Faith

Musings on a Missing Dwarf

Tilda was befuddled, to say the least, on behalf of the most recent events. To see Kíli trashing in the throes of a nightmare was no novelty, but what came next... When he looked at her with glazed eyes, claiming she was just a child... Was it because they talked about the Battle the day before? Was his fever high again? No, she would be able to tell by the feel of his skin when he...

He kissed her. Kíli actually kissed her. It was not a dream this time.

And he was awake. The glazed shine his eyes showed when he was enclosed in a nightmare wasn't there anymore. She knew it. Could it be that Kíli wanted her like she fancied him? Was it possible that what she felt was mutual, in any measure?

"Bullshit..." She muttered to herself. If he had any feeling for her he wouldn't run away from a simple kiss, would he? He probably dreamed of Tauriel and reacted on it, half asleep.

But he was not asleep.

"Argh, abstruse dwarf! If it continues this way, Kíli will be the death of me someday – or of my sanity, granted!"

She readied most of her stuff for the day, saddling both horses to gain time. Kíli's own sleeping furs she let be, knowing his jealousy on the weapons he kept under it. Stupid dwarf, he shouldn't have run away from the camp without a weapon on him. Actually, he shouldn't have run away, period.

Tilda looked at the small pile of wood they had collected the day before, whilst the dark of night didn't settle down completely. It was good firewood, dry, light and quick to kindle. She would not ride away before Kíli came back, so, besides the ordinary disassembly of the camp, there was little to do and too much exasperation to deal with. Some hacking would do to work her frustration out and enable the firewood to be carried with them to the next campsite, as they used to do when good fuel was found.

Broda snorted at the sound of her first axe blow. She was used to it, the horse kind of laughed every time she did something her thin frame wasn't quite built to accomplish.

"I hauled enough fish nets in my life to be able to do this, you rohirrim fagot." She mentioned to the horse, even if only to have someone to talk to. Tilda wasn't sure if she was more confused or angry, but the wood was taking the worst of it, sparing the horses from most of her mental rant. "And I was hauling stones to rebuilt Dale when you weren't even a foal yet, so you know."

But Kíli was an adult by then, and now he was unable to see she had grown up. Grown up enough for her father to consider her apt to marry. She didn't wish to marry whomever her father chose, but it didn't change her status of old enough. If Tilda were to choose between suitors, she wouldn't complain if Kíli were on the list.

"Would it be too much to ask, Broda, to have a dwarf prince as my husband?"

The horse neighed softly, and Tilda took it as an agreement on Broda's part. Tripsy neighed too, as if to put her own copper coin in the discussion.

"That's what I thought. And you Tripsy, what can you tell me about your master? You know him closer than I do, I'm sure. I've never seen you being mistreated, even when we were in a hurry. Da says a man who mistreats his steed is bound to mistreat his lady, eventually." She left the axe be and stacked the wood on a tarpaulin Sigrid provided for this purpose. "Which makes me wonder, does it mean every Rohirrim is bound to be a good husband? I must ask Siggie next time I see her, she should know."

Thinking of her sister saddened her, but Tilda tried to swallow the feeling with a gulp of water. Chopping wood was thirsty work, and thinking about the ones she loved and left behind wouldn't help the work to be done.

"If your master has something resembling brains, he should come back soon." Tilda addressed the pony again. "He's one to say this forest is dangerous, yet acts as if it were the garden next door. Is he usually this moron?"

Tripsy nickered, ears down, but Tilda ignored it, eyes on her task. Broda, closer to the woman, sidestepped, looking around as if sensing something wrong.

"No need to answer, I'm sure he is. Wouldn't brood on what others say about forgetting Tauriel if he weren't. What he feels about her is his problem and his alone, isn't it?"

The horse almost bumped her side, neighing, and only then Tilda noticed something must be amiss. The pony's nostrils flared, eyes wide and searching.

When the woman perceived the danger, it was too late.

"Catch her!"

The command was a harsh shout, and creatures poured from everywhere around. Tilda didn't have to ratiocinate to know what they were.

"Orcs! Help! Help!"

She cried at full lungs, hoping against hope that Kíli would be close enough to hear, yet thinking herself clever for not shouting his name. If the orcs heard a name being shouted, they would know there was someone else and would be prepared for it. As if they wouldn't know for the load on the beasts...

"Shut her up!"

The one who must be their leader shouted, trying to avoid the axe in her hand. Some of the orcs were having trouble with the horses, that pranced and kicked as they could, a havoc beside the woman.

"Help!"

Tilda kept shouting, wielding the hand axe the best she could considering it was not a weapon, just a tool. Tripsy kicked the tarpaulin, scattering wood on Kíli's sleeping furs, and bit an orc. The response was swift and deadly, a gash on her neck pouring blood as the mare writhed in agony.

"Stop the horse!"

Seeing what had been done to the pony and hearing the threat to loyal Broda, Tilda wielded her axe down on the rope that tied the horse. The smart beast didn't wait a second to use his freedom and leave the campsite – slaughtersite – at full gallop.

Tilda was no warrior, she was a healer. Even if accounted as a fisher, there would not be much she could do with a fish knife that she couldn't with a hand axe. Moreover, she was just one person against a bunch of orcs. What chance did she have?

"Help! Help me!"

She tore her lungs until something gagged her. After Tripsy was slaughtered and Broda obeyed her command to run (as if such order were needed), it didn't take much for the orcs to restrain Tilda and curb any attempt to resist them. Coarse rope tied her hands, and she didn't want to guess the material of whatever was used to gag her, since, being a healer, she was well used to the reek of decay. Her ankles were shackled, feet too close to each other to allow her to kick the orcs where it hurt, or even elsewhere without granting her a fall.

A group of six orcs passed her by, carrying the remains of Kíli's fidel pony. In between her own misery, Tilda was still able to bewail on the fallen mare, one more innocent life lost to orc violence and the Powers only knew if Middle-earth would ever be free from those spawns of Darkness.

"We found no trace of the dwarf scum, captain Burzurg."

Tilda turned her eyes to the smaller orc who was informing his supposed superior. The bigger one, whose face had a distinctive extra fang trespassing his left cheek, growled.

"Doesn't matter. We have two prizes already. Won't be hard to find the third."

The woman felt her heart hammering inside her chest. It didn't matter who or what the first prize might be; all she hoped was Kíli's impromptu flight granted him never, never be the third.