Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold = Kuzdul
Italics = Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

The moon hung low over the Northern Wilds, pale as bone, its light caught in drifting mist that coiled along the shadowed trees. The air smelled of damp earth and moss, sharp and cold, and the quiet carried the faint rustle of unseen creatures. To most, it was a still night. To the Rangers, it was never quiet.

Elarien moved at the head of their company, bow slung across her back, sword light at her hip. To look upon her was to glimpse a shadow of legend — pale skin aglow in moonlight, dark hair black as midnight cascading in loose waves down her back. When she turned her head, the strands caught silver light as though the stars themselves had tangled there.

She stood small beside her brothers-in-arms, scarcely five feet and three inches, yet her presence filled the clearing with quiet command. Lord Celeborn of Lórien himself had once said she bore the likeness of the songs of old — to the mortal echo of Lúthien Tinúviel. Mortal though she was, there was something in her that seemed touched by a light beyond the world.

Whispers had drifted along the ranger paths: Orcs were moving closer to the borders of the Northern Wilds, farther east than any dared believe. Though none could yet say why, the Dúnedain had stirred, shadows gathering to hunt the shadows. Elarien was among them. She had taken the Ranger's oath at fifteen, a bow in her hand and fire in her heart, and Daeron had stood at her side then as he did now. He had been both mentor and shield, more father than friend, his grizzled hand steadying hers when her own faltered.

Daeron had once told her the work of Rangers was thankless. "We are the shadows that keep the light burning, sworn to be forgotten so others might live unknowing." She had laughed then — but tonight, with unease thick in the air, the weight of those words pressed heavy.

Among the Rangers, quiet talk followed her. Not for her skill alone, though she was swift and deadly as any blade among them, but for the shadow of fate that seemed to linger in her steps. Some said her path was written long before she was born.

Yet fear gnawed at her — fear of failure, of stumbling beneath a burden she barely understood. Of faltering when others depended on her.

"Something stirs tonight," Daeron whispered now. His grizzled beard caught the starlight, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hood.

Elarien's hand brushed her sword-hilt, blue eyes narrowing. "I feel it too."

The words had barely left her lips when the night split open with snarls. Ten shapes thundered from the trees — wargs, their slavering jaws dripping, eyes gleaming with hunger. Upon them rode Orcs clad in black mail, crude blades raised high.

"Form ranks!" Daeron bellowed.

Steel rang as the Rangers drew swords. Elarien's bow was in her hand in a heartbeat, the first arrow loosed before the nearest warg had fully broken cover. It struck the beast in the throat, sending rider and mount crashing down.

But for every one that fell, more closed in.

The clash was chaos: glimpses caught in shards of moonlight and shadow. A Ranger's cry — cut short in a wet gurgle. A warg's snapping jaws, breath rank with blood and carrion. Steel flashing, then vanishing into the dark. The thud of paws shaking the ground. A scream, and the sharp reek of iron where it met flesh. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, the taste of iron and mud on her tongue.

Elarien's blade struck sparks as it met an axe, the shock jarring through her arm. She ducked low, swept wide, felt her sword bite into flesh. The Orc shrieked — but before she could breathe, another loomed, crude blade raised high.

They circled like wolves, eyes glinting with cunning, driving them back, cutting off escape. Herding. Hunting. She glimpsed something in their eyes — not just hunger for blood, but the cruel purpose of a darker will, something far older than these western hills.

Her heart clenched as she heard the command, guttural and cruel: "Alive! Take her alive! The Dark One wants her!"

Cold realisation struck. They come for me.

Guilt surged like ice through her chest. Every life here was in danger because of her. If she stood and fought, they would all fall, and she would still be taken. She could see it already in the widening press of bodies, in Daeron's defiant cry as he struck another rider only to be forced back again.

A younger Ranger fell at her side, his chest split by an Orc's jagged sword. His blood soaked the earth, steaming in the cold. Elarien's breath caught, grief warring with fury. She struck the Orc down with a cry, but already two more closed in.

If I stay, they all die.

"No," she whispered, almost choking on the word.

Another warg leapt past, bowling two Rangers to the ground. She could hear Daeron shouting, calling her name, the battle turning hopeless.

Her decision cut through her like steel: she would not let them slaughter her kin for her sake.

"Run!" she cried, voice breaking as she parried a blow and stumbled back. "Protect the Rangers! Do not follow me!"

She darted sideways, drawing the Orcs' attention, luring them from the melee. Three wargs broke from the pack, riders spurring them after her. Branches whipped past her face as she ran, heart pounding, boots slipping in the mud.

But even as she fled, she knew she could not outrun them all.

A weight crashed into her from behind — iron fingers clamped around her arms, wrenching her bow away. She struggled, kicked, drove her elbow into her captor's jaw, but another blow came, sharp and merciless, across her temple.

Through the haze she saw one last image: Daeron, unyielding, standing like a wall of iron amidst the tide. His sword rose and fell in brutal arcs, cutting down any that dared approach, his voice raw as he roared her name into the night. Blood streamed down his brow, yet still he fought, defiance burning in every stroke, as though he alone could hold back the darkness.

Then came the ropes, the jeering cries, and the stink of victory not her own. Darkness claimed her.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold = Kuzdul
Italics = Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

The Northern Wilds stretched endlessly around her, dark trees clawing at the mist-shrouded sky. The forest blurred as the wargs thudded through the undergrowth. Time had lost all meaning — hours, she could not tell. Elarien drifted in and out of consciousness, her body wracked with hunger, thirst, and bruises, ropes biting deep into her wrists. The air reeked of rot and smoke, mingled with the sharp tang of blood and the acrid scent of damp moss. Every breath made her stomach heave; every step threatened to pitch her into darkness.

Orc voices bickered around her in guttural tones, screeching and spitting, meaningless yet full of menace. Sometimes they spat commands, sometimes curses, sometimes laughter that grated against her nerves. Occasionally, scraps of stale bread or water were shoved toward her, but they barely touched the gnawing hollow in her stomach.

She drifted, caught between terror and fleeting awareness. The thud of paws beneath her — wargs that carried her like a ragdoll through the twisted undergrowth — shook her chest and rattled her mind. She tried to focus, to remember the training Daeron and her brother had hammered into her, but fatigue blurred every thought.

A brief image flashed through her mind: her brother, steady and unyielding, sword in hand, standing on a sunlit hill with her at his side. The memory was fleeting, almost painful — a warm contrast to the biting cold, the rot, and the cloying haze around her. Guilt gnawed at her chest: she had fled to save her comrades, but had she failed?

The forest seemed endless, shadows coiling like living things. Twisted branches clawed at the mist, fog drifting over fallen leaves, occasional glimmers of starlight striking the frost. Faces of those lost in the northern wilds flashed in her mind — the Ranger who had fallen, Daeron's cry, her brother's silent encouragement — each memory pressing heavier than the ropes around her wrists, thick as stone.

