— XVI —
I stand between the many Elves of Thranduil's army, Gandalf at my side. The Dwarves of Erebor are standing on the ramparts, watching us with cautious expressions. I have the cowl of my cloak pull over my head, the shadow deep and hiding my tell-tale hair and the mithril armor I wear. I watch Bard and Thranduil walk through the ranks of Elves, each line parting for their horse and stag mounts. I grind my jaw as Thorin draws his bow and fires a warning shot at the Elvenking, the arrow hitting the ground just before the cloven hoofs of his stag.
"I will put the next one between your eyes," he calls out. The Dwarves around him cheer. Their triumph lasts for only a moment before Thranduil's hundred of archers react in unison to the threat on their king. They draw their bows, making every Dwarf along the ramparts, save for Thorin, duck for cover. The Elf holds up a hand, signaling for the archers to disengage. Again, they move as one unit, their movements resounding and fluid. A well-oiled machine.
"We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered, and accepted," Thranduils calls to the Dwarves.
"What payment?" Thorin demands. "I gave you nothing. You have nothing."
Bard reaches into his coat. He removes the glittering gem and lifts it into the air. The Arkenstone casts a hundred reflecting lights across the ground as the sunlight hits it.
"We have this. And..." he gestures. "We have your Silver Wolf." I balk as the Elves part for me, but Gandalf leads me forward. Bard slides from his horse. He steps to my side, his free hand rising to pull my hood down.
Thorin's bow lowers slightly. His eyes are wide, filled with conflict. I know what this looks like. I know the part he believes I have played here.
"Thieves!" Kíli cries out. The other Dwarves chorus in agreement.
"That stone belongs to the king!" Dwalin chimes in.
"The king may have it, with our good will." Bard hands me the stone. His hand goes to my shoulder, leaning against me slightly as he smirks up at the Dwarf. I watch Thorin, for my eyes will look nowhere else. "But first, he must honor his word."
Thorin shakes his head, turning to his company.
"They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse. A filthy lie. The Arkenstone is in this mountain. It is a trick!"
He doesn't believe that. He knows the truth. And now he thinks I've done it.
"I-It's no trick." My knees almost give out at the soft voice. Thorin's eyes go wide with shock. With bewilderment. Disbelief. "The stone is real. I gave it to them, and I convinced Léra to journey with me for protection. I left Dale without her. It's my fault she's down there and not here."
"No," I whisper, starting to surge. Bard reaches for me, his hands closing around my arms. Thorin turns to Bilbo, his face a dark and surging storm.
"You?" Thorin asks. "You would steal from me? You would take ghivashel from me? You would put her in danger?"
"I did what I thought was right. I'm willing to let the stone stand against my claim."
"Your claim?" He scoffs. "You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!"
"I was going to give it to you. Many times I wanted to. Léra even tried to convince me you should have it, but–"
"But what, thief?"
"You are changed, Thorin. The Dwarf I met in Bag End would have never gone back on his word. Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin! Would never have chosen gold and gems over her," Bilbo whispers the last bit. My knees wobble again.
"He's going to get himself killed," I whisper. Bard hushes me, but his hand is reassuring against my shoulder.
"Do not speak to me of loyalty. Do not speak to me of matters in mine own heart. Throw him from the rampart!" Thorin bellows. A choked noise escapes my throat. None of the Dwarves move to carry out his orders. "Did you not hear me? I will do it myself. Curse you!"
I break free from Bard with a strength I didn't know I possessed. My legs carry me forward in great bounds until I reach the point of the bridge that has broken off into the water below.
"Thorin Oakenshield!" I use the same rolling voice, commanding and summoning, as I did in Mirkwood. It has the same effect now as it did then, if not more. The Dwarf freezes, blinking wildly. His eyes clear, ever so slightly. He looks down at me, a new, bright light shining there. Recognition. Understanding. Hope bleeds into my chest until Gandalf steps up behind me.
"If you don't like my burglar, then please, don't damage him. Return him to me. You're not making a splendid figure as King under the Mountain, are you, Thorin, son of Thráin?"
The dullness returns to his eyes. That aching icy blue I adore so goes pale and flat. I want to sink to my knees and cry out. He is so close, and yet so far. I try to silently plead with him to return, my eyes wide and searching. I try to get the Thorin I know back.
Bilbo gasps as he's released, rushing to the rope with Bofur's help and dropping down the side of the Mountain face. He lands on the rocks in the stream and immediately darts past me to Gandalf's side.
