mithril

XVIII.

— XVIII —

The goats slide into Ravenhill, their cloven hooves skidding across the icy rock. The Dwarves and I vault from the backs of the rams, slicing down Orcs as we go. I roll as I hit the ground, springing to my feet immediately and raising Angolain to the ready. I've been gripping the blade so intensely this past hour that my knuckles are stiff in a white, bloodless hold. The cold hits my skin, driven towards us from the icy river. It laces over my face, forming an uncomfortable barrier of condensation as my breath warms the fog.

Fíli arrives at my side, somersaulting off the back of his mount in the same way I just have. The blond Dwarf presses close to my side as we turn to the remaining Orc group. They run at us, weapons lifted and cries leaving their mangled lips. They don't get very far. We make quick work of the party, dispatching them neatly and quickly. When the Orcs fall dead at our feet and the hill falls silent, we turn to Thorin. I keep my chin raised, unflinching, as he storms to me. His face is dark and angry.

"What do you think you're doing?" The deep note of anger in his voice reverberates deeply in my chest. A thrum of disappointment, but not for me. No, that fear in Thorin's gaze is for what my presence on this hill means. The longer he looks at me, the softer his gaze grows.

"I will go down by your side," I answer him. I'm not sure I can take the melancholy in his gaze for much longer. I'm drowning in it, the blue of his eyes swallowing me whole. My chest aches dully.

"I can't let you do that." His voice is soft. Unwilling to yield.

"It's too late to send me away. You know this, Thorin."

"I will not have your blood on my hands!" He shouts in a sudden outburst. He stops short, the cry dying in his throat as his voice echoes around the ruins of Ravenhill. I step forward, taking Thorin's hand in mine for a quick moment.

"You do not turn your kin away. Have faith in me, melethor."

"Where is he?" Fíli asks suddenly, looking around the empty ruins. Thorin twists, searching for the pale Orc.

"It looks empty," Kíli mutters.

"I think Azog has fled," Dwalin growls. "That coward–"

"No, I don't think so," Thorin replies, holding out a hand. His face is serious now. I relax slightly as he makes no more argument to my presence. "Fíli, take..." The Dwarf pauses, glancing between Kíli and I. "Take your brother and Léra. Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage, do you understand?"

"We have company," Dwalin growls. He points at the hill, where figures are starting to swarm towards us. "Goblin mercenaries. No more than a hundred."

"We'll take care of them. Go!" Thorin tells us.

"Thorin–" The Dwarf turns to me, his eyes wide and dark with a swirling storm. His command is resounding and strong.

"Go!" I close my mouth, reacting to his strong words almost instinctively. My chin jerks curtly before I twist and follow Kíli.

Fíli leads us around an overhanging cliff along the frozen river. I slide across the ice carefully, keeping to the shadows of the rock face. I wish, in a sudden shock, for my cape so I can blend in better with the darkness. The fog is thick around us, though, acting as a shield as we creep low to the ground. The mist puts us at both an advantage and disadvantage. We're hidden, but so are our enemies.

Fíli breaks into a jog, his footsteps light against the ice. We follow him across the river, heading for a dark entrance in the rock face. Kíli and I enter the tunnel behind the blond Dwarf. The dark rock is covered with a shining sheen of ice, cold to the touch as I bring my hand along it. I close my eyes slightly, trying to feel vibrations through the stone. Nothing. Nothing except...