OK, fair warning, guys - there's some serious gore and grossness in this one. And it's not one of the ones that ends in hugs, either :(

x

Kili stared at the mountains in the distance. They weren't the same ones. Were they? They weren't the - the ones he'd seen before. He'd lived there, for a long time. In those other mountains. He'd lived there, with Fili and his mother. They weren't the same ones. He remembered what the other ones looked like. They weren't the same.

Were they?

Across the camp, Urukmadh stood up. Kili dropped his eyes from the mountains, dropped his head. He stared at the withered grass until it blurred. Winter. How long had he been with the orcs? He'd been taken in the summer. This year? Or last year? Had there been another summer since? There had been hot days, definitely. Days when it was hard to sleep because it was so hot. But were they all part of the same summer, or had there been another one?

He thought he should probably know. It wasn't normal, to forget things like that. He definitely wouldn't have forgotten it before. When he'd lived in the - in those mountains. Those mountains, with Fili and mother and - and uncle. And uncle-

Uncle, uncle - he frowned, then closed his eyes against the spike of pain in his head. Uncle. Uncle. Dark hair, deep voice, tall. Uncle was going to come and find him. All he had to do was wait, was stay alive until Uncle came. He just had to stay alive. Uncle had always kept him and Fili safe, always. Uncle, uncle -

Uncle what?

He swallowed. He knew Uncle had a name. But what was it? It was - it was - something with. With an s? Maybe? He considered a number of syllables beginning with s, but none of them felt right.

Maybe there had been a third summer.

No, surely not. Surely he could not have lost track of time so thoroughly as to not know whether he'd been with the orcs for half a year or almost three. Surely not.

But he could not remember his uncle's name.

Urukmadh laughed at something that Ashtzau said. A moment later he was stalking towards the tree where Kili sat. Kili hunched down, trying to seem as small as possible. He braced himself. He just had to stay alive until Uncle came with Fili. Just stay alive.

A moment later, Urukmadh's iron-shod foot caught him in the side of the head.

Later, when the orcs were sleeping, he stared at the mountains again. They slipped in and out of focus, dancing in the early morning light. They were not the same.

Were they?

Sometimes, when all was quiet - in the early morning, when the sky was still a deep blue and the sun not yet risen, or late evening, when the orcs were yet to wake though dusk had fallen - Kili thought he heard the stars singing to him. He watched them, in the depths of night, when he could, when no-one was looking at him. High, cold, distant. Not warm like the sun, not soft like the darkness. But still, sometimes they sang.

The words, he didn't know the words. The language. They didn't sing in the language of orcs, foul and cracking against his teeth and tongue, nor yet in the voice of men, which he did not speak any more for fear of punishment. He thought he had once known another language, too, but if so any fragment of it was long gone. A dwarf language, perhaps? Did the dwarves have a language of their own?

He resolved himself to ask Fili, if he dreamed of him again. Fili knew everything there was to know about dwarves. Maybe Fili even knew what language the stars sang in.

Before he fell asleep, he settled himself, hands on knees, eyes closed. Fili, he thought. What do you look like? You have yellow hair, and a broad nose. You have braids and the first hairs of a beard. Your eyes are - are blue. Blue? He paused, momentary panic gripping his stomach, as his carefully constructed image refused to open its eyes. Blue, surely. He considered other colours. Brown, maybe? Yellow? No, no - dwarves do not have yellow eyes. Do they?

But no: blue. Fili opened his eyes, and there they were: blue. Yes. He should not have forgotten such a thing. How could he dream about Fili if he did not remember what he looked like.

He concentrated, then, watching the image of Fili until he fell asleep. Often, these rituals brought no luck: he dreamed of orcs, of pain and filth, and sleep was no different from waking. But this day, he was lucky. No sooner did he sink into sleep, but Fili was there, taking him by the hand.

"I haven't seen you for a while," Fili said to him. He knew Fili said the words, but he didn't hear the voice. He'd forgotten the voice long ago.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Sometimes I can't find you."

"One day, I'll find you," Fili said. "I promised, didn't I?"

"Yes," he said. "I know you will. I'm waiting. I'll keep waiting."

