mithril

XVII.

— XVII —

The rope drops from my hands as I scramble over the top of the stone ramparts. I find it empty, the Dwarves nowhere to be seen. I break into a run, stumbling down the steps. I retrace my footsteps from several nights prior until I see a familiar Dwarf, his honey-blond hair catching my eye. Fíli stands suddenly in my presence, his eyes wide.

"Léra," he chokes out. "You should not–" I brandish Angolain, my eyes wide.

"Where is he?" I ask. "Where is Thorin?"

Fíli leads me reluctantly towards the throne room. As we enter the great cavern, I see Dwalin already stalking angrily down the long stone walkway. His steps are hurried and urgent.

"Léra," Fíli starts again. "Are you sure you want to do this? He is not the same."

"I know, but I need to try."

He steps back, letting me follow Dwalin. I sheath Angolain as I walk, listening to the echoing shout of the tall Dwarf as he addresses Thorin.

"Since when do we forsake our own people?" He demands harshly, his voice tinged with emotion. I hear the desperation of a hundred years in his words. The unending loyalty to his kin that will never dim. He will serve Thorin to the death, but it breaks his heart to see the Dwarves face the Orc army alone."They are dying out there."

"There are halls beneath halls in this Mountain," Thorin starts, leaning forward. His eyes are tinged with yellow, cast in the evil light of the gold he surrounds himself with. He acts as if he hasn't heard Dwalin. As if the Dwarf's words mean nothing to him. "Places we can fortify–"

"Thorin." I step from behind Dwalin. My arms are crossed, keeping myself closed off from him. Being so close to him again makes my heart sing, but I forsake my emotions for once. I let my mind lead. I turn myself cold. I need Thorin back and I won't get him by folding to his sickness. That's what he wants me to do. I will do what I must, no matter how cruel, to bring him back.

"Ghivashel," he whispers. He rises from his throne slowly. "You have returned to me."

He's reaching for me, his hands desperate to brush my skin. I step away from his touch, though it pains me to do so.

Cold, Léra. Stay cold.

"I have a name, Thorin," I bite out. "Did you not hear Dwalin? Your cousin Dáin is surrounded. Your own blood!"

"They're being slaughtered," Dwalin chokes out.

"Many die in war," he answers. His eyes are still on me. Still yellow with greed. Still foreign and sick and cruel and not the Thorin I know. "Life is cheap. But a treasure such as this..." His hand rises to gesture at the gold surrounding him. The gold that has ruined him. "And this–"

Once again I shy away from his hand, avoiding that touch. Avoiding him. He brings his fingers back to his chest, balled into a fist. He looks lost, rather like a child being deprived of their favorite toy. It makes my stomach turn.

"This treasure cannot be counted in lives lost," he finishes. "It is worth all the blood we can spend."

"You sit here in these vast halls with a crown upon your head, and yet you are lesser now than you have ever been," Dwalin says quietly. His words are dangerous. I see the evil glint cross Thorin's eyes.

"You dare to speak to me so?" Thorin steps forward threateningly.

The cool silver of Angolain stops him from drawing any closer to Dwalin. The hiss of it is still ringing in my ears as I bring it closer to Thorin. I force him back until he takes two tumbling steps away from us.