21A/N: HEY WHAT'S UP. Look at me, posting again after only a week! It's like it's 2013 all over again. This chapter is different from the others and I had a lot of fun writing it. Sometimes it's fun to just go crazy and try something different. I hope you like it!
Kisses to Mhyin and pepperonyscience for being betas on this chapter. It would have been much less good without their input. Mwah.
The Great Sea he saw through its unquiet regions teeming with strange forms, even to its lightless depths, in which amid the everlasting darkness there echoed voices terrible to mortal ears.
– Unfinished Tales
Fíli had never seen the ocean. He knew of its existence, of course—beyond the Blue Mountains, to the west, lay the Great Sea, on whose shores few but Elves dared to tread; and to the south, he had heard, they even set sail to cross it, to a land far to the west that none but the invited—the Children of Ilúvatar—could find. As Children of Aulë, the Great Smith, the Dwarves had not been invited hence, nor did they desire an invitation. Fíli had read the old tales and songs of Elves and Men; it was said that the ocean called to them, sang to them, with the remnants of the music of their Creator. But to the Dwarves who dared listen, what song they may have heard, they did not understand, and they feared it. Their creator's song called to them in mountains and caverns, where stone, metal, and jewel lay waiting to be crafted by skilled and loving hands. To them, the ocean was dark, and treacherous, and unknown.
It was this ocean in which Fíli found himself now.
At times, he felt close, so close to the surface of the dark waters that held him—a faint glimpse of light, glittering on the surface, calling him upward, back to safety. But as he clawed his way towards the free air, his body screamed from two burning holes in his back, and his ribs ripped the air away from him, leaving him gasping as the dark waters closed in again, pulling him into the undertow. Voices surrounded him that were somehow both deafening and barely a whisper, and in the deep, shadows passed through the grey veil that had settled over his eyes. Terror closed in around him, and all hope gave way to despair.
Why did you lie?
Fíli wished he knew the answer. When he had awoken, drenched in black blood with his side burning, he had only one thought: Kíli. Finding him, making sure he still lived, had been the singular most important thing. And when he had found him, bleeding and bruised but alive, the relief felt like a flood of hot mead in his belly, warming and sweet and dulling his senses.
It's too late.
He had thought it long before he had said it—or had he? He had heard the thought within himself long before the veil had fallen and the shadows had come, and the voice had sounded like his own, but—had it? The voice had been oily, hissing, and yet he had believed it as if it were as sure a thing as the sky above and the earth below. Whose voice had it been?
It didn't matter anymore. Perhaps it had not been too late then, but it was certainly too late now. He was drifting, rolling in wave after wave of agony and despair until he could not remember which way was up and the light had been lost. He was drowning. He was drowning, he couldn't breathe, his chest pulsed and erupted in pain—
"Breathe deep, Fíli. It's all right. I have you. Take a deep breath, lad."
For a blessed moment, Fíli broke the surface. He felt strong hands holding him up, lessening the throbbing in his side. He did his best to obey the words he heard, and though it hurt, the relief of air in his lungs calmed his frantic mind. He breathed in and out, clinging to consciousness as tightly as he could manage.
"Good. That's good. Just like that. Keep breathing."
Fíli opened his eyes. A curtain of dark grey met him, and he grimaced. Oh, what he would give to see the light once more…
"There you are. Welcome back."
Fíli listened to the low rumble of his uncle's voice, still too focused on breathing to reply. Other sounds began to filter in; the pattern of rain, the crackling of a fire, Óin snoring. He listened for his brother, but he heard nothing.
"Kíli?" he asked.
"He is here," Thorin replied, and Fíli's shoulders relaxed. "Asleep beside you."
So he was resting. Good. Sleep would help him recover. He wished he could look him over and assess his condition for himself.
"I can't see him," he said.
"What can you see?"
"Only shadow."
There was a pause before Thorin spoke again. "Here, lad," he said finally and one of his hands left Fíli's torso to take his hand. Then Fíli felt a soft blanket, and beneath it, a chest rising and falling in the gentle pattern of sleep. He closed his eyes.
Somewhere above the surface, Thorin's voice rumbled again, and Fíli realized far too late that he had once again been pulled under. Deprived of his sight and barely holding onto his hearing, he tried desperately to hold onto the only thing he still had. He clung to the rise and fall of Kili's chest, Thorin's hands holding him, even the burning in his back, if it meant the shadows below could not reach him. And yet, the glimmering surface fell farther and farther away, and he sank down, away from his brother's breath and Thorin's hand on his shoulder, away from the crackle of the fire and Óin's trumpeting snores. But the rain did not cease. It grew louder, more tempestuous, and the wind roared around him like a hurricane. He tried to cover his ears, but the wind was inside his head.
He could no longer hear Thorin's voice.
Shapes darker than dark swam past him, and he recoiled from them. Thin, oily laughter surrounded him, breaking through the wind and the rain, mocking him. He wept, and he could not see a way out, and finally, he understood: His final moments had been granted. He had been allowed one more brief connection with his kin before death swept him away. It was too late. It was far too late. He thought of his mother and wished he had been given the chance to say goodbye.
But death did not come swiftly. The laughter followed him, and the shadows grew larger, like demons of old hidden beneath the mountains, the bane of many of his ancestors. His limbs would not obey him; he could not run or hide, and even if he could, there was nowhere to go. Darkness stretched out in every direction, for the world he could make sense of had disappeared, and the only thing left was an endless expanse of terror.
