mithril

XVIII.

Kíli starts at a noise behind us. The scrabbling of rock against rock. His sword raises in a defensive position, his eyes narrowed. My hand is still pressed to the stone, but my head slowly turns towards the disturbance. A sinking feeling rolls through my body, dragging my heart downward in fear.

"Stay here," I tell the Dwarves in a low voice. Fíli is already stepping to my side.

"I won't let you go alone. Thorin would have my head," he whispers. "Kíli, search the lower levels. If you see anything, go back to Thorin immediately." The younger Dwarf starts to complain, but Fíli rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I've got this, brother."

Kíli watches us leave without another word. Fíli and I step through the tunnel, winding around bends until the dark-haired Dwarf is out of our sight. These close quarters are not suited for Angolain, but I don't dare to sheath my blade.

Fíli presses to the cold wall, peering around a corner. His eyes widen and he starts to back up into me. I freeze, my senses firing in an immediate and urgent warning. I reach for him too late as the orange flicker of torchlight reaches us. Orcs, approaching in leaping bounds and loud shrieks of glee as they see us. I turn, ready to run. Orcs behind us. Closing in.

Surrounded.

Fíli's back presses to mine as we face the lines. In the narrow tunnel, only one Orc at a time can approach us. We keep close to each other, fighting the two lines with a desperate, trapped fervor. My movements are cramped, my arm unable to wield Angolain to my full extent. The Orcs keep coming. An endless, streaming line.

My hits turn more desperate as the Orcs pile up before us. Fíli fights hard against me until an Orc kicks my leg out, catching me off-guard and taking advantage of my tired and pained limbs. My knee gives out, sending me to the floor. A blade is at my throat, the chipped metal biting and cruel as it presses into my skin harshly. The Orc above me shoves me into Fíli, warning the Dwarf in grinding black speech. My friend freezes, his body stiff with fear. I can practically smell the coppery emotion pouring from him. My own blood runs cold as the Orcs start to chortle with unhinged laughter.

The Orcs yanks us to our feets, dragging us harshly through the tunnels. I have the good sense to sheath Angolain against my back before we're shoved into the grey fog, lest the sword be taken from me. I stumble against the ice as my arm is wrenched forward relentlessly, Fíli tripping next to me as the pack leads us up the ruins of Ravenhill.

I falter as we reach the top. Someone is waiting for us, the pale figure shrouded in mist at first. My knees go weak with pure, saturated fear as the shroud shifts away.

Azog the Defiler is waiting for us.

The pale Orc reaches for Fíli, taking him from the jeering pack. Fíli kicks and thrashes as the giant Orc drags him forward. Hands are still on my arms, my back. They push me behind Azog, before shoving me roughly to my knees at the edge of the broken tower. My eyes follow the fog as it clears slightly, revealing the great height between this ruin and the ground. The river is weaving through that space, the ice a blue-white expanse.

Thorin is standing at the edge of the water. His eyes lift at the noise of the Orcs. He sees us in one splintering and painful moment. I see his heart cleave in two as he steps forward. A desperate, strangled noise escapes his throat. He's too far away. There is height and the river between us.

"Which one do you want to die first?" Azog growls, his Westron deeply accented as he addresses Thorin. "This one?" He heaves Fíli into the air, his grip on the back of his jacket restricting the Dwarf's movements. He kicks wildly anyway, a snarl set on his lips. Azog lifts his arm, the blade protruding from it pointing directly at me. "Or your pretty human?"