— IV —
Thorin is glowering at everyone and everything as we settle into the cave out of the rain. He leans against the rock wall, arms crossed and staring at the ground. I pause before him, intending to go deeper into the cave. I take a second to look at the Dwarf carefully. I sigh internally before stepping forward. Thorin looks up at my presence, eyebrows drawn in annoyance. I gesture with my head for the cave entrance. He rises without complaint, following me away from the ears of the other Dwarves.
"I do apologize for throwing myself into your company, Thorin. I hope you understand I'm not trying to undermine you in any way." It's a soft side the Dwarf hasn't seen before. I purposely allow him to view it now in an attempt to make peace between us. "I truly didn't intend to, at first. I left Imladris with my mind set towards the Woodland Realm, but..." I trail off, looking away from his harsh gaze. That is the truth, after all. I was planning on following the Dwarves to Mirkwood, but then I had actually set out on my path and everything changed.
I knew the very moment he stepped out of Imladris because there had been a strange tug tug sensation in my stomach. I knew the path of the dwarves because of that feeling. It was how I found them in the Wild beyond the hidden valley. It was how I knew it was now my task to follow the company, and Thorin, to the ends of Middle Earth.
I wasn't going to part with them anytime soon.
"I will not protect you in the Wild."
"I don't expect you to, nor do you need to. I am capable." He starts to scoff. My hand snaps out from under my cloak, catching his arm. He freezes at the bold gesture "Let me care for the Burglar. Someone who doesn't talk down on him will do him some good."
"Fine," he snaps, "I will not mourn your death."
"Then it's a good thing you won't need to," I grin. My Draug Rae. He steps away from me, sliding back into the shelter of the cave. I stay outside a moment longer, taking in the darkness of the night as the rain continues to fall.
By the time I walk back in, most of the company is asleep. I settle myself against the wall, relatively apart from the rest of the company. I close my eyes slightly, listening to Bofur as he takes watch.
I must fall asleep, for Thorin's loud shout is the next thing that rouses me. I blink blearily for a moment before coming to my senses with a yelp. Beneath us, the ground has split. It opens with a strange orange glow, generating a cry of surprise from the company as the prone Dwarves start to slip towards the pit. My voice joins theirs as I slide towards the chasm, my fingers scrabbling at the smooth wooden door we'd been resting on.
We fall through the air, shouting and crying out as we bump into each other and off the walls of the stone tunnel. My hands are scrabbling for something to grab as I fall, trying to stop this terrible feeling as my stomach drops over and over again. I think I'm going to be sick by the time we land in a large pile. Hands and feet and the handle ends of weapons poke into my sides. I kick away from the group, throwing Dwarves off my back and trying to right myself. I hiss slowly as I look up and find that we are utterly, terrifyingly, surrounded.
"On your feet," I rasp, voice hoarse from yelling. I rise slowly and cautiously, poking at the Dwarves nearest to me with my boot. "Now," I urge. My eyes are wide and trained on the host around us. I start to reach for the sword at my hip, but a sharp spear tip digs into my back. The Goblin wielding it grins at me wildly. Deranged.
"Not so fast, pretty thing," he snaps. "Now move!" The Dwarves are rising around me, being similarly poked and prodded by the Goblins. My eyes find Thorin, who is at the front of the party. He shakes his head subtly, motioning to where the Goblins are pushing us. A silent command to stand down, for now. My hand falls from the pommel of my sword and I start to reach for Bilbo.
Bilbo.
Bofur has realized the same thing, his expression filled with horror as he finds my wide eyes. I look around, scanning the heads of the dwarves and doing a quick mental tally of them. Dori and Ori are closest to me. Then Bifur and Bombur. Bofur and Óin. Glóin and Nori, Kíli and Dwalin. Fíli and Balin stand with Thorin. But no Hobbit. Dread seeps into my bones as the Goblins continue to shove us away from where we fell.
They prod us along rickety wooden walkways at a fast pace, constantly needling us with the sharp spear-tips and blades. Thorin is staring around the giant cave as we enter the open area. Despite its size, the space is stuffy and constricting. It reeks of rotten flesh and food gone sour. There is no sanctifying breeze. No relief for the poisonous air that constricts our lungs.
The Goblins are screaming and chanting and creating such a ruckus I can't hear myself think. At my side, Bifur claps his hands to his ears and groans. I'm getting disorientated, twisting and turning until I can't remember which way in the cave is up and which is down.
My eyes find the large pale Goblin that stands waiting on a raised platform. I balk at the hands that steer and guide us towards it, especially as the figure swings a giant staff, topped with a skull. It whistles over our heads repeatedly, forcing us to duck. My lip starts to curl as the Goblin turns and sits on a throne, the seat made of a hundred tiny bones.