Minutes blurred into eternity before the wargs finally faltered, slowing their path through the shadowed wilds the wargs slowed, dragging her into a shallow hollow. The Orcs screeched and snarled at one another, voices jagged and unrelenting, echoing like claws on stone. A meager fire flickered in the center of the clearing, casting grotesque shadows across their warped faces. Smoke curled lazily into the cold night air, carrying the rank stench of sweat, blood, and decay. The fire's weak warmth kissed her skin, but the haze in her mind made it feel distant, almost unreal.

Her wrists throbbed where thick ropes had been tied around a low branch and a jagged rock, cutting into her skin with each tremor of exhaustion. She sagged against the tree, muscles trembling, head swimming in a thick haze. The drugs coursing through her system made her limbs heavy, yet somehow, she could shift enough to bring a trembling hand to her mouth.

The Orcs seemed unconcerned, convinced their captive was harmless.

"She can barely stand," one screeched, sharp teeth flashing in the firelight. "By the time we reach the fortress, she'll be nothing but bones and fear."

"Leave her be," another hissed, clacking his blade against a rock. "Alive, yes, but useless. No threat at all."

Elarien's stomach twisted with anger and dread. They underestimated her — as they always did. Through the haze, memories flitted across her mind: the clash just outside the northern wilds, the screams of her comrades, the thud of wargs' jaws, Daeron shouting her name, her brother urging her to move. Guilt pressed heavy on her chest. She had fled to save them, but had she failed?

Her hands shook as she lifted the vessel of water they had provided. The Orcs muttered among themselves, their screeches echoing in the hollow, confident she would drink without resistance. And she had no choice; she could not refuse. Swallowing the bitter, drugged water, she felt the haze deepen, dragging her mind and body further into weakness.

Even as the poison spread through her veins, a spark of resolve smoldered in her chest. Rage flared at their arrogance, at their cruelty, and beneath it, a stubborn, icy certainty: she would survive this. She must. She had no right to fail while those she loved might still cling to life because of her. Somewhere deep, a quiet, heavier thought whispered: the burden she carried was larger than this night — for her family, her kin, and the fragile light that clung to the northern wilds, she could not falter.

The forest hummed with unseen life, wargs shifting restlessly around her, the fire crackling low. Her eyes half-closed, she whispered into the darkness: I will not let this defeat me.

The journey resumed, but the forest seemed to shift beneath her, the ropes cutting sharper, the fog thickening like a living thing. Her limbs felt leaden, her head swimming, and the bitter water had begun to take its full toll. She staggered, nearly collapsing, as an Orc roughly seized her arms.

"Up!" it screeched, and before she could steady herself, a rough shove hurled her onto the back of the warg. Pain lanced through her ribs, her stomach twisting violently, and her hands scrabbled for purchase on the coarse fur.

A strangled cry escaped her lips, sharp and involuntary. The Orcs froze, scowling, and she realized why — even in cruelty, they were careful. Too rough, too loud, and they would face the master's wrath themselves.

The beast surged forward, carrying her through the dark wilds. Darkness pooled at the edges of her vision, creeping like ink across her mind. Thoughts faltered, memories blurred, and consciousness threatened to slip from her entirely.

Her muscles burned with exhaustion. Her stomach ached, her head swam, yet deep somewhere in the haze, a small, stubborn spark clenched tight. She could not give in, not now, not while her kin and comrades were scattered across the wilds, vulnerable to the darkness closing in. I must survive this.

But for now, she was carried helplessly, the warg's powerful movements forcing her into the shadowy night, the forest whirling in a dizzying, half-real nightmare. Her body trembled, the ropes chafing raw, and she felt that sickening, drugged heaviness settle fully over her.

The world narrowed to fire, claws, and the relentless thud of paws. Darkness was not far now.

Through the haze, shapes began to take form — jagged rocks, twisted spires, a looming shadow pressing against her mind. Even half-blind, she sensed the cold, oppressive presence ahead, as if the fortress itself leaned in, pressing on the forest and her very bones. Her body faltered, the ropes digging deeper, a small cry escaping again, but the Orcs only hissed at one another, careful not to risk their master's wrath.

The forest gave way to sheer walls of jagged stone, twisted towers scraping at the clouded sky. A chill ran down her spine; the darkness pressed closer with every heartbeat, as if the stone itself had a will.

Her body sagged against the ropes, muscles trembling, head swimming, but deep inside, a stubborn ember of defiance glimmered. She could not, would not, let the darkness claim her yet. I must survive this, she whispered, though her voice was little more than a ragged breath.

Even in that haze, she glimpsed the mangled gates ahead, the thin rock bridge leading to the entrance — heavy, foreboding, and silent. She didn't know what awaited beyond, but she knew one thing: the night was far from over.

And somewhere beneath the fog of fear and fatigue, a single thought took hold, bright and fierce as steel: I will endure. I will not break. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold = Kuzdul
Italics = Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

The fortress rose like a jagged wound against the sky, its twisted towers clawing at the clouds. Even through the haze of exhaustion and drugged haze, Elarien felt its oppressive weight settle over her shoulders, pressing against her ribs as if the stone itself had a pulse.

Orc hands dragged her from the warg's back, their grip cruel but measured. She stumbled, muscles trembling, ropes chafing raw lines across her wrists. The smell of damp stone and rot hit her before the torches revealed the twisting corridors of the fortress — narrow hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly into shadow, the walls slick with moisture, echoing each guttural screech and footfall.

Her head swam, the bitter taste of the drug still clinging to her tongue. Every step was a battle; each breath an effort. The halls seemed endless, twisting in ways that made her stomach lurch, and the shadows pressed close, as if the stone itself sought to trap her. She pulled against the ropes, tiny tugs that earned only a sharp hiss from an Orc, but the movement was enough — a reminder that she could still act, even in weakness. A stubborn ember of defiance stirred. She would not lie entirely passive, not while the world still pressed against her, not while her kin lay vulnerable beyond the fortress walls.

The Orcs flung her into a small chamber, the door slamming shut with a metallic clang that reverberated through her skull. She sagged against the cold stone wall, shivering as a thin draft cut through the room. The only light came from a single torch set in a bracket, flickering across rough-hewn walls.

A fetid stench of mold and unwashed stone clung to the air. The faint drip of water echoed somewhere unseen, and in the distance, faint, indistinct murmurs of other prisoners — or something else entirely — reminded her that this was not merely a prison. It was a cage within a shadow.

Elarien's mind drifted, shadows of the wilds and fleeting echoes of screams brushed the edges of her mind, but the haze of drugs kept her from fully grasping them. Guilt and dread pressed against her chest, heavy as stone. She had survived, yes, but at what cost?

One of the Orcs shoved a bowl of thin broth into her hands, its stench almost as foul as the hall itself. She hesitated, then sipped — too weak to refuse. Each swallow dragged her deeper into haze, the world tilting and folding into shadows. Even in her fog, she caught the flicker of movement in the corridor outside. A figure, silent, still — as if waiting, observing. Not an Orc, not yet, but something that made her chest tighten.

Hours, or perhaps only moments, passed. She drifted, drifting in and out of consciousness, and the fortress pressed in closer, stone and shadow weaving a cage around her. The ropes cut deeper, and yet somewhere beneath the haze, a stubborn ember of defiance burned. She would survive. She must survive.