"Never again will I have dealings with wizards! Or Shire rats!" He hesitates, and for one terrible moment I think he will add me onto that list. He doesn't, but his eyes are dark as Bard summons me back by name.
"Are we resolved?" The tall man calls out louder, his voice traveling. "The return of the Arkenstone and Léra for what was promised?" Thorin stares down at us as he paces angrily across the ramparts.
"Why should I buy back that which is rightfully mine?"
I reel as if I've been struck. My lip twists in disgust and anger.
I am NOT a possession, Thorin Oakenshield. I belong to no one! I will make you pay for those words.
"Keep the stone. Sell it. Ecthelion of Gondor would give you a good price for it," Thranduil tells Bard. I'm already spitting as his smirk turns to me. "Marry the Dúnedan, give your children the blood of the ancient kings. Or perhaps I will take her for myself into my Realm," he smirks up at Thorin. I know the Elvenking is just trying to get a rise out of the Dwarf, but the words still ruin me. I feel so sick I can't form the curses of old that rest just against my lips. I let my body move on it's own, my hand rising. Bard sees me reaching for my sword as my face twitches with rage. This time, he doesn't stop me. He doesn't have to, for Thorin's word still my fingers.
"I will kill you all! By my oath, I will kill you all!" He roars. Like a lion, the bellow rising deep and filled with wrath from his lungs. I see Bard's figure flinch away from me slightly. I straighten myself slowly, a calm rage stirring within me that will not be settled until Angolain turns red with Elven blood. Thorin catches my eye. His gaze is so angry. So vengeful. So...
Mine.
"Your oath means nothing," Thranduil responds.
"When it comes to amrâlimê it means everything," Thorin answers, bristling as he stares the king down. I jolt at the new word. Spoken so differently. So hungrily. Like he needs me. I feel, quite suddenly, that I could throw the Arkenstone away and Thorin would be happy to see me return to him empty-handed.
"I have heard enough," Thranduil scoffs. He raises his hand and his Elves move to the ready, their arrows pointed at the mountain.
"Thorin," Gandalf calls. "Lay down your arms. Open these doors. This desire for treasure will be your death." He looks at me with a certain kind of sadness in his eyes. I am too angry to add my encouraging words to the wizard's, as he is silently urging me too. Instead, I let him see a snippet of my raging mind.
I will kill Thranduil for his words. I will end his line, Gandalf. He grows too bold in this hour and I have had enough. He dies before a single Elven arrow touches Thorin.
Gandalf's expression is dark and warning. I ignore the wizard. My hands ball into tight fists at my side as I stand tall and proud before the army.
"Give us your answer," Bard finally adds. I see Thorin's head dip. He's considering it. Bard's jaw is tight. Drawn in his stress. "Will you have peace? Or war?"
A part of me wants the war. I want to see Thorin rip his way through a hundred Elves just to reach me. I want him to show the world that I am his treasure. His and his alone. I want to feel like that. I want him to feel it. I want us to ravage the entire army to the ground without a second glance just to reach each other.
Thorin's head raises slowly as the sound of wings beating the air approaches the Mountain. I, too, find the bird. A large raven, cawing as it arrives and settling into a perch on the stone rampart with a shake of its feathers. A messenger. Thorin looks to his left, at the hills that rise away from us.
"I will have war."
I feel the ground shaking. Clouds of dust are rising from those hills. There is a new sound rising towards us, the steady marching of thousands of feet and the clank of many metal armor pieces and weapons. Over the ridge rises an army. Wide and strong, shields bared. Next to me, Gandalf breathes out in shock. Bard reacts, tugging me to his horse and up in front of him. I don't fight him at first, my eyes set on the Dwarven warriors.
"Ironfoot," the wizard grumbles.
The Dwarves on the wall cheer loudly. Thranduil immediately wheels his stag, shouting commands in Elvish as he rides between his ranks. His forces turn as one to face the new enemy. They march forward steadily to meet the Dwarves.
"Let me go," I growl at Bard.
"Not yet," he hisses into my ear. "We don't know how this will go."
"It will go badly if you do not let me go." He ignores my biting words. His strong arms stayed wrapped around me, holding me in place on the horse.