The Goblins make quick work of our swords and other weapons, stripping them from us and dropping them in a large pile before the Goblin. It's just a surface search, for they haven't seen or felt my knives. I have to hope the other dagger-carrying Dwarves hold their own hidden weapons close to their person.
"Who would be so bold to come armed into my kingdom?" The large Goblin asks, glaring down at us from his throne. "Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"
"Dwarves, your malevolence," a Goblin bows from beside the company.
"Dwarves?" The Goblin King roars.
"We found thems on the front porch. And this pretty thing." My arm is grabbed violently and I'm yanked before the Goblin. I react, pulling away and letting out a sound that both feels and reverberates like a snarl.
"A human!" The king crows. He shoves his face close to mine. I bite back bile at the stench of such a grotesque being. "What is a human doing with a pack of Dwarves?" He demands. When I don't answer, he pulls back and gestures at us. "Well, don't just stand there!" He bellows. "Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"
Well, there go my knives.
"Don't touch me!" I spit at the Goblins that reach under my cloak and yank at the daggers I have scattered about my person. They even take the tiny blade tucked in my boot. I keep one, the handle passing as a part of my leather armor from its hiding place against the arm bracers I wear. I don't dare to acknowledge it for fear of the Goblin's attention.
"Theys in league with the Elves, sire," a Goblin hisses, lifting his handful of my Elven daggers. Another Goblin grabs my blade from the pile, hoisting it above his head. The other Goblins squeal and cry out at the sight of the intricately made weapons. The Goblin King roars, his rage obvious.
"What are you doing in these parts?" He demands, turning to stare at me with such pure hatred I might have melted if I were anyone else. Instead, I raise my chin and snarl back.
"Don't worry lads, I'll handle this," the grey-haired Óin mutters, stepping forward.
"No tricks! I want the truth!" The Goblin King thunders.
"You're going to have to speak up, your boys flattened my trumpet," Óin answers, holding up his now-crushed ear horn.
"I'll flatten more than your trumpet!" The Goblin yells, stepping forward with his staff raised.
"If it's information you want, it's me you should be speaking to!" Bofur yelps, jumping in front of the Dwarves. The Goblin stares at him, waiting. "Anyway, the point is, we were on the road, not so much a road as a path, actually it's not even that come to think of it. It's more like a track. Anyway, we were on this road like a path like a track—" The Goblin is getting annoyed. I shift uneasily, taking a subtle shuffle back until I'm next to Thorin at the back of the company. "And then we weren't! Which is a problem, because we were supposed to be in Dunland by last Tuesday."
"Visiting distant relations!" Dori adds.
"Shut up!" The Goblin screams, grabbing at his head in frustration. "If they will not talk, we'll make them squawk! Bring up the Mangler! Bring up the Bonebreaker! Start with the youngest," he points at Ori.
"Wait!" I curse silently as Thorin calls out. He pushes through the Dwarves. The Goblin King starts to grin.
"Well, well, well! Look who it is. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. King under the Mountain. Oh, but I'm forgetting. You don't have a mountain, and you're not a king. Which makes you...well, nobody, really. I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head." I feel the energy of the Dwarves change at the threat on Thorin's life. It darkens, the Dwarves going silent and tense. I start to step forward, my fists balled, when the Goblin speaks again. "Perhaps you know of whom I speak. An old enemy of yours. The pale Orc, astride a white Warg."
I see Thorin's shoulders go tense. His fists clench at his sides.
"Azog the Defiler was destroyed. He was killed in battle long ago!" The Goblin starts to laugh at Thorin's words, turning away.
"He will come for his prize."
A disturbance ripples through the Goblins. One of them has picked up Thorin's sword, pulling it from the sheath slightly. It shrieks and flings the sword away. I stare at the glowing blue blade, the one I recognized on the road but haven't had a chance to inquire after yet. The Goblins are rioting, the king shouting as he shoves away from the sword.
"I know that sword! It is the Goblin Cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks. Slash them!" He roars.
And so you carry Orcrist. A sword forged in Gondolin in the ages of Old. How did you come by that, my friend?
I punch wildly at the Goblins that swarm us, unable to reach the final dagger that lays hidden against my arm under my bracer. In the slight lull between writhing Goblin bodies, I release the knife and start slashing with a fervor. But there's too many, their angry fingers tearing at me hungrily. I fight off what I can, but they bring me down. I fall, my knee hit hard enough to bend. I cry out, but the lowered position allows me to see through the legs of the Goblins to where Thorin fights. A Goblin holds a blade raised high over his head, ready to drive it down on the Dwarf. I react, the dagger leaving my fingers in a split-second decision before a fist meets my cheek and my head snaps sideways. I hear the shriek, though, of a Goblin dying.