"Good," said Fili. "You promised me you'd stay alive."

"Sometimes I don't want to," he said.

"But you promised me you would," said Fili. His mouth turned down and his hand gripped tighter on Kili's. "You promised."

"I will," Kili said. "I'm sorry. I will. I promise." He paused. "Do the dwarves have a language? he asked."

Fili laughed. "Of course they do," he said. "Doesn't everyone have a language?"

"What about the stars?" he asked. "I hear them singing sometimes."

In his dream, then, there were stars overhead. He looked up at them, sideways, as if he was really looking at something in the distance, even though he thought Fili probably wouldn't mind if he looked at the sky. They were singing, cold and clear.

"That's not the stars," Fili said. "That's mother. She's singing to you."

He frowned. "Mother?" he said. "Who is mother?"

Fili took him by the shoulders and turned him around. There was someone standing far away under the stars. Too far away for him to see them well.

"That's mother," said Fili. "She's been waiting for you."

He stared at the figure, far away under the starry sky. But she did not come any closer, and when he turned to ask Fili about her again, he was gone.

When he woke, he wondered about mother. But then the orcs woke up, and he forgot to think about her any more.

There were pictures in the dark.

He kept his head down, eyes down, always down. But when the orcs weren't looking, he looked at the pictures. Dwarves they were, in the pictures. And dwarf-writing, sharp and angular. He wants to touch it, trace it. It is the first time in years he's seen anything that belongs to dwarves.

He could not, of course. Could not touch, could barely look. Only occasional glances from the corners of his eyes. Still, it was enough to see some things: dwarves building, dwarves smithing, dwarves fighting. Here, deep in the mountains, there had once been dwarves.

But which mountains are they, then? He's heard the orcs talking about them, but he didn't recognise any names. But he doesn't know the orcish names for dwarvish kingdoms. It could be anywhere. Even - even Erebor.

No. No, perhaps he had never laid eyes on Erebor, but he knew that it was one mountain, alone. This was a range, towering and grim against the night sky when they at last slipped through a hidden door. One of the other places, then. The one where the battle had happened, or the place where the cold-drake killed - someone. The king. Or - or even the mountains where he'd lived, a long time ago. He had lived in a house - he thought, he thought he remembered that - but someone (who?) had told him a story once about dwarves living in the mountains themselves, years before. Is that where they are now?

When the orcs are asleep, he stares at the pictures, trying to read the words underneath. He knows he knew these letters, once; now, though, they blur and intertwine before his eyes. He blinks and looks away. But he knows the letters. He is sure of it.

He checks to make sure no-one is watching, then, with the slightest of movements, he draws a letter in the dust beside him. What letter is it? An F, he decides. Of course, an F. The first letter of Fili's name. And next comes-

Next comes-

But he did not know what came next. He knew there were four letters. But he only knew the first one. He stared down at it, bile in his throat. He had been trying to remember Fili. He had been trying. But now he had forgotten how to write his name.

Fear twists within him, and he shuts his eyes tight. What do you look like? What do you look like? He thinks once there was a time when he only spoke to Fili in dreams. Now, it is not the same. Dreams are only darkness, blood and pain. Dreams are like waking. Fili comes to him in a different place.

Yellow hair, Fili has. Braids. A broad nose. And his eyes are black, or brown, or blue. Not yellow. His eyes are not yellow.

He closed his eyes. Concentrated. It was too long since he'd last seen Fili. Too long. And now - what colour were his eyes? He'd left it too long. He was starting to forget. No, no. He could not forget Fili. He could not.

And there, in the darkness behind his eyelids, Fili smiles at him. His features waver on his face. Eyes slip from blue to black and back again. But not yellow.

Where've you been? Fili asked. I've been waiting.

In the forest, he says. It was a long way. I didn't see you.

You didn't call me, Fili says. I would've come.

I forgot, he says. Sometimes I forget how.

Fili's smile disappears. I told you not to forget me, he says. I told you.

I'm sorry, he says. Fili cuffs him around the head, and he cringes. But there's no bite to it. Fili never hurts him badly. And anyway, Fili isn't real, and neither is the pain.

