Music:

"Can We Still Be Saved?"-Fearless Motivation

"Light at the End of the Tunnel"-Kerry Muzzey

Sorrow and Selfishness:

Kili would be lying if he didn't admit some level of awe as they rode in. He surveyed the fortifications that surrounded the city, noting the tall, glittering spires. They reminded him of the innermost throne room of Erebor, though, where Erebor's glittering, emerald and marble kingdom resided deep within the mountain's heart, this city of men stood sparkling against the sun, the white spires of the sentinels reflecting off the sunbeams and shining brightly against the blue sky above.

The young dwarf prince was impressed. And a little intimidated, if he were honest. These men must surely be strong in order to remain vulnerable to attack, out in the open like this (unlike dwarves who whiled away in their caves and mountains). He wondered how they could stand to remain stalwart as prey to the whims of the enemy lurking beyond the dark gate that stood like a sentry in the distance, surrounded by suffocating, billowing clouds.

Kili was discomforted by the thoughts coursing through his mind and he flexed his fingers anxiously as Gandalf guided the white horse forward, towards the gate and the sentinels that loomed around the city.

The young dwarf prince swallowed back the unease that threatened his senses and tried to ignore the growing trepidation that filtered through his veins as they pushed forward, through the gate and up the cobbled walkways. Curious faces surrounded them, women, children, and elder folk all staring unabashedly at the lone Grey Wizard and the young, dark-haired dwarf prince. Soldiers who stood at the gate turned to meet their gazes, eyes hardened and suspicious as Kili peered back at them.

The young dwarf archer felt very much a spectacle on parade around these observers and he wondered how they could remain so calm when danger loomed so close by.

Nor could he shake the sensation that he'd been here before, seen these faces before and felt this unease, this nauseating feeling of being suffocated and suppressed.

He didn't like it.

"I can guess your thoughts, young master dwarf," Gandalf's voice rumbled in his chest, low and gruff as he tossed a brief look towards Kili before looking straight ahead again. "You feel it. The darkness creeping here, the familiarity of despair and sorrow that once filled the mountain and Mirkwood. And your vision."

Kili nodded and swallowed again, suddenly feeling smaller than he ever had before as houses and spires jutted upwards, reaching for the sky and the slivers of sunlight overhead. The sense of unease continued to gnaw at him, making Kili's skin crawl.

Yes he remembered the feeling, how Erebor has reeked of it; how the dream or nightmare had overwhelmed him with the feeling. And he knew why he was here too, however much he wished he were elsewhere. The problem was, though, that he couldn't be elsewhere, whiling away the hours, laughing with his kin. No amount of wishing or silent pleading would bring him to his brother, or uncle or anyone, nor bring him to the safety of the Lonely Mountain again.

The enemy knew who he was,knew his name and his lineage as an heir to the house of Durin. But, more importantly, Kili also knew the enemy. He'd seen their next ploy when he'd touched that accursed sphere. He saw the towers, the people, the descending darkness. He saw the great eye and felt the scorching heat, fueled by hatred, malice, and a deep-rooted wickedness that threatened to swallow him whole. He was the link between the free peoples of Middle Earth and the enemy.

And that type of responsibility was something he'd never had to deal with before, least of all alone. The overwhelming ache he felt for his brother and uncle and the rest of the company made the young dwarf prince cringe with longing. But he couldn't hide behind their powerful figures. He couldn't rely on the wisdom of Balin's guidance, or Fili's steadying companionship. He couldn't defer to Thorin to lead the way.

He had to do this on his own. He could help Lyla, and all the others, succeed in the quest to destroy the ring. This was his task. He knew. Gandalf knew it. Fili knew. Even Thorin knew it. Which is why he was here, thrust into the world of men, on the doorstep of evil.

Kili straightened, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he gazed up at the pristine white spires of the great hall, where they were heading. He sucked in a breath and held it for a moment, schooling his resolve.

He could do this.

"You're not alone, you know," Gandalf's voice rumbled behind him as he slowed Shadowfax's movements, "I won't forsake you, young master dwarf" he continued, "so long as you are my charge."

Kili wasn't sure if he should feel relieved at the sentiment or worried by it.

"Lass"

Lyla jerked her head up at the soft, familiar invocation. Bofur was staring at her, his hands having stilled over her arm where her wound oozed painfully, and colored her flesh a vibrant, angry red, woven with thin, dark tendrils which wound around her fingers, up her wrist, swirling around the wound and snaking up to her shoulder. The dwarf's expression betrayed his fury and worry.