And in the corners of that dark chamber, in the silence beyond the Orcs' bickering, she sensed another life, quietly present, almost forgotten. Not lost, but hidden, waiting. It was a weight she could not name, a pull in the marrow of her bones. When she dared to lift her head, to peer into the gloom, she glimpsed a shadow shift in the dim light — silent, distant, yet undeniable.

Elarien pressed her palms to the cold stone, the ache of fatigue and hunger cutting sharp, and whispered into the darkness: I will not break. I will endure.

The fortress had claimed the night, but it had not yet claimed her. And somewhere, beyond the walls of her confinement, a presence waited — as forgotten as a dream, yet tethered to the world by memory, by blood, and by fear.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold = Kuzdul
Italics = Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

Elarien's eyes fluttered open to the cold embrace of stone. The torchlight sputtered weakly in its bracket, casting jagged shadows that danced across the rough walls. Her head swam, still clouded by the lingering effects of the drug, each breath shallow, each movement a small battle against fatigue. The fortress pressed in from all sides, slick and oppressive, every corridor a trap, every shadow a silent witness.

Her wrists throbbed where the ropes had bitten into her skin, but she shifted slightly, testing her strength. Her gaze caught a neighboring cell — its walls crumbling, the mortar brittle and fractured. Instinct whispered that it would take little effort to tear them down, to merge the two spaces into one.

A shift of movement within that cell made her pause. Something — or someone — stirred. The air hummed faintly with presence, hesitant and wary. Elarien's chest tightened, not with fear, but with the quiet recognition of another life tethered to the same shadowed place.

Cautiously, she pressed herself closer to the crumbling wall, probing the edges with her fingertips. Tiny shards of rock loosened at her touch; a gentle tug, a scrape against the mortar, and a larger fragment gave way. Her hands ached, her muscles screamed, but the stubborn ember of defiance flared stronger. The wall yielded, rubble falling softly to the floor, revealing a larger shared space.

A sudden, guttural sound froze her. The figure within the neighboring cell recoiled, eyes wide, posture defensive. He did not speak the common tongue — his voice was a sharp, alien cadence — and his body trembled as though years of isolation had taught him to fear all touch, all approach.

From the dim light, she could make out his form. He was small, even for a dwarf, yet gaunt and wiry, as if years of hardship had stolen his strength. His skin, where it peeked from under torn sleeves and a ragged tunic, was scarred — a map of battles fought and wounds poorly tended. One hand trembled nervously, fingers twitching, missing a ring finger. Every movement was cautious, almost jerky, as though he feared the world itself.

His hair was thick and long, tumbling over his shoulders, mingling with a beard that fell in dark waves across his chest. Even in stillness, he seemed as though the slightest sound might make him shrink further into the shadows. His eyes darted nervously, wide and searching, as if the walls themselves might swallow him whole. Every tremble of his hands, every twitch of his fingers spoke of a life spent on edge, unmoored and uncertain, lost in the echoing silence of isolation.

Elarien kept her movements gentle, letting the moment stretch as she tested the waters of trust. The ember of human connection glimmered between them, faint but undeniable.

The figure's eyes flickered with something — caution, confusion, a tiny hint of recognition. He muttered again, his words jagged and unfamiliar, rough on the ear, yet with a rhythm that hinted at meaning. Khuzdul.

She thought of the words he had spoken, the harsh syllables heavy with stone and fire. Memories stirred of evenings by the fire, when her father whispered fragments of that tongue — long-forgotten phrases carried carefully through their line. She had always had a knack for languages; as a child, the more she learned, the easier it became to pick up new ones. A few whispered syllables, a handful of words, and she could begin to feel the patterns, the rhythms, the subtle cadences. Not fluency, not yet, but enough to recognize meaning and, if she listened carefully, respond in kind.

Now, in the silence of the prison, it no longer felt like mere memory. It felt like purpose. All those fragments carried forward through blood and time had been waiting for this moment — for her voice to bridge the distance to a broken soul with no one left to hear him.

Slowly, cautiously, she spoke. "I… understand." One word, measured, patient. Her accent rough but deliberate, chosen to bridge the gap of isolation.

The figure froze, startled, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if testing the truth of her claim. A faint flicker of curiosity danced in his gaze, buried beneath layers of fear.

Elarien offered a small, careful smile, letting her hands rest open and visible — a gesture of kindness and patience. She moved no closer, made no sudden motion, just offered the fragile warmth of understanding.

For a long moment, the two of them simply regarded one another. Each heartbeat stretched into silence, the weight of years of fear and loneliness pressing between them. Then, slowly, ever so slightly, he shifted, less tense now. The first tentative bridge formed between two lives long broken by shadow.

Elarien whispered again, softer this time, letting the words flow like water through stone: "It's alright… you're not alone."

A faint, almost imperceptible response came back in Khuzdul, clipped and wary, yet unmistakable in meaning: Not alone…

She shifted closer to her corner near the cell's opening, collecting what little food and water she had left. She set the small portions on the floor between them, careful to make no sudden movements. "Here," she whispered softly, "when you're ready."

The stranger's trembling hand closed around the crust of bread at last, pulling it close as if even this small offering might be stolen away. He ate sparingly, each bite slow, measured, as though his body had long forgotten the rhythm of nourishment. When he raised the cup of water, his grip shook violently, and a thin stream spilled down his beard, glistening in the torchlight. Yet for all his frailty, there was dignity in the way he consumed it — caution without desperation.

Elarien watched in silence, her own stomach aching with hunger, her throat raw with thirst. What little she had left was gone now, placed in his hands. But no regret stirred within her. To see him eat, to witness even a spark of life restored to another soul in this place, was worth more than her own meager comfort.

Her gaze lingered on him. Scarred hands calloused in ways that spoke of iron and stone. Shoulders once broad, now shrunken from neglect. Hair and beard grown wild and unkempt, yet thick with the memory of strength. His eyes darted often toward the shadows, anticipating the lash of a whip, the jeer of an Orc. This was no common captive. This was a warrior reduced to bone and will — uncertain, lost, and fearful, not yet ready to remember the fire within.

Outside, boots scraped on stone. Orc voices carried through the corridor. Both stiffened, the fragile connection clutched like glass that could shatter at a single sound. The voices faded, the danger passed.

Elarien let her breath slip quietly between her lips. "You are not alone," she whispered again, unsure if he heard, unsure if he believed. Yet she saw it: a tiny ember of hope in his dark eyes.

She crouched low, fingers scrabbling at the fractured mortar, tugging gently at loose stones. The neighboring cell slowly yielded, widening the gap between their confined spaces. Each fragment that fell was accompanied by a soft clatter. The stranger flinched violently, hunched tighter into the shadows.

"Easy… easy," she whispered, calm and steady. "It's alright, stranger. Nothing will hurt you while I'm here."

He watched her closely, eyes darting at every subtle movement. Even as she cleared rubble, he mirrored her motions with cautious attention, anticipating hidden threats. The scars along his arms and the missing ring finger were stark reminders of brutality endured — and the reason for every twitch and nervous glance.