Don't do it again, Fili says. Now. What have you forgotten?

Your - your eyes, he says. What colour are they? I know, really, I just don't want to forget.

Brown, Fili says.

He looks closer and sees they are brown, after all. He doesn't know why he forgot that.

What else? Fili asked.

I can't remember how to write your name, he says. Only the first letter. I've forgotten the rest. I'm sorry, I know I'm stupid. Please. How do I write it?

It's easy, Fili said. He's smiling again now. It's just like your name.

He frowns. I don't have a name, he says.

Don't you? asks Fili.

No, he said. He considered it. Something tugged in his brain. But - no. No. I'm a snaga, he said. I don't have a name.

Oh, says Fili. He doesn't sound very interested any more. I thought you did.

Will you show me how to write your name? he asked. So I don't forget it all.

That's not what you need to remember, Fili said. What do you need to remember?

Not to - not to die, he says. I need to remember not to die until you can find me.

That's right, Fili said. That's the only thing that matters.

What if you don't find me? he asks. You're not even real.

Fili cuffs him again, shoves him. It hurts more this time. He should not have said that out loud.

Of course I'm real, Fili said. And I'll find you. Don't die until I find you.

What about after you find me? he asks. Can I die then?

Fili looks as though he's never considered this. I don't know, he says. Probably. It's not important.

He nods. Are you coming soon? he asks.

Very soon now, says Fili. Just don't forget.

Don't forget.

He opens his eyes to the darkness. The orcs are sleeping all around. Somewhere outside the mountain, the sun is up. But here, there is nothing but darkness. Darkness, and pictures, and the marks underneath them. He knew how to read them, once. Now, he can only remember one.

I won't forget, he whispered to himself. He looked around. Looked at each orc. All sleeping. Sleeping truly, not pretending. There was nothing nearby, no sharp stones or thorns. So he gnawed his thumbnail into a point. Where would be the best place? Somewhere he could see, but the orcs would not notice. At last, he settled for the inside of his left elbow. His skin was thin, there, thinner than elsewhere. But still it took time, the point of his thumbnail too blunt to make clean, precise lines like the ones beneath the pictures. He began to despair, for it seemed the whole would be nothing but a bloody mess and no use to him at all.

But at last, it is done. He raises his elbow to his mouth and licks the wound, and for a moment, before the blood wells up again, the shape is clear: F.

Fili.

He will not forget.

He almost drowns in the summer. It's not the first time, and he's sure it won't be the last. But it's the first time he lets it happen.

He doesn't remember much about it, afterwards. He's up to his chest in the river, and then there is a hand on his head, forcing him down, a guttural laugh before all he can hear was the silence of water and the blood beating in his ears. He struggles. And then he stops. He opens his mouth. Lets the water in. It's dark, down there. Quiet. Peaceful.

Why not? he thinks. Why not?

When he next becomes aware, his chest feels like it is cracked open. Forked-Tongue is laughing somewhere above him, kicking him in the back again and again. He coughs, spits out water. Curls around himself.

He hears the other orcs laughing. That worked, then, Hang-Foot says. Kick it again, just to make sure.

Forked-Tongue's foot connects with his stomach. He vomits, rolling as he does so, aware that if any of it splashes on Forked-Tongue he will have a great deal more to worry about than a bruised back and stomach and an aching chest. He's lucky: Forked-Tongue isn't in the mood for more. He leaves him lying in the mud. And that's when he realises he is alive.

Why?

He does not know. He lived, even though he should have died. A dread grows in his stomach. He should have died. He tried to let himself die. It is the one thing he is not permitted to do, not ever. He did not think. He should have thought.

When he closes his eyes, Fili is there. He does not have to conjure him: he is there already, a vague, shadowy shape. Shadowy he may be, but his fists are solid enough. One of them catches him in the cheek, and he makes himself small, tells himself the pain is not real.

You promised, Fili says. He is angry, so angry. You promised not to die.

I didn't die, he says. I'm not dead.

Fili grabs him by the shirt, hauls him up. His shadowy face is only inches away. He smells rotten, like putrefying flesh.

Only because I wouldn't let you, he hisses. If you had your way, you'd be dead.