Mostly likely because there was nothing they could do at the moment. For, though they'd managed to muck their way out of the waste chute, they didn't make it very far before the abuses the hobbit had received had gotten the better of her and she fell, unceremoniously onto her rear, panting and dizzy.

Bofur hadn't been too pleased with that, and despite her best efforts to rise of her own accord, her dwarf companion would have none of it, and all but dragged Lyla from the rubbish pile to the first desolate and secluded cave he could find.

Lyla swallowed down her shame at the expressions levelled at her and remained silent. She didn't know what to say to Bofur, didn't have any way to explain herself, at least not in a way that he was likely to accept. She hadn't wanted to bother him, hadn't wanted to cause worry on his part. This journey was already so taxing, demanding more of Lyla than she'd ever cared to give before. Even Erebor and Smaug, or Azog, or Mirkwood hadn't pushed her this much. And it terrified Lyla that this might...that she might…

"Lass."

This time his voice was more commanding and Lyla wearily turned towards her friend, steeling herself for the onslaught of anger the dwarf seemed to feel towards her. Eru knows she deserved it, even if she half-heartedly riled at the dwarf's tone towards her.

Bofur, though, wasn't glowering at Lyla, but his expression was a fierce one. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the hobbit's arm, the one he must have known was tender and hurting. He let out a low snarl of discontent before trying to reach towards the girl's appendage, his eyes hooded and assessing.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth, lass?" He muttered, darkly, his fingers ghosting over Lyla's angry wound. She shuddered involuntarily at the phantom contact.

That only served to sour the dwarf's expression further.

"You cann't keep doin' this to those who care for ye" he growled.

This time Bofur's fingertips brushed against Lyla's arm and the hobbit winced as spikes of pain splintered through her flesh, trickling up her arm and sending pulsing pain into her shoulder and down to her fingertips.

It hurt much more than she'd anticipated.

The dwarf sighed and pulled away for a moment. Lyla turned to meet Bofur's gaze before he reached towards a small bag tied neatly at his waist. With nimble fingers, he loosened the bag from his belt and untied the thin strings that held the material closed.

Lyla watched him warily, the haunting voice muttering dark thoughts in her head all the while.

'He means to betray you. He'll do to you what he did to the others back in the hall. He means to take the ring. You've driven them away. It's only a matter of time before he abandons you completely.'

Lyla scowled at the thought and willed her practical senses to return. This was Bofur. He'd never...he'd never do-she shook her head and clenched her fist.

He'd never do it. He'd never act that way towards her.

"Lemme see yer arm, lass." Lyla's head snapped up and she met the fiery gaze of the once cheerful miner and toymaker. His hand was outstretched waiting for her to accept, his fingers nearly brushing her elbow, though he made no attempt to force her to accept his command.

Instead he waited.

He waited for her to make the decision on her own.

Lyla reached for Bofur, extending the arm she knew he was requesting and waited while she felt the light pressure of Bofur's large, calloused hands, wrap around her upper arm, just above the wound. And, even though he didn't touch the cut itself, Lyla could feel another jolt of pain lance through her.

She tried now to wince again, but Bofur caught the shift in her expression and frown darkly, muttering to himself as he reached for his canteen.

"Of all the idotic things," he murmured, reaching one handed for the contents of his pouch, "You'd go and think ye can best dark magic. Of all the foolhardy...Bah." He sniffed and opened the canteen before sprinkling the dried herbs from his pouch into the water.

Lyla immediately recognized those herbs. Or, rather, she recognized those dried flowers.

Aethelas.

"Where…?" she trailed off, her eyes transfixed by Bofur's ministrations, as he resealed the canteen and gently shook the water therein before reopening the water skin.

Bofur quirked a brow at her before focusing his attention on her muddied, mucked up arm and the offensive wound.

"Yer not the only one with secrets lass," He remarked quietly, carefully tipping a bit of the water onto the cut.

The moment the cool liquid touched Lyla's skin, there was a deep hiss rumbling in her chest as the hobbit felt a deep burning seeping into the wound and working its way through her. It felt like her arm was aflame and she squeezed her eyes shut as Bofur poured a little more of the athelas water onto her arm.

By Eru did it hurt.

"It was Glorfindel," Bofur remarked after a moment, "Yer elf friend insisted that I take this on my way to retrieve ye." The dwarf poured a little more water on her arm and Lyla gasped as the cold liquid seemed to ignite her arm in a fiery pain.