I nod to myself before striking at the Goblins above me with my hands, my elbows, my knees. There are too many. I'm overwhelmed. I can't see the other Dwarves. I only pray that they, too, are still alive. Still fighting. I gasp as a spear needles my side, but doesn't break through my leather. I kick at the Goblin, who avoids my boot with a sneer. I growl, trying to rise, but another holds me down. I thrash at the spear lifted high above me, ready to come crashing down into my chest.
A flash of pure white light blinds the Goblins, throwing them off the Dwarves and sending them tumbling from the platform with a shriek. I pant, relief making me press my head to the wooden planks for a moment. Then I rise, half expecting another danger to have arisen from this change in events.
Instead, I find Gandalf. A brilliant sword is aloft in one hand, a twin blade to Orcrist. His staff is in his other, aloft and still glowing from the blast of light. I could cry for the relief that floods my limbs, cooling my sweating and burning fear.
Mithrandir.
"Take up arms," he speaks to us strongly. "Fight. Fight!"
I catch my sword from the air as Bombur tosses it back. I slash instantly, cutting down Goblins as I fight my way to Gandalf. The wizard doesn't seem to notice my presence. Or, he expected it. Knowing Elrond, I assume the latter is true. We follow the wizard as he runs across the wooden pathways, striking right and left as Goblins approach us in our attempts to escape this miserable cave.
I find myself next to Thorin, fighting at his side with intense swings of my sword before our path is clear to run again. I curse as we come to a gap in the path, one that the other Dwarves have already cleared. Judging by the smoldering edges of the hole, it was caused by a strike from Gandalf's staff. Thorin jumps it easily, but it breaks open more as he lands. He looks back and sees the hesitation in my stance.
He was planning on leaving me for the Goblins, for a second. I could see it in his eyes. Thorin even started to turn, ready to run without remorse away from me. But something makes him pause. Something turns him back to me.
"Jump!" He cries, a hand outstretched. "I've got you! Just jump!" More Goblins are approaching. I push off with my legs, crying out as my ankle catches on empty air and I scramble against the walkway. A strong hand wraps around my arm, hauling me upwards. I fall against Thorin, panting wildly, for a split second before he's dragging me to my feet and we're running again.
Gandalf is facing the Goblin King. As we fall into the pack of fighting Dwarves, the wizard slices at the Goblin. His stomach opens up, making the grotesque creature shriek, before Gandalf goes for his head. The Goblin falls at the wizard's feet, making the walkway shudder and shake until it finally gives out beneath our feet. I find myself grabbing for Thorin, my fingers closing around his arm, before we're falling through air.
I cry out, pain splintering through my entire body as the wooden platform collapses against the ground far below where we were just standing. The weight of broken planks and Dwarves and dead Goblins presses on me, making it hard to breathe. I struggle to free myself from the messy pile, every muscle in my body shaking and shivering from the shock of the impact. I rise, almost unable to stand from the pain, but doing so anyway. I have to push. Have to keep running. There are more Goblins streaming down the cave walls behind us. I follow Gandalf in a sprint as we race for the pale daylight at the end of this cavern.
"The Halfling?" I gasp out at anyone who will listen. No one answers my question.
I double over as we pause in the light of day, the Goblins stopped with shrieks at the brightness. The outer mountainside is bathed in orange, the setting sun a welcome warmth. I sink back, almost falling against a tree and staring blankly at the ground.
"Where is the Halfling?" I repeat. My voice is quiet and barely audible. Gandalf whirls, staring at me with wide eyes before repeating my question louder.
"Where is Bilbo? Where is our Hobbit?" The Dwarves look around, murmuring about the Hobbit's disappearance.
"I'll tell you what happened," Thorin growls. "Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and a warm hearth since he first stepped out of his door. We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone." I glare up at Thorin, a frown darkening my face.
"No, he isn't."
The relief I feel at the familiar voice makes my head hang. From that point on, I can barely hear the Hobbit's explanation to Thorin as to why he returned, so loud is the heartbeat that thunders in my ears. Each throb is painful, but I take the aches quietly.
I'll tell Mithrandir when we make camp for the night, I tell myself.
Until we hear the Wargs. I curse as I drag myself up the length of the tree until I'm standing again. I don't need to look to Gandalf for his encouragement to start running. I follow the sprinting Dwarves away from the approaching pack. The twilight is setting in around us, turning the world purple and making it harder to see. I rely on my other senses until my eyes adjust, releasing my blade as the sound of a Warg snarling grows close to my side. The Warg yelps as the sword slices against its thick hide, sliding right through the coarse hair and cutting it down.
"Climb!" Gandalf cries out. "All of you climb!" I look up at the wizard's voice, eyeing the three trees that are the only thing that might keep us safe from the Wargs for a few minutes longer. Beyond the trees, the hill drops off suddenly.
We are cornered, Mithrandir. I hope you have a plan to get us out of this mess.
The wizard looks at me, his face unreadable, but dark. That bodes badly for us.
Very badly.