A low creak echoed through the corridor outside, followed by the dull thud of boots on stone. The stranger froze, muscles coiling like a spring. Elarien paused mid-motion, turning her gaze toward the sound.

"Orc patrol" she murmured, more to herself than to him, then smiled gently. "They won't see us here."

Another footstep, sharper this time, made him flinch, retreating a small step into the corner. Elarien hummed softly, a tune familiar from her days in the ranger camps. The sound wove around the cold stones, warm and human, and the stranger's breathing slowly eased, though his body remained taut.

She resumed clearing rubble, each motion careful and deliberate. The stranger's dark eyes followed her intently, tracking every reach, every tug at stone. Tentatively, he inched forward alongside her, testing the space and the safety of the widened opening. Each soft thump of falling stone no longer made him jump violently; instead, he watched, cautious but willing to take the first small step toward trust.

The gap between the cells grew wider with their careful collaboration, the shared space slowly transforming from two isolated prisons into a fragile haven. Though neither spoke much, the quiet companionship and Elarien's calm patience threaded a delicate bond between them — the first spark of connection in a fortress built of stone and shadow.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold= Kuzdul
Italics= Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

The small space felt suddenly smaller, colder, as distant shuffling echoed along the stone corridors. Elarien's hands were still smeared with dust from clearing the rubble, her breath slow and measured, keeping herself calm. The stranger beside her — still trembling from the earlier work — watched her closely, eyes dark and wary.

A whisper carried through the cell block. A sound unlike any Orcs they had heard before — sharp, jagged, and familiar only to those who had been near enough to witness fear in its rawest form.

"The Defiler comes…" another voice hissed, low and guttural in Black Speech.

Elarien's stomach clenched. The stranger froze, shoulders coiling, every muscle rigid. His eyes widened, pupils fixed on the corridor beyond the crumbling wall. She had never seen such raw terror.

And then he appeared.

Azog.

Tall. White-skinned, pale as death but tinged with yellow decay. Deep scars crisscrossed his flesh, each a story of violence and survival. A heavy mace rested on his right arm, just under the elbow, its iron darkened with age and fresh stains alike. Dried blood streaked across his chest and up his right arm, testament to battles fought and lives ended. The stench of rotting flesh trailed him, sharp and metallic, mingled with the acrid tang of old blood — a vivid, suffocating reminder of death itself.

Every movement he made carried weight, a dreadful rhythm of impending doom, crushing the air around him. Orcs before him bowed, trembling, whispers of Black Speech tumbling over one another. Their fear was almost palpable—they feared him more than the humans and elves he hunted.

Elarien's mind raced. She had heard whispers, murmured stories in shadowed corners: the Battle of Azanulbizar, the utter devastation of the Dwarves, and yet, this monster had survived. Legends said he was slain, his body discarded deep withing Moria, yet here he was, more terrible than any tale. Her pulse quickened, fear curling like smoke in her chest.

Her memory flickered to Daeron, patient and steady, humoring her endless questions when she was ten. They had sat by the fire at the ranger camp, night falling thick around them.

"Tell me again about the dwarves, Daeron," she had begged, eyes wide with curiosity.

He had chuckled softly, ruffling her hair. "The dwarves, Lari… strong folk, proud and stubborn. You want a story, hmm? Then hear of the Battle of Azanulbizar — the gates of Moria, the ancient halls of Khazad-dûm. Long since overrun by the enemy. The dwarves fought like a raging storm, but many were lost."

Elarien leaned closer, smiling at the use of her nickname, one that only her closest companions used. "What happened to Azog? They say he was killed there…"

Daeron's face darkened, voice dropping low, the firelight catching the edges of his features. "It was said that Thorin Oakenshield — wielding nothing but a sword and an oaken branch, in pure fury — struck the Gundabad orc down. Or so the stories tell. Many believed him dead, and yet…" Daeron's voice trailed off ominously.

Elarien had shivered at the memory then, and she shivered now. That early fascination, nurtured by Daeron's and her father's gentle guidance, now gave her a faint thread of understanding — a way to comprehend the stranger before her, even amidst the terror.

Instinctively, she positioned herself between the stranger and Azog, subtly stepping forward. The stranger, unnervingly, shifted slightly behind her, almost as if instinctively seeking her protection — a silent acknowledgment of her role. Small gestures of control, she reminded herself. She could not yet fight, but she could protect.

Azog's gaze landed on her, sharp as a blade. He knew exactly why she was here — he had sent the Orc raid himself, under his master's orders. He approached slowly, deliberately, letting the weight of his presence crush the space between them.

"Your blood will serve its purpose… whether you wish it or not," he said, low and deliberate, rolling through the hall like molten iron. His eyes flicked to the stranger beside her, and shadows of recognition passed over the figure's face.

The stranger pressed himself closer to the shadows, trembling so violently that even the stone beneath him seemed to shiver. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, and his dark eyes darted from Azog's mace to his scarred, towering frame. Every instinct screamed to flee, to vanish, yet his body refused to obey, frozen beneath the weight of sheer terror.

"You will be the last of your line," Azog continued, stepping closer, each movement predatory. "Your life, your heirs… they belong to my master's design."

Her stomach churned, but her mind raced faster than her pulse. Azog's words lingered, echoing like the clang of chains: "They belong to my master's design."

Her thoughts twisted through possibilities. Who could command such a creature? Such cruelty, such single-minded purpose? Her memory of Daeron's stories now looped back into the present.

Her breath came in shallow bursts as the pieces began to align. This wasn't just imprisonment. This wasn't random cruelty. Someone — someone of unimaginable influence and dark intent — had orchestrated her capture. Her life, her lineage… even her very blood was no longer her own.

Yet beneath the fear, a flicker of resolve sparked. If her life was desired, then she would live not in despair, but in vigilance. Every breath, every small act, could become leverage. Knowledge was her ally; patience, her shield. Even in the shadow of the Defiler, she would seek the path that turned fear into strategy.

Her eyes, sharp despite the tremor in her limbs, met the strangers briefly. Even in his wide-eyed terror, she could feel a reflection of her own determination. They were both small pieces of a much larger design — but perhaps, together, they could endure long enough to change it.

Her voice came sharp, commanding, and loud enough for Azog to hear: "Do not touch him."
It rang like a challenge in the stone corridor. The stranger's dark eyes flickered — a faint recognition of a language trapped in the back of his mind — incomprehensible, yet somehow familiar. The words were strong, unyielding, a warning: stay back. Fear lingered beneath them, but courage blazed brighter.

Azog's eyes narrowed, noting the defiance. He leaned closer, shadow falling over both of them. The torchlight glinted off his scars and the iron of his mace. His stench filled the air, a visceral reminder of death made flesh.

"You are… remarkable," he said, voice a low rasp, deliberate, threatening. His gaze lingered, sharp as a blade, measuring, testing, weighing. "I take great satisfaction in knowing your life, your blood, and your line will serve my master's will."