She groaned lowly and Bofur tightened his grip on her, unwilling to let her go, forcing the water and the wilted plants to work on the dark tendrils of sickness that wrapped around her arm, snaking through her fingers and moving slowly across her skin.

"I know it hurts, Lass," he remarked, a hard edge in his voice, "But we have ta slow the poison if we can."

Lyla only nodded, her tongue feeling thick and fat in her mouth, bile threatening to rise to her throat. She wanted to tear herself away, wanted to curl in on herself and cradle the offended limb that burned and throbbed, but Bofur held fast, knowing that to be the natural reaction one would exhibit. And, not wanting to disappoint her friend any more than she already had, Lyla, instead, grit her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut praying that she could someone block out the desire to scream from the pain.

Her silence, however, didn't prevent Bofur from emitting a low hiss of his own, a deep rumbling agitation that seemed to echo in Lyla's ears.

"Yer a right fool," he snipped, a bitterness seeping through each syllable. "A thick, foolish, selfish little-"

Too quickly for her to comprehend Bofur tore himself away from Lyla, another, deep, growl escaping his person as Lyla tipped off balance and struggled to stay upright.

"You idiot!" He suddenly shouted, his voice guttural, pained, and frustrated. "Yer a right foul moron, ya know that?"

He huffed, panting and muttering as he glowered at the girl, who felt a deep lance of anguish at her friend's reaction.

She hadn't wanted, hadn't meant to…

She hadn't wanted to hurt him but she had.

"How can ye sit there, lookin' the way you do and not expect others to be right worried about you?" Bofur continued, looking more enraged by the second.

"Ye took advantage of us. Yer right selfish ya know that? We've done nothin' but accept ye and protect ye and every chance ye get yer off gallivanting away with narry a thought about the feelings or welfare of other! Did ya even care about what happened to the rest of us or were ye so eager to get away that ye decided to wash yer hands of us entirely?"

The comments hurt more than Lyla cared to admit and she dipped her head forward to hide the welling of tears in her eyes at the obvious frustration and bitterness that Bofur felt towards her.

Had she been so selfish, truly? Was she really taking advantage of her friends' love and concern for her? Did she truly show that she didn't care?

"I-"

"Are ye goin' ta sit there and come up with some pathetic excuse for why ye left? Why ye couldn't even stay when I was hurt? Did it really cause so much trouble for ye to stay and wait for me?" Bofur continued, eyes glittering with fury. "Did I really matter so little to ye that you decided to leave while I might have died? What if we'd never met again? How would ye have felt then?"

A stone settled in her belly and Lyla felt the rolling clouds of sorrow fall over her senses, the fury of her friend washing through her ears as she wallowed in the foolishness of her choices.

She'd let them down.

She'd disappointed all of them. Again.

And now...now they'd likely never forgive her for abandoning her.

"Ye need ta explain yerself, lass," Bofur snipped agitatedly "I'll not let this rest until ye do. No more apologies or panderin' to put off answerin'. Yer gonna fess up to yer reasonin' and yer gonna do it now."

"Hail Turgon, son of Turin, the Steward of Gondor!"

Gandalf's voice rang out through the large, dimly lit hall as he and Kili sauntered forward towards the silent and shrouded figure who sat atop the dias at the center of the room. With the sparse torchlight, and the windows draped in thick cloth, it was difficult to make out the face of the man who sat as substitute ruler in Minis Tirith. Kili squinted, trying to parse out feature, discern if the man who sat silently, awaiting the approach of the white wizard and his charge, were friend or foe.

But, even with his excellent eyesight-especially as a dwarf-Kili could make out nothing. And, given the lack of intonation from their new host, the young dwarf prince felt the first prickles of concern for what might be waiting for them once they met this man face to face.

Gandalf had warned him not to say anything, especially about Denethor's death.

'The man is old,' he'd said 'And new of his grandson's death would not bide well with the fraility of the man's person."

But, it was taking all of Kili's resolve not to break the tension filled silence as they stopped before the throne and peered up at the man who say, with head bowed, upon its seat. A surge of guilt and sorrow coursed through him, tingling along his fingertips and sending a shiver down his spine.

How could he keep silent when he knew something about this man's kin? Did the king even know that his grandson had died? Did he even suspect?

"Ah, Gandalf Greyhaim, at last you come." The man's voice was soft, but not frail, as Kili suspected.

He was even more surprised when said man-Turgon-leaned forward from the dias and allowed the small bit of in the room to cascade upon his face. Despite the strength in his words, the man did, indeed, look frail. His face weathered and wrinkled, with eyes drooping lightly, and crow's feet framing the lids, Kili could see the years of hardship and diplomacy marring his face.

However, there were also signs of joy in the man's features-lines about the mouth where he'd often smiled, and twinkling blue orbs that-despite their age-shown with brilliance and vitality as he peered down at Gandalf and his charge.

Kili bit back another urge to blabber about Denethor.

"I would chastise you for the lack of courtesy in your hall, steward, but we both know the reasoning behind that, do we not?"

Gandalf's voice was low, but not unkind as he bowed his head in deference to Minas Tirith's temporary ruler.

"You know why I have come, do you not?"

Turgon nodded his head once in reply, his long silver hair splashing over his shoulders as he did so.

"Indeed I do, Mithrandir." He remarked quietly, "It would appear that peace is failing and we stand at the brink of a great war."

With that comment, the man leaned to the side and retrieved a small object, pulling it into the light.

Kili bit back a gasp of shock at the familiarity of the object and the resigned sorrow that suddenly filled the mans' eyes as he held out the object for Gandalf to inspect.

"Indeed, I seem to already suffer loss in this looming war. Tell me Gandalf," Turgon remarked, his gaze unblinking, "What happened to my grandson?"

Wrapped in the man's spindly fingers were the remnants of the horn that Denethor had carried with him, cloven in two, the brass band, that had rested at the base of the horn, cracked and chipped.

Kili swallowed back his shame. It was one thing to remember what had happened and push it to the realm of a dreamscape-to separate his emotions from the reality of the situation. But, it was another thing entirely to have tangible evidence of the messy past, the painful past, thrust into your face, inescapable and almost taunting in nature.

It hurt more than he cared to admit.

"Denethor died trying to protect us," he finally muttered, his voice soft, resigned and defeated. Kili let the grief wash over him. "My kinsmen and me. We were ambushed and he came to our aid."

He couldn't tell the man about Denethor's less than reputable actions and attitude towards Lyla and the ring. He couldn't hurt the man this way.

"I am glad for that, master dwarf," Turgon remarked, blue eyes searching Kili's brown ones. "I know that my grandson could be less than pleasant at times. He was driven, almost to a fault. But, I am glad that honor won in the end."

At this, The Steward sighed deeply, letting the remnants of the horn clatter from his fingers as he leaned back into the shadows. A heaviness filled the air.

"Oh Mithrandir," Turgon muttered, a deep ache filling his voice, "How much more will we have to suffer? Why must the youth of our homes be taken from us, while we weakened men sit on the side and do nothing?"

Gandalf sighed a sorrowful sigh of his own and let a small smile touch his lips as he peered at the king.

"The length of our time here is not ours to determine, great steward. We cannot see the end from the beginning nor know when we will pass on" The wizard remarked sagely. "Your grandson's death is a tragedy, for certain, but his good deeds are not forgotten and therefore neither is he. Now is our time to decide what we will do with the resources and opportunity afforded to us, to honor the memory of all those who have perished far sooner than we'd like."

The steward let out a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. Despite his shrunken and feeble frame, Kili detected an aura of power around the man. The rich, dark fabric he bore-simple in design-spoke of a man used to a position of power and the steely gaze he held only confirmed what Kili could discern from the man's character. Even in his sorrow, he recognized something, some need for the betterment of his people.

"I know what it is you will ask of me, Mithrandir," Turgon retorted, "And I would give it if I could, but I know not if we have the resources, and I know for certain that we do not have the man power. What would we do to bypass these concerns?"

"You must light the beacons and call for aid" Came Gandalf's simple reply.

"You know the council will not approve of such measures," Turgon remarked lowly, turning his attention briefly to Kili as he narrowed his eyes, studying the young dwarf for a moment before turning back towards Gandalf. "Despite my status as steward of the city, I am limited in my power. I am no king. The council would have to agree to light the beacons and call for aid and in this time of discord, I cannot guarantee they would do so in time. Osgiliath is under siege and my own son is there. It is only a matter of time before the enemy stretches forth its claws to scatter our defenses, but the council does not see it that way. They strive only for keeping the peace and avoiding conflict"

Again Turgon sighed as he stepped forward, his movements slow and measured.

"Even if it means sacrificing the welfare of the people. So, dear friend, what can we do to avoid this...issue?"