I twist back to the Wargs once I have scaled the closest tree, wishing I had my plethora of daggers to rain down on the beasts. Instead, those blades are abandoned somewhere in the cracks of the hell we have just left. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Thorin is above me, so his face is hidden to me as the pale Orc appears. But I certainly sense the emotion coming from the Dwarf as the Orc begins to speak. I know enough of the rough blackened tongue to understand some of his words. Apparently, so does Thorin. He shouts, lunging against the tree branch with rage. I'm about to speak to him when the wargs launch themselves at the trunks. They claw and tear at the branches, making the entire tree shake.
My limbs ache with every tremble of the branch I hold. I groan as the tree starts to fall, but jump to the next tree, and then the last one standing as the previous one falls too. I clutch my branch tightly, pain turning my vision bleary as my body screams with the agony of a hundred tiny injuries. Gandalf summons my attention, calling my name and tossing something down to me.
I snap to awareness, catching the pinecone before bouncing it again in surprise. It burns with embers, smoldering in my hands. I throw it down at the circling Wargs, imitating the Dwarves around me. The beasts yelp and retreat from the spreading flames. The resulting cheers of the Dwarves are so loud and boisterous that the tree starts to tip. I make no noise as it falls, expecting the worst.
The tree comes to a rest hanging horizontally over the cliff. I groan now as my shoulders and arms strain to keep my holding onto a branch. The position jerks my side into tautness, and the blinding pain that splinters through my body tells me exactly where the injury is. I grit my teeth and ignore the white-hot burn as my ribs scream for release.
Thorin rises, rage glittering in those blue eyes. I can't say anything in my deep concentration. I can only watch him go, terror the only thing that keeps my limbs locked in place. I watch him walk down the tree trunk, towards the pale Orc. His blade is raised, a hollowed branch held on his other arm. He starts to run, a warrior's cry leaving his lips as his strides lengthen.
The Warg knocks him down with such a force I see his sword leave his hand.
My entire being jolts. I can't place the emotion, but I feel it deep, deep within.
Tug tug. Tug tug.
There's no ignoring this sensation.
I'm barely holding onto the tree. My legs kick out wildly over the chasm, attempting to find a hold in the tree's trunk to push myself up. My shoulders scream with pain as I try to rise. Thorin is crying out, the very sound burning a raging fire through me. I can't see him anymore through the licking flames, but I can hear him. I hear him and those sounds hurt to my very core. Everything I am is being rewritten in that sound. Who I am is awakening and responding.
Maybe the same thing is happening in Bilbo, for I see the Hobbit rise, his face set in a determined frown.
No.
My fingers slip from the shock. I expect to feel the shocking roil of falling for a third and final time when a strong hand wraps around mine. I look up and find the familiar blond Fíli keeping me from falling. He nods once, grimly, before hoisting me up beside him. His weapon is out, as are the blades of the other Dwarves. This is one battle they won't let their king lose, I realize.
My rage is almost as strong as theirs as I follow the Dwarves through the flames. My Elven blade draws more blood as I fight my way to the Hobbit. To the pale Orc facing him down. I will not let this little Halfling fall. Not now, not ever.
The Orc isn't expecting me to come between his Warg and the Hobbit. His eyes narrow and his mouth wrents in a vicious snarl. My own lip curls as I lower my stance, moving to grip my sword's hilt with two hands. A white Warg and a white Wolf. Two can play this game.
Azog the Defiler's eyes are on me and me alone. There is something stirring in that dreadful gaze. So dark and so hungry that I almost cower away. Almost.
The Silver Wolf does not shy away from death. She laughs at fear, afraid of nothing.
Draug Rae.
The Orc falters as I grin up at him. I take that hesitation to slash. A blow ( one that should have been deadly ) snaps across the face of the white Warg. It merely rips the beast's skin open, creating a line of black-red down its pale face. It howls, shuddering and twisting away from the burning pain.
There is the scream of something beyond my own voice as I lunge, sending my blade into the chest of the Warg. Azog twists away, his eyes turning to the sky. To the eagles that soar overhead, their giant wings now fanning the flames and turning the Wargs to ash. Then he roars, seeing the great bird that gently lifts Thorin's body. His Warg, still alive and now just pained to the point of being angry, whirls on me. The beast starts to charge.
I feel the sudden relief of a great wing flap, beating back the heat of the flames. I straighten, letting the tip of my sword drop to the ground. I grin ruthlessly up at the pale Orc as the teeth of his white Warg snap a breath's width from my face. It never gets the chance to strike me, for the gentle touch of talons wrap around my torso and pull me away from the Orc. With a great cry, the eagle flaps its wings and soars straight into the air. This time, when I fall through nothingness, I relish the feeling of the cool air against my hot skin. I land on the soft back of another eagle, a familiar Hobbit already seated in front of me.
I sink, relief making my adrenaline finally die away.