Then, with a dismissive glance, he turned. Orcs scattered before him, fear making them nearly invisible in their haste. Yet even as he vanished down the corridor, a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk lingered on his lips — a warning, a promise that this confrontation was far from over.

The stranger did not breathe until the sound of Azog's retreating steps faded entirely. His body remained coiled, trembling, dark eyes wide. Elarien laid a gentle hand on his arm — not too forceful, just a reminder she was there.

"You are not alone," she whispered, softer this time, letting the words seep into the tense silence. The ember of trust from before had survived Azog's shadow, fragile and flickering. She felt the faint tug of responsibility settle in her chest — a quiet self-assurance forming. I cannot let fear control me. I must be a shield, at least for now.

Outside, the fortress hummed with life — Orcs moving, chains clanking, distant shouts — but inside, they shared a moment of tense relief. The Defiler had passed, yet his presence lingered like smoke. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of another patrol stirred in the corridors, a reminder that the fortress was alive, watching.

The stranger's grip on the shadows tightened, but for a brief heartbeat, his eyes met hers, a flicker of recognition and tentative trust passing between them. The spark was small, fragile, but it was enough. And in that quiet space, beneath the oppressive stone and shadow, a plan, a bond, and the first threads of survival were beginning to take hold.

Hey everyone! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I've been wanting to write this for ages — tried before but never felt quite ready. Over the years my vision has shifted, and I'm super excited to finally share it here. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so don't be shy — drop a review let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold= Kuzdul
Italics= Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

Weeks had passed, measured not in days but in the small, deliberate rhythm of survival. The fortress remained cold, oppressive, yet predictable. Elarien had learned its patterns: the cadence of boots on stone, the echo of chains, the gaps between Orc shouts. Each morning, she received a slice of bread, a small cup of water, and occasionally a piece of meat, mutton she though. By nightfall, the rations repeated — meager, controlled, just enough to sustain life. She rationed carefully, dividing portions with the stranger.

He was gaunt, trembling at first, but each shared meal restored some strength, and with it, a flicker of hope. Elarien watched him closely, adjusting the portions slightly, letting him take the first sip or bite when he hesitated. Her gestures were subtle: a hand on his shoulder to steady him, a gentle nod, a whispered reassurance. Every small act became a thread of trust woven between them.

Her humming filled the cell during long, silent hours. Soft, melodic, almost instinctive — a lullaby threading warmth into the stone walls. At first, the stranger had flinched at the sound, uncertain. Slowly, he began to respond, echoing fragments of her notes, low and hesitant, his voice rough from disuse. Sometimes, he would pause mid-breath, listening, until the simple cadence anchored him.

Elarien began asking gentle questions, her voice threading the past into the present.

"What is this?" she asked one evening, holding up a shard of pottery, its edges worn and jagged.

The stranger's hand trembled as it hovered over the fragment. His dark eyes narrowed, scanning its shape. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he whispered, "Broken."

Elarien nodded gently, then pointed toward the faint glow of a torch flickering outside their shared cell. "And what is that?" she asked softly, drawing his attention to the light, the warmth it suggested.

The stranger's gaze followed hers, lingering on the flickering flame. Recognition sparked in his eyes, quick as a shutter snapping. "Fire" he whispered finally.

For a moment, his shoulders loosened, the tremor in his hands easing slightly. Elarien's heart lifted at the sight — a spark of memory, of understanding, of self.

She smiled softly, feeling a warmth she had not seen in him before. "I see it" she murmured. "You remember… a part of who you are."

The stranger did not respond. He remained still, eyes fixed on the torchlight, yet now a new tension gripped him, subtle but undeniable. Fear, memory, and caution wove together, and the silence between them grew heavy, almost uncomfortable, filling the cell with its weight.

Elarien waited patiently, letting him inhabit the moment, and then, gently, almost as a whisper to the shadows themselves, she began, "I know tales of the Dwarves if you would like to hear?"

She paused, waiting for a response, pondering which story might reach him, hoping some thread of memory would stir. Her voice fell into a gentle rhythm, like a lullaby against the cold stone walls. She spoke in the common tongue this time, not knowing enough Kuzdul to form the complete tale that followed. Elarian hoped he would understand.

"Unlike Elves and Men, the Dwarves were not counted among the Children of Ilúvatar. Their maker was Mahal, known as Aulë the Smith. In the hidden depths of the mountains, he shaped the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves — the first of their kind, from whom all others descend.

"But Aulë, though wise and skilled, could not grant them true life. They were bound to his will, like clay still waiting to breathe. When Ilúvatar saw this, he reproached Aulë, who confessed his longing to create life of his own. In repentance, Aulë raised his hammer to destroy the Dwarves.

"Yet before the blow fell, the Dwarves cowered and begged for mercy. And Ilúvatar, moved by their plea, granted them life, including them in the grand design of Arda. But He decreed they would not awaken before the Elves, the first-born. So Aulë laid them to rest in secret chambers deep beneath the mountain, to sleep until their time had come.

"The eldest, Durin, settled in the caverns above Kazad-dûm, where his halls would grow into the greatest of Dwarf realms. And so the Longbeards' halls remained hidden, separate from all others, waiting in silence, until the age to rise and claim their place in the world."

She let the words linger, soft and deliberate, watching the stranger carefully. She hoped that some flicker — a name, a place, a memory of stone and hearth — would awaken in him.

His eyes darkened with recognition, flickers of emotion surfacing — longing, curiosity, a trace of fear tempered by the pull of memory. Fire, the smell of earth and stone, faint laughter — the ghosts of three children he once knew. A mountain, the familiar warmth of home, now distant and fragile.

He flinched, glancing again at the torch, as though afraid that speaking aloud might shatter the fragile memories. His hands twitched at his sides, trembling not with weakness but with the tension of a mind reaching across years of loss. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, disappearing into his dark beard, carrying the weight of grief.

Elarien noticed the trembling and, without breaking her gaze, reached out a hand, brushing lightly against his arm. The contact was gentle, steadying — an unspoken reassurance.

Her voice softened further. "Do you remember your name?" she asked, kneeling beside him, hand brushing lightly against his arm.

He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. Slowly, almost mumbled to himself, he began threading fragments of the Dwarven tale into words: "Durin… the eldest… Kazad-dûm… the mountain…"

The silence stretched, heavy, almost uncomfortable, filled with the weight of unspoken memories and restrained fear. Elarien's hand remained on his arm, warm and steady. "You are here," she murmured. "You are… yourself."

Another pause. He exhaled slowly, tears still hidden in his beard, as if letting a tide of thought and grief settle. Then, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, raw and hesitant, he spoke:

"Th… Thráin."

The word hung in the air, fragile yet weighty. Elarien's smile softened, and she pressed her hand lightly against his shoulder, steadying him. "Yes. That's right. Thráin. You remember now." speaking once again in the common tongue.

With his name reclaimed, the stranger's posture shifted subtly. He still trembled at every distant sound, but he began taking tentative steps toward the routines Elarien had begun teaching him: moving cautiously through the cell, noting weak points in the walls, instinctively reacting to shadows or noises.