Fili drops him to the ground, kicks him once in the chest. It is like a hammer blow. (It is not real.)

I'm sorry, he says. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Never, never.

Fili sits down beside him. He brushes his hair away from his face. He thinks once he used to want Fili to touch him. He can't remember why.

Make sure you don't, Fili says. He's not angry any more. Promise me.

I promise, he says. I promise.

When he opens his eyes, he looks at the sign on his arm. F. So he will not forget. So he will remember Fili, and his promise, and the one thing he is not allowed to do.

He wonders if maybe it would be better to forget.

He opens his eyes. Head is spinning, melting. Eyes blur. Blood in mouth. He must - he must -

Sit up. He must sit up.

He pushes himself up from ground. Ribs ache, sharp. Not broken. But hurt, ribs will hurt for days, weeks. Blood in mouth is from cheek. He has bitten it inside. At least not tongue. New Big Orc likes to be answered. He has learned this already.

New Big Orc laughs. He blinks until eyes focus. New Big Orc is pointing at him. Looking at other orcs.

This one is strong, new Big Orc says.

Takes a kicking, Forked-Tongue says. Old Big Orc used to let us do it. He licks his lips. Always greedy, Forked-Tongue.

New Big Orc snarls at him. You want old Big Orc, I can send you to meet him, he says. You want that?

Forked-Tongue lowers his eyes, shakes his head. New Big Orc stalks over to him. Kicks him again, same place in ribs. He falls. Pushes himself back up.

My snaga, new Big Orc says. Got it?

Orcs mumble. They understand. So does he. New Big Orc is jealous. Doesn't like to share. Good for him, maybe. Or bad. Jealous Big Orcs don't last. Other orcs get angry. Bored. Bored orcs are never good.

New Big Orc goes back to fire. He sits. Other snaga is there. Cowering. New Big Orc had snaga, band of five when he killed old Big Orc. Now he has two snagas, band of eight. Other snaga is man. Young, he thinks. Stupid, too. Doesn't understand orc-tongue well.

He likes to do that, other snaga whispers. The leader. He'll beat you for anything if you're not careful.

He pretends he does not understand. Other snaga does not know he understands man-language. Orcs do not know, either. Better that way. Orcs would not like it. Other snaga is stupid. Keeps speaking man-language. Saying obvious things. Should shut up.

Other snaga does shut up. But after orcs are sleeping, he talks again. Whispers, very quiet. Maybe not even talking to him. But he hears. He understands. Does not know why. Does not know how he can understand man-language. How does he know it? He does not know. It is in his mind. That is all.

Other snaga talks about people. Other men. Some words he does not know. Men who will come and find other snaga. Who will kill orcs, take other snaga back with them. Men who want to be with other snaga enough to come and find him.

Other snaga is very stupid.

He sits. Keeps head down. Does not reply. Hopes orcs do not hear. Wishes he was sitting further away from other snaga. But cannot move now. Does not want to wake orcs.

Shut up, he says at last. He says it in orc-tongue. Better not to speak man-language. And anyway, words are too soft. Mouth is hard, cannot make these sounds.

Other snaga stares at him. So you aren't deaf, he says. What's your name? Is there anyone coming for you?

He forgets himself. Too amazed to stop himself staring. From speaking. No-one's coming, he says. Not for me. Not for you. Your people are dead. Orcs sucked marrow from their bones. Better just forget them.

Other snaga does not understand. Does not understand orc-tongue, but even if he spoke in man-language, still would not understand. New snaga, must be. Only weeks, months. He has seen this, many times. New snagas do not know. Do not understand that they should forget. Snaga does not have people to come for him. Snaga is nothing. Snaga has no-one.

Other snaga is frightened, he thinks. Frightened to hear orc-tongue. He falls silent. At last, falls asleep.

He does not sleep. Arm itches. He rolls up sleeve. Scar is fading again. He finds sharp stone. Carves sign again. F, he knows it is F. F means Fili. He does not know what Fili means. Only knows he must remember it. Must remember it, and must not die.

He frowns. Blood drips down his arm. He said to other snaga, should forget. But he remembers. Remembers this word. It is not man-language word. But it is not orc-tongue word. Where did word come from? He does not know.