The red-haired Dwarf that has approached the Elvish lines on his lonesome, astride the back of a large, hairy boar, is speaking. I'm too busy trying to work out a way to properly wiggle out of Bard's grasp quickly enough that he won't catch me to hear what the Dwarf is saying. My opportunity comes when he moves to draw his sword, his hand releasing from my arm. His people shift uneasily and he turns to them with a call for the villagers to stand fast. With his attention elsewhere, I slide from the horse.
"Relax," I answer to his immediate glare. "I'm not going anywhere yet. I just want freedom of motion, alright?"
He doesn't answer as Gandalf strides through the legion of Elves. His eyes are on the wizard, his hand gripping his sword tightly.
"There is no need for war," Gandalf calls to the Dwarf, "between Dwarves, Men, and Elves. A legion of Orcs marches on this Mountain. Stand your army down."
This is new information to me. I again look up at Bard. His features are set. Unreadable.
"I will not stand down before any Elf. Not least this faithless Woodland sprite," the Dwarf scoffs as he gestures at Thranduil with his massive battle hammer.
Oh, I like him.
"He wishes nothing but ill on my people. If he chooses to stand between my and my kin, I'll split his pretty head open! See if he's still smirking then."
You and I have similar interests, Dáin Ironfoot.
The Dwarf Lord whirls the boar he rides, thundering down his lines. Gandalf calls after him uselessly. Thranduil moves forward, a sneer set on his lips.
"Let them advance. See how far they get," he scoffs. "Stand your men down. I'll deal with Ironfoot and his rabble," the Elf tells Bard. The tall man holds out an arm to his people as the Elves start to march past us.
We watch from behind the Elven lines as Thranduil races amongst his warriors, calling out commands. Across the field, Dáin is doing the same. When Thranduil sends a volley of arrows, the Dwarf lines part to reveal a host of goat-riding soldiers. The men around me cry out as the arrows of the Elves are met with giant, whirling spikes. The wooden beams embed in the dirts amidst the Elves, the force of the impact sending the lithe golden-clad figures sprawling. Thranduil is angry now, reacting by calling his spearmen against the goat-riders. The Elves move like liquid, creating pockets in their ranks where the fallen Dwarves and goats alike skid against the ground.
But as suddenly as the fighting starts, it pauses. The Elves and Dwarves freeze, their attention drawn away from the battle. There is the sudden, shrieking sound of breaking earth. The very ground quakes beneath our feet. I stumble back from the noise and the sudden explosion of rock and dirt that explodes from the far mountains to our right. From the giant hole in the earth, a massive worm-like creature appears. The great pinchers of its twisted face constrict, cracking rocks with ease and sending rubble raining down.
A movement closer to our position draws my attention. My heart drops as my eyes find the near peak. Angolain sings as I draw it free, making Bard look down at me swiftly. I gesture at the figure standing tall against the fog rolling off of the frozen river. A pale orc, standing with the great battle ribbons meant to direct entire armies. As I watch, the bellowing of great horns sounds out over the valley. In response, hordes of dark figures begin to pour from the holes in the far ridge. Orcs. Hundreds upon hundreds of Orcs.
"Bard," I hiss, twisting. "I must go to Thorin. Now."
"Give me the stone first."
I drop the Arkenstone into his palm without quarrel. Bard shoves the glittering gem into the safety of his jacket before waving his hand at me.
"Go. Bring some sense to him. Return with the Dwarves, or not at all."
"I will." The man reaches down and catches my arm before I have fully turned away. I pause, staring up at him. His eyes are dark. Probing as he studies my face. I don't like the look in that gaze.
"He's right to covet you so. Anyone in their right mind would. But I would never have listened to Thranduil's words. And I would also not speak to you like the Dwarf does. I would never cage you like that."
"I know," I answer him with a slight smile. I pat Bard's leg briefly before turning on my heel. I twist through the Men and Elves, sprinting away from the marching yanks. The farther I move, the louder the sounds of the Orcs grow. Closer. In a moment, the sound of fighting has started again. This time, it is louder by a threefold. I pause on an elevated rock in front of the Mountain, looking back at the fighting.
Orcs are running for Dale. Elves and Dwarves alike are embedded in the wriggling black mass. As I watch, I see Bard's white horse racing towards the city. My heart tears, thinking of Tilda and Sigrid and Bain, along with the other villagers of Lake-town. I have faith in Bard and his men to hold them off, for a time, but I'm reconsidering going into the mountain. I could help them by simply turning back around and joining the fray.
But no. That is not my path.
Rally Thorin. Bring him to his senses. The Dwarves will follow their king. And then...
And then I will kill Azog.