Small victories became their currency. He discovered hidden pockets in the rubble, positioned debris to signal approaching patrols, and learned the cadence of Orc footsteps. Elarien hummed to guide him through each task, a rhythm he could follow even in the darkness. When he acted successfully, she offered a faint smile or a subtle nod — encouragement, not praise, so the lessons remained internalized, not dependent on reward.

Night after night, they mapped patrol patterns. The stranger learned to anticipate the gaps between guards, the pauses where a breath could carry unnoticed, the subtle shifts in Orc behavior that betrayed awareness. They crafted small tools from broken stones and scraps of metal — nothing elaborate, but enough to move debris quietly or hold a makeshift lever.

Memory flashes surfaced in fragments: the warmth of a hearth, the tang of smoke, the sound of his father's voice calling him to the table, the clatter of Dwarven hammers in distant forges, remembering the language of men. Elarien never pressed, only guided gently, letting each recollection surface and fade naturally.

"Your family…" she murmured one quiet night. "Do you remember them?"

He closed his eyes, voice low and fragile. "Three… children. A home… fire…" He trailed off, caught in the echo of memories, the first tender glimpses of a life before chains and darkness.

Time passed gradually — measured not by clocks but by shared moments of discovery. Slowly, small words began to pass between them: a name, a place, a fragment of a song, mumbled under breath or shared in hesitant whispers. Elarien spoke of her childhood, the warmth of her parents, and eventually, she trusted him enough to mention her brother, recounting the quiet laughter and the nickname he had given her: Ella or Lari, when she had done something silly.

Weeks continued, each day following the careful rhythm they had built together. Elarien hummed softly while Thráin moved through the tasks she had taught him, his dark eyes alert, his body steadier with each passing day. The fortress still loomed large and oppressive, but within their small, hidden corner, a fragile sense of order had taken hold.

At night, they shared whispers of past and memory — Dwarven tales, fleeting glimpses of home, laughter of children, and Elarien's own stories of family. The faintest smiles began to touch Thráin's face, and Elarien found herself responding in kind, a warmth threading through the cold stone air.

They had not yet planned an escape, nor dared to imagine one fully. But each day, each careful observation, each small victory, built something far more important: trust, patience, and hope.

Elarien rested her hand lightly on Thráin's arm one evening, feeling the tremor in his fingers ease. "We endure," she whispered. "We survive. And one day… we will see beyond these walls."

The words hung in the silence, quiet but unyielding. Outside, the fortress shifted with its patrols and its shadows, unaware of the bond forming within. Inside, two prisoners had begun to reclaim themselves, to remember who they were, and to take the first, fragile steps toward a future where they might be free.

A sudden scrape echoed from the corridor beyond — a loose stone shifting under a boot, or perhaps a careless Orc stepping too close. Thráin froze, dark eyes wide. His body coiled instinctively, yet he did not retreat. Elarien's hand brushed against his shoulder, steadying him, her humming a soft anchor amid the tension.

The sound passed, fading into the deeper shadows. Thráin exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening, yet a spark of something sharper lingered in his gaze — awareness, vigilance, the faintest edge of readiness.

They returned to their small, hidden corner, sharing the meager rations of bread and mutton. His smile — faint, hesitant — brushed the edges of his face as he mimicked her humming.

Even as the fortress loomed outside, they had found a fragile order within. Each day, each quiet victory, each whisper of memory, each shared glance, laid the foundation for what might come next. Freedom was still far away, but the seed had been planted — and now, with the echo of approaching footsteps reminding them of the world outside, that seed began to stir with purpose.

Thanks for sticking with this far. This chapter was incredibly challenging to write, and I hope the use of Khuzdul alongside shifts to the Common Tongue conveys Thráin's gradual remembrance and reconnection with his past. At this stage, Elarien is not yet fluent enough for full conversation in Khuzdul, so she is more a supportive presence, guiding and encouraging him as he rediscovers both forms of language.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold= Kuzdul
Italics= Elvish

Underline Italics = Black Speech

The air had grown colder in the fortress, the damp stone walls exhaling winter's chill. Elarien wasn't sure how much time had passed — weeks, months, perhaps more. She had tried to mark the days on the wall, tallying scratches and notches, but the shifting shadows and constant patrols made keeping count impossible. The changing weather outside whispered through cracks, frost creeping along the edges of the stones, reminding her that the world continued beyond their prison.

One quiet night, while the fortress slept under the faint glow of torches, Thráin turned to Elarien. "May I… braid your hair?" he asked quietly, his dark eyes serious. "Among the Dwarves, to touch another's hair, and to braid it… it is sacred. Reserved only for those we trust deeply — family, close friends… even lovers. It is an honor, and a bond."

Elarien hesitated, then nodded slowly, the trust between them making the gesture feel weighty, yet natural.

His hands were steady now, deliberate, as he wove her hair into a braid, threading through it a small, ornate Dwarven bead.

"This," he murmured softly, holding the bead up to the torchlight, "was given to me by my youngest son, Frerin. He… he passed into the Hall of Mahal long ago, but this bead… it has always been precious to me."

He hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to the shadows, then back to her. "You must understand…" he continued, voice low, almost a whisper to the walls themselves, "I do not know if I will see the light beyond these stones. I dare to hope… but in case I do not, you will have something that is a part of me. A memory. A family. Something to carry with you."

Elarien's eyes widened. "Thráin… no," she said, voice tight. "I cannot—this… you cannot give this to me. I need you to come with me. I cannot—" Her words faltered under the weight of her fear and desperation. Her hands reached for his, trying to halt him. "Please… you must survive. You cannot leave me this way."

"This," he continued, threading the final loops of hair carefully, "is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. To give it to you… it is my way of thanking you. You have restored my memory, reminded me of who I am, and brought me back to my family. You have become my family, Len."

Elarien's fingers trembled as she felt the braid settle, the bead cool against her skin. Words failed her; the weight of trust, remembrance, and connection spoke louder than anything she could say. In that small, intimate gesture, the bond they had forged over months of danger and shared survival became tangible — a symbol of family, legacy, and gratitude, and a silent acknowledgment of the stakes they both faced.

Yet even as the warmth of the moment lingered, the cold reality of the fortress pressed in. Every day, every night, they had studied its patterns, learned its rhythms. Thráin's regained instincts and strength now complemented Elarien's careful planning, and both knew the time to act must be measured, precise.

For days, they had watched and waited, noting the shifts in the Orc patrols. Azog had been called away, to some unknown purpose, and in his absence, the fortress moved with less vigilance — a crack in the walls they could exploit. Tonight, with the stars veiled by smoke and torchlight flickering faintly in the corridors, they would take that chance.

Elarien took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. She signaled to Thráin, who nodded, his eyes dark with determination yet tempered by the faintest trace of the bond they had just shared. Each step toward the far end of the cell block was deliberate, measured against the faint echo of distant boots. Shadows clung to the walls like old allies, and the discarded rubble near the weak section of the wall became their cover.