A new shadow, taller and wider than the others, rose before him, its size expanding beyond comprehension. Black wings unfolded from its massive frame, and a long, reptilian neck unfolded a mountain's height above. Fíli felt so very small in its presence, insignificant by virtue of stature, and yet he could feel its gaze upon him. His mind fled back, far before Erebor, before Smaug the Terrible, to an ancient story of a black dragon taller than mountains, whose fire burned hotter than the fires beneath the earth. Somehow it had found him, and it sought to devour him, as it had devoured many Dwarves in ages past, and he knew from the depths of his soul that there was no escape.
But the great dragon did not swoop down and open its jaws upon him. It laughed, and the sound was shattering. Fíli screamed and tried again to cover his ears, but the laughter was all-encompassing and inescapable. And then Fíli felt its fire upon him, an inferno that enveloped him and set him aflame, ripping all other senses away and leaving him screaming and writhing in torment. He sobbed and wished for death, but it did not come; only more burning, a torture from which he would never be free.
And then there was something cold and wet against his face, and Fili was wrenched back to the world. The dragon disappeared as he opened his eyes to smoke and shadow. The burning ceased, but the heat remained, and he was suddenly aware that every inch of him was drenched with sweat. He could hear himself still sobbing, but the action felt removed from him, happening in a place he could not reach. He was alive. He had not died.
He wished he had.
The cold, wet feeling returned, settling against his forehead, and another settled on his chest. Someone took his hand, and he knew that it was Kíli. A familiar voice flooded his senses.
"Please stay with us, Fíli," Kíli said with a wobbling voice. "You have to fight it. You have to."
An ache sprung up in Fíli's chest. Kíli squeezed his hand, but he was too exhausted to return the motion. Never before had he been able to resist his brother's pleas—at least, not for long—and it hurt his heart to know that this time, the ability to give in to his request had been stripped from him. He closed his eyes again.
"No, no, no no no no," said Kíli somewhere above him, shaking his hand. "I know you can hear me, Fee—I know you're listening. I can tell. Don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare."
Fíli wished he had a choice in the matter. The cold cloth against his forehead moved and wiped away hot tears from the sides of his face. It felt good.
"… if he's awake." Fíli had missed the beginning of whatever Thorin had said. Kíli's voice responded, but the words were lost. Fíli bobbed in the waves, floating, not by his own effort, but merely because the current had not yet pulled him back under. It was only a matter of time. His kin continued to speak, but he did not have the energy to listen. He focused on the cold sensation against his fevered skin, his hand in Kili's, the drops of water they placed on his lips. Once in a while, voices lilted upward, and Fili knew they were questions he could not answer.
And finally, the voices faded away, and he was weightless, back in the deep darkness. Not even the monstrous shadows had followed him here. The quiet was stifling. He wondered if this was death. Time seemed both slow and insignificant; moments could have been hours, or hours moments, and the feeling would have been the same. Nothingness. He drifted in it without will or intention, waiting; even fear felt empty now, though he knew he still felt it, as he waited for whatever came next.
Clarity came upon him like the ringing of a bell, and his senses returned as if they had never left. He felt the deep, burning ache in his back and the sharp pain in his ribs; he heard the crackle of the fire in the hearth; he smelled woodsmoke and his own sweat. He groaned and searched with his hands, keeping his eyes closed, but he found no other. Then he realized that he lay against a pillow, not his uncle. He opened his eyes and, expecting to see only grey, was surprised to find he could see a comfortably decorated room—his room. He furrowed his brow.
Finding that he had the strength to sit up, he did so, groaning again as his torso protested. He swung his feet off his bed and touched them to the cold stone floor, grounding himself in the sensation; then, carefully, he tried to stand.
A wave of dizziness overtook him, and he sat back down and pressed a hand to his forehead. Too much, then. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to pass, and then peeked out at the empty room with one eye.
"Hello?" he called.
His voice echoed back to him, sounding flat and raspy. He hemmed and tried again.
"Mum?"
No answer. He called for Kíli next, and then Thorin, but it was as if his voice did not even leave the room. Dread began to settle in his stomach.
"Thorin?" he ventured again. "Kíli? Is anyone there?"
Still nothing. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to stand; this time, he managed to stay upright, and he slowly made his way to the door. He reached for the handle, and his hand swept through air. Baffled, he looked down. There was no handle there. An icy chill crept down his spine.
"That isn't funny, Kíli," he said to the door. "Stop it."
Only there was no door. He was speaking into a wall where his bedroom door should be. He took a step back, his hands and his breath beginning to shake. It made no sense. It couldn't make sense. He pressed both hands against the stone, and it felt cold. He took a breath in, and it hurt. He listened for the crackle of the fire, and heard nothing.
Why did he hear nothing?
Fili kept his hands on the wall and pressed his forehead against it as well as the fear that had felt empty and remote before came crashing down on him again, holding him in place. He willed himself to turn around, but his body would not obey. He searched again for the door to no avail; it was not there. The room darkened slowly around him, and finally, he found the strength to turn. The fireplace was gone, as was his bed and all his other belongings. The room had shrank to an impossibly small size, and in the center of the space, he saw a stone table, waiting for him.
Revelation came with a rushing wind in his ears, and he turned and banged his fist against the cold wall.
"Mum! Uncle! Kíli! Anyone!" he cried. High on the rushing wind was a terrible, oily laughter, and he banged on the wall over and over, desperately calling for his kin, but he was alone, still alone, and no one was going to come. He knew this—he had known it all along. It's too late. It had always been too late. Fíli slid to the floor and cried, brokenly whispering for his loved ones. The smoke rose over him again, entombing him, and this time, he did not wish to die.