you wouldn't have married to that sweet jeweler from the northern settlement, would you?"
"Wait, what?" Bilbo startled. "Thorin, you never told me you were married!"
Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, predicting a huge migraine coming out of this.
"I was not." He turned sharply to Dís. "One moon of courtship is too short even for the standards of Man."
"We can claim it's a Hobbit tradition."
"And what if someone finds out it isn't?"
"Then it will be too late!"
"Maker help me..."
=^.^=
1: Coranar: solar year, literally "sun-round". Elves count a "long year" as 144 solar years.
2: Ada: father, as spoken by Arwen to Lord Elrond. (I know, I know I said I'd keep foreign languages just inside brackets [ ] , but it is such a personal moment, I believed it would be better to use the Sindarin word.)