Thráin moved first, testing the stability of the stone wall, while Elarien scanned the corridors above for signs of Orcs. The small tool they had fashioned from stone and scrap metal slipped quietly into a crack, widening it inch by inch. The fortress, so long a cage, now yielded under their careful efforts. Each movement carried the weight of months of planning, observation, and quiet trust — the culmination of the routines and rhythms they had mastered together.

Finally, the opening was just large enough to slip through. They paused, pressed against the shadows, listening for the faint shuffle of Orc boots. None came. The hallways were quiet, the lull of Azog's absence palpable. Heart pounding, Elarien went first, squeezing through the gap, followed by Thráin.

They moved quickly, silently, toward the outer section of the fortress. The cold night air whispered through cracks in the stone, carrying the faint scent of snow and distant forest. Their path took them across a precarious ledge — part of the fortress that had been weakened with age and neglect.

Every step was measured. Elarien led, her eyes scanning every shadow, every faint glint of torchlight that might signal an Orc patrol. Thráin followed close, his movements deliberate, every muscle coiled for sudden action. They slipped through narrow corridors, pressing themselves against the walls when distant shouts echoed, hearts pounding but voices held in strict silence.

At one junction, a small group of Orcs passed just ahead. Elarien held her breath, pressing herself into a dark alcove, feeling the cold stone bite through her cloak. Thráin flattened himself beside her, instinctively covering her front with his arm as some form of protection. Each second stretched painfully, the tension so sharp it cut through the air. When the last Orc turned the corner, they exhaled quietly and continued.

They navigated stairwells choked with rubble, leapt over broken beams, and crawled under fallen arches where the ceiling had nearly collapsed. The fortress seemed almost alive — groaning, shifting, threatening to betray them at every moment. But their months of observation paid off: the weak points in wall, the gaps between patrols, the silent signals of movement — all guided them.

In one chamber, they paused to cross a hall where moonlight filtered through a cracked window. Elarien counted the Orcs' steps in rhythm with the echoes of their own — moving only when the hall was empty, waiting for the faintest pause. Thráin whispered directions, his voice low, guiding her through what he thought would be the safest path, his instincts sharpened by memory and fear.

A narrow balcony above the outer courtyard offered their next opportunity. The stones were loose, threatening to crumble, but Thráin tested each one, pressing his weight carefully while Elarien followed, hands steadying him where she could. Every movement required trust — in themselves, in each other, and in the quiet lessons of the months they had spent preparing.

Finally, the outer wall loomed ahead, the cold wind biting at their faces. The ledge beyond would take them out of the fortress proper, but the stones had long since weakened. Each footfall sent tiny showers of dust and grit down into the void below. They were almost free — almost — but one wrong move could undo everything.

The ledge offered a fleeting reprieve. Cold wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and distant forest. For a heartbeat, they allowed themselves to breathe — the steady rhythm of survival and months of preparation had brought them here.

Thráin pressed himself against the stone, eyes scanning the darkness, then turned to Elarien. His hand went beneath his cloak, producing a folded, worn map and a large, heavy key. "Len," he said, voice low but steady, "these must go with you. They are for Thorin… my son."

Elarien blinked, her heart catching at the weight of his words. "Thráin…" she began, unsure if the words could carry the gratitude, fear, and urgency she felt.

He shook his head gently. "No time for hesitation. You must take them. I cannot—may not—see him myself. You will know the path to Erebor, and you must guide him, protect him, help him prepare for what is to come. He will need you, as I have needed you."

Thráin paused, eyes locking with hers. "Do you remember what I told you, long ago, about Erebor? These have been hidden… long forgotten by me, even I had not touched them in years. I only remembered, only knew to look for them, because of you. Because of what you brought back to me — my memory, my family… my purpose."

Elarien's hands shook as she held the map and key, the weight of them pressing into her palms far heavier than their physical mass. Her chest tightened, throat raw with unspoken words. Every ounce of her hope, fear, and loyalty converged in this moment. She thought of Thorin, Thráin's daughter, and the two grandsons who would be waiting, dying to meet the grandfather they had never known. With every breath, she willed Thráin to live, to survive this night, to see his family again.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and for a brief moment, she struggled to speak. "I… I won't fail you," she whispered, voice trembling, almost swallowed by the cold wind. "I will find him… I will protect him… I will honor this. And you will come with me. You will see them again.."

She swallowed hard, shaking her head, letting the gravity of her promise settle over her like a mantle. Words failed her beyond that, but her resolve was absolute. She slipped the map and key into the folds of her cloak, pressing them close to her chest, heart aching with the weight of responsibility, legacy, and the bond she now shared with Thráin — yet her heart refused to entertain the thought that he would not walk beside her again.

The night air bit at their faces as they crept along the outer ledge, careful, silent, hearts hammering. The fortress below stretched like a skeletal maze, jagged stones and shattered walls bathed in torchlight. Every step had been measured, every loose stone accounted for — until now.

A sudden movement caught Elarien's eye: a shadow flitted across the courtyard below, darker than the night itself, unnatural in its stillness and form. Her breath caught, a shiver running down her spine.

"Did you see that?" she whispered, voice tight.

Thráin's hand tightened around hers. "I did," he murmured. His gaze swept the darkness, instinctively alert. "Whatever it is… it is not one of Azog's."

The shadow shifted again, elongated and twisting, and a chill ran through both of them. An almost imperceptible awareness gnawed at their minds — a presence beyond the fortress, a force that sought more than chains or death. Something older, darker, that hung over Elarien in particular.

Elarien's chest tightened, the weight of months, of secrets, of the unknown pressing down on her. She glimpsed the truth in Thráin's eyes — he understood, even if he did not yet know fully, that her life was far more than Azog's whim. Someone, or something, beyond this place, wanted her… and would stop at nothing to claim her.

"We must move," Thráin hissed, urgency slicing through the night air. Their pace quickened, every careful step giving way to hurried precision, weaving along the ledge, past broken stone and jagged ruin.

Then, a crack — subtle at first, almost lost beneath the rush of their own breath. The edge beneath Thráin's boot shuddered, dust and loose rock tumbling into the darkness below.

The ledge gave a final, terrifying groan. Thráin's boots slipped over the edge, and he lurched toward the darkness below.

"Thráin!" Elarien cried, lunging forward, gripping his hands with all her strength. Her fingers dug into his leather-clad wrists, nails biting through, straining against his weight. His weight dangled from her grip, every inch pulling at her arms, shoulders, and fingers. Muscles burned and trembled under the impossible strain, but she could not—would not—let him slip. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision, but she did not release him. She couldn't — not now, not ever.

The ledge beneath them shuddered, crumbling further, dust and loose rock cascading into the abyss. The strain on her arms intensified, her muscles burning, hands slick with sweat and desperation. Pain lanced through her shoulders and back, but still she clung, unwilling to surrender him to the void.

"I won't let you go! You cannot leave me!" she screamed, the words torn from her chest, mingling with sobs that threatened to choke her.

Thráin's eyes met hers, shadowed with sorrow and determination. "Len… you must… take it… the map, the key… to Thorin… my son!"