Maybe it would be better to forget. Forget Fili. He presses fingers over wound. Arm is slick with blood. He does not know how many times he has carved it. Scar always fades.

Scar always fades. But sign can be carved again. No. No. He cannot forget. Must not forget. This is what sign means: he must not forget.

Fili. And he will not die.

He licks wound. Keeps it clean. When orcs cannot see. When orcs do not look. And other snaga does not learn to be quiet. Keeps talking, talking. He does not reply. But other snaga talks. Talks about men who will come for him. Does not learn. Does not learn to forget.

Fourth day with new Big Orc, other snaga learns. Talks too much, too loud. Half-hand is on watch. Hears him. Comes over. Kicks other snaga. Kicks him, too. Growls.

New Big Orc wakes. Angry with Half-hand. Half-hand explains: snagas were talking. The new Big Orc angry with them.

What were you talking about, filth? he says. Grabs him by the chain. Hauls him so he's dangling. Breath cannot come through throat. He scrabbles at collar. No use. No use.

Let him go, please, other snaga says. We weren't doing anything, we were just talking.

New Big Orc drops him. Turns to other snaga. He curls around himself. Tries not to listen. All the same. Sound of bone breaking is loud.

New Big Orc does not kill other snaga. But jaw is broken. Eye is hanging from socket. New Big Orc pulls out eye. Eats it. Other snaga groans. Even now, cannot be quiet. Other snaga will not last much longer. He hopes death will be quick.

Then new Big Orc turns to him. Picks him up by wrist. He lets himself dangle, limp. Braces himself.

But new Big Orc stops. Looks at something on arm. What's that? he asks.

He looks. It is sign. Sign he carved in arm. No orc has ever noticed sign before. But sign is bleeding again. New Big Orc ripped it open by picking him up. Now he is looking at blood.

Cut it, he says. Thorns in woods. He keeps eyes on ground.

New Big Orc lifts him higher. Stares at arm. Close, now. He can smell breath. Stench of rotting flesh. Warm, foetid. Arm feels like it will tear from socket. But it is not worst. Worst is that new Big Orc has seen sign.

That's no cut, new Big Orc says. It is mark. Big Orc's mark.

Stomach lurches. No, no, he says. Holds up other arm. Big Orcs' marks are here.

New Big Orc snarls. Licks his arm. Looks closer.

It is khozd mark, new Big Orc says. He turns to other orcs, shaking him so he swings by the wrist. This snaga has khozd mark on it. Your old Big Orc was too soft. Let snaga have khozd mark.

Orcs jeer. Let's kill it, says one. Not one from old band. He does not know name. I'm hungry, orc says.

New Big Orc isn't listening. He lifts hand, lifts and lifts until he is dangling three feet from ground. His face is level with new Big Orc's face. He keeps eyes down, hangs limp. He is obedient. He is good snaga.

You want khozd mark, filth? new Big Orc says.

No, he says. No, only want your mark. Only your mark. Cut myself. Don't want khozd mark.

New Big Orc laughs. Laugh is not good laugh. Does not mean good things.

Well, let's get rid of it, then, new Big Orc says. Drops him to the ground. He lands badly, falls. New Big Orc grabs wrist again, drags him across camp. He does not struggle, does not try to stand. Lets himself be dragged.

New Big Orc drags him to fire. Pulls out knife. Thrusts knife into fire. Other orcs watching, greedy faces in firelight. Behind him, other snaga groans. Still does not know when to shut up.

Then new Big Orc pulls knife out of fire. Grabs his arm. Presses knife to inside of elbow, over sign. He is ready, ready for this, but pain is still shocking. New Big Orc laughs somewhere above him. Shoves him to ground.

I'll give you khozd mark, new Big Orc says. Rips his shirt. Kicks him until he rolls over, face-down. Face is buried in mud. Head rings with pain. He should brace himself, prepare. But he is dizzy, half-lost. Only realises when chest starts to ache that nose, mouth are plugged with mud. He tilts head. Just enough to breathe. Not enough so that new Big Orc can see his eyes.