Both Turgon and Kili turned towards Gandalf, who-despite the severity of the situation-had a smile upon his lips as he peered back at the silver-haired ruler of Gondor. The white wizard leaned heavily on his staff, as he peered between Turgon and Kili, carefully bracing himself against the side of his staff.

"I do not believe you have met Master Kili, second heir to the throne of Erebor, and your newest official knight and representative."

Kili turned a confused face towards Turgon, who looked equally concerned and confused.

"What?"

Their voices rang together as they swiveled back towards the still smirking wizard.

"Tell me lass, why did you abandon us all? Why did you leave without a word, without a care of our suffering?"

Bofur's voice echoed in her head, each syllable and phrase cutting into her, tearing at her, suffocating and unrelenting in its assault on her senses.

Why had she left them? Was she that selfish, that unkind and uncaring?

"I-" Lyla tried to search for the right words, to piece together what she felt and how best to convey that to her friend.

Something weighed on her heart and she knew, knew that she'd never meant to hurt him, but had done it all the same.

She had to make things right somehow.

"I am sorry," She remarked lowly, her gaze slipping to the floor, unable to bring herself to look Bofur in the eyes and see the pain there.

"I never meant to hurt you."

"But ye did lass. Ye right did" Bofur snipped at her, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he paced lightly. "Never even considered the pain of others, eh? Did ye really think that we wouldn't be sufferin' too, did ye?"

"That's not it," Lyla replied softly ignoring the way her arm burned as a chill settled in her veins. "I always considered it. I just...I couldn't…"

"Couldn't what? Couldn't wait to leave yer friends to galavant off on yer own? Thought we wouldn't care?"

"It's not that. I just couldn't bear to see you suffer anymore, to cause more harm than I already had."

Lyla felt warmth pooling behind her eyes at the memories that she'd shared with Bofur on their tenuous journey-the wargs, the trolls, the stone giants, men and elves and spiders, and a dragon...all of it had meant something to her, built a relationship for her-some of it against her will.

She hadn't had something like that since…

And now she was facing his ire, his anger, his disappointment. And it hurt, by Aule did it hurt. She hadn't meant to damage their relationship so much.

But, she had.

"Yer not the only one who's suffered lass" Bofur's comment had lost some of its ire as he addressed her.

But Lyla's felt her heart clench at his voice, at the sorrow therein and it doubled the guilt she felt.

"I'm so sorry," She muttered again, the dam of her resolve cracking, "I just couldn't bear to watch you waste away...the same way I had watched my parents and brother die. I couldn't bear to think of you that way, to know that I-I had caused that pain for you. I couldn't do it again."

Lyla finally lifted her head and gazed at Bofur who sat silent across from her, his face unreadable, eyes unblinking.

"I watched them suffer so much because of me. I was the reckless one, the child that always got into trouble. But they loved me anyway for the most part. And when they…" she swallowed back the emotions that threatened to overcome her "When they passed, the rest of my relatives argued so long over who would take care of me. None wanted the chore of taming someone like me. Eventually, I convinced them that I was better off alone, tending to myself. I didn't want to feel like a burden or a castaway to them."

Lyla sighed.

"For so long I...I was content to be alone, to fend for myself and to try to fit into what the other hobbits expected of me. And then you lot came into my life and I-I found that I-that there were others who could care for me."

The warmth around her eyes spilled over as she struggled to explain, struggled to let him know why…

And struggled to seek forgiveness.

"Facing everything we have together I worried that my time would grow short, that-that you all might be taken from me too and that the happiness I had felt would wither away like they had. I didn't want that. I never wanted that. And it...I couldn't bear the thought of losing those things I treasured so much. Your lives were more important to me than anything."

Bofur blinked, brows raising, as he pursed his lips, watching her silently.

Lyla felt the dam finally burst, the emotions she'd been trying desperately to keep at bay for so long, come tumbling out.

"I was so afraid when Thorin cast me aside, that you'd all abandon me too. And the war and nearly losing all of you once, was enough to make me fearful of what could happen. But…then he fell. And then you fell and I-I couldn't fathom losing both of you."

Lyla reached to the forsaken piece of jewelry about her neck as she frowned.

"I was so used to tending to my own needs for so long, to hiding away my thoughts, that when Thorin cast me aside and refused to tell me what'd been going on in the mountain, I felt as though it was only my responsibility to take care of this forsake thing. I had found the ring, and brought it to the mountain. My actions had caused so much trouble. I had...I needed to make it right."

A few tears escaped.

"Watching him fall hurt, Bofur. I don't know if he