Her heart fractured further. The world seemed to tilt, the night wind tearing at her, the shadow below swallowing everything. She pulled harder, muscles trembling, tears streaming freely now, raw grief and terror mingling with every desperate ounce of effort.

He shook his head faintly, a fragile, heartbreaking smile brushing his lips. "No… you must go… you will see him… you will succeed where I cannot… tell them… I love them… and that I'm sorry…"

The ledge beneath them groaned one final time, buckling under the strain. Her fingers slipped for a heartbeat, a stomach-churning lurch of horror, and then — he was gone. Darkness claimed him, and Elarien's scream echoed across the fortress, mingling with the wind and the distant shadow that had startled them.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: Hey there! I don't own The Hobbit or any of its characters — I'm just wandering around Middle-earth with my own story. Elarien and all the new faces? Totally mine.

Languages you'll see here:
Bold = Kuzdul
Italics = Elvish
Underline Italics = Black Speech

The ravine yawned before her, jagged and merciless, swallowing the last sight of Thráin as he tumbled into its depths. A scream tore from her throat, raw and hollow, echoing against stone and shadow alike. She did not pause. She could not. The fortress had awakened. Orcs were moving toward the sound. Survival demanded motion.

She chose a direction, feet pounding over loose stone and blackened earth, the wind whipping ash into her hair. The forest ahead was a nightmare made real: charred trunks rose like skeletons, leaves shriveled to brittle black, and the ground smelled of smoke and decay. She could not linger; even a single moment might be fatal.

Behind her, she heard it—the low, guttural shouts of orcs, the scrape of boots against stone, the bark and growl of Wargs moving through the dead forest. The sound was distant at first, then closer, sharper, a predator's promise. Fear and adrenaline fused into pure instinct. She ran, each breath a rasping gasp in her chest. Her heart thudded violently against ribs, ears straining for the smallest snap of a twig or rustle of leaves.

Branches clawed at her arms and legs, roots threatened to trip her, and shadows seemed to move with intent. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, thirst cracked her lips, but she could not stop. The forest offered no food, no water—only movement, only survival.

The orc cries were closer now, snarling, shouting in a language she understood—Black Speech. Each word carried intent, malice, and the promise of capture. She could hear the spit in their voices, the rasp of teeth, the sharpness of their commands, and she flinched at every syllable.

A memory came unbidden, cutting through the terror: her and her brother atop a high hill, wind whipping through their hair, a mentor's voice steady and guiding.

"Always climb higher. Always cover your tracks. Mud and water hide scent. The forest is alive—listen, move with it, and it will protect you."

She climbed jagged rocks, hands raw on stone, to gain vantage. She crawled beneath fallen trees and pressed against gnarled roots to stay out of sight. A shallow river offered her some relief; she waded in, cold water licking her knees and calves, coating her in scent that might confuse Wargs, masking the faint trails her boots left behind.

Suddenly, a harsh bark split the air—a Warg, massive and black, crashing through the dead underbrush mere paces away. It's hot, rank breath carried the stink of blood and decay. Elarien froze, heart lurching. The beast sniffed the air, ears pricked, jaws snapping as it caught her scent. She flattened against a broken tree trunk, mud smeared across her face and arms, and her skin prickled with terror. Seconds stretched like hours.

An orc's voice barked orders behind it, rough and guttural, and the Warg obeyed, snapping its jaws toward the rustle of leaves where she had been. She pressed herself lower, feeling the chill of mud seep into her clothes, the rough bark scraping her palms, every nerve taut. Then, slowly, the Warg moved past, distracted by something else—the orc ordering it onward—and she exhaled, trembling, feeling her heart pound violently in her ears.

Her relief was short-lived. A faint rustle behind a fallen tree caught her attention. An orc scout, moving quietly, boots muffled by moss, was combing the area. Elarien's mind raced. She glanced around and spotted a shallow pool nearby, half-covered in mud. With careful stealth, she slithered into the mud, pressing herself flat, letting the water and grime cloak her scent.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, lungs burning. She smelled the cold, wet mud, the tang of iron from the forest floor, the acrid smoke lingering from the fortress fires. Every nerve screamed alert; every muscle tensed like a coiled spring. The scout's bootfalls were mere inches away, but the camouflage held. She held her breath, still as stone, letting the forest itself hide her from sight.

When the footsteps faded, she slipped silently out, heart hammering, every nerve still on fire. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. Relief washed over her, sharp and raw, and her body sagged against the trunk of a tree. She closed her eyes, letting the tension drain slowly, letting herself feel the fear, the terror, and the sheer exhaustion of the chase. Her hands shook, her lungs heaved, and for a fleeting instant, the weight of grief and adrenaline lifted just enough for her to feel… human again.

Then reality came back like a whip. She was not safe. Orcs and Wargs still hunted her, the fortress behind her loomed, and the forest, though beginning to stir with life, was still treacherous. Pushing herself upright, she moved quickly, silently, melting back into the shadows and continuing her escape with renewed caution and determination.

The forest began to change around her, tiny shoots of green piercing through the blackened wasteland. Life returned cautiously—ferns, moss, insects—but a sickness lingered in the air, a subtle corruption that told her the forest was far from safe. She guessed she must be in Mirkwood. The trees had been mangled over time, twisted unnaturally, no longer wholly reliable, and every step reminded her that this place was no sanctuary.

Exhaustion clawed at her, muscles trembling with fatigue. She stumbled, collapsing briefly behind a moss-covered log, mud streaking her hair and clothing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. Hunger gnawed, thirst burned, yet she pressed on, survival instinct and determination fused into a single, driving purpose.

At last, she stumbled into a small clearing. Sunlight fractured through the canopy, slanting onto the earth in golden streaks. Her legs gave way. Her body could no longer carry her. And there, impossibly, standing at the edge, was Radagast the Brown.

Sunlight caught his robes, warm and golden against the shadowed forest, and his presence radiated calm, a stark contrast to the twisted wilderness around them. He seemed almost unreal, a figure from a story meant to guide her through the dark.

"Elarien?" His voice was a whisper of shock; disbelief carved into every line of his face.

She tried to answer, tried to rise, but her strength failed her. She collapsed fully into the mud, every inch of her body trembling, covered in grime and exhaustion. Radagast knelt beside her, hands steadying her, murmuring softly.

Somehow, she had survived. Somehow, she had escaped. But the mountain still waited, distant and shadowed, and she knew, deep in her bones, that the journey was far from over.

Radagast's hands were gentle as he helped her sit up, brushing mud from her hair and checking for injuries. His eyes, wide with relief and concern, scanned her exhausted form.

"I've been searching for you… almost a year," he murmured. His voice was calm, grounding, a soft anchor in the chaos of the forest. "Rest now. Drink from this." He handed her a small gourd filled with cool, clear water, and she took it with trembling hands, relief flooding through her.

"I… I thought…" she began, voice hoarse, but words failed her.

"You survived," he said simply, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "That is enough for now. The rest… we will face together."

For the first time since the fortress, Elarien allowed herself a moment to breathe fully, letting the forest around her seem less hostile, if only for a heartbeat.