New Big Orc sits on his back. Shirt is gone now. He does not know where. He is ready. But he is surprised. Solid, hard line across back, three, four inches long, over left shoulder-blade. First, only line. Then pain. Feeling of blood rolling down back. New Big Orc has cut into back with knife. He was not expecting it.

Then: more cuts. First one up-and-down, next sloping, short. Two more, sloping, long, further to right. Back is burning, arm is burning. Dizziness is worse. He hears orcs laughing, far away. New Big Orc laughing. Pain moves across back. Left to right. Short lines, long lines. Sounds disappear. It is like drowning. But he does not drown. Only waits. Breathes. Nothing else is important. He just breathes. Breathes, breathes. Does not die.

He repairs shirt, but does not wear it. Every movement rips khozd marks on back open. He does not want to put on shirt, does not want it to stick to khozd marks. So he does not wear it.

New Big Orc likes it. Likes to see marks, see blood when they tear. Khozd shrakhun, he says. Licks his back. Khozd blood is better, he says. Tastes of iron.

He does not think about khozd marks. Thinks about burn. Burn inside elbow. Sign is gone, now. Nothing but weeping sore. When sore heals, there will be red mark. Then white. And sign will be gone. He cannot make sign again.

He sits, while orcs sleep. Tries to remember sign. He thinks he knows it. Could write it in dust, so he does not forget. But no. He cannot write it. If new Big Orc sees, he will die. And he cannot die. It is what sign means, what Fili means. He cannot die.

Stomach twists, hot, poisonous. He does not understand why he cannot die. He wants to find Fili, whatever it is, and break it. Smash it, grind it until it is nothing. He wants to stand up, go to new Big Orc where he sleeps, kick him in the face. Wait for teeth, for knives. Wait for death.

But he does not do these things. He cannot do these things. He does not know what Fili is. Only knows that he cannot die. He must survive. It is only thing. Only thing that is his.

He presses fingers against sore on elbow. Fili was there. Now it is gone. But he still knows what it means. He will not forget.

There are pictures in dark.

He's seen them before - or seen others that look same. Pictures are men, short and wide, all have beards. Under pictures are marks. Marks are pointed, straight. He has seen before, other time, inside mountain. Only ever inside mountain. Men put marks here to show it is inside mountain. It is strange. Surely men know it is inside mountain? Do not need marks to show this. But he does not understand men. Only knows what marks mean.

Arm itches. He does not scratch. Sits. Still, still. Waits. Waits for orcs to sleep. Does not look at pictures, does not scratch arm. Waits. Waits.

When orcs sleep, he looks at pictures. Wants to go closer. See faces of men. Wants to touch, trace marks, feel what faces are like. Fingers twitch. But he can only look. So he looks. Head only half up. If orc wakes, he can look at floor. Orcs will not know he looked at pictures.

Arm itches. Sleeve is ripped. Underneath is burn mark. Old, now. Years, at least two. But itches. Aches. Why? Mark is old. Should not itch any more.

Burn is strange. Looks like where Big Orc's mark is burned away. But Big Orcs' marks are not there, inside left elbow. They are on right arm, higher up. Three. Two old ones, burned away like mark inside elbow, and current Big Orc's mark at bottom. But here is mark inside elbow. Aching. He has not thought about mark before. Does not remember where it came from.

He thinks. Remembers first Big Orc. Remembers second Big Orc. And now Big Orc is third. Does not remember others. Were there others? He does not know. But - no. Would he forget, forget Big Orc?

No.

Maybe.

He stares at burn mark through sleeve. What was there?

He raises head halfway. Looks at pictures. Marks under pictures. He wonders what marks are for. Wonders what men who made pictures were like. All dead now. But still there, in pictures. Maybe it is what pictures are for. So nobody forgets.

Useless. Men do not live here now. Only orcs inside mountain. Men are all dead, all forgotten. Pictures mean nothing.

Burn mark aches. He frowns at it. What was there?

It does not matter. Maybe something, maybe nothing. But it is gone now. Nothing there now but white scar. Years old. Nothing has been there for years. Maybe nothing was ever there at all. He does not remember.

He does not remember.

But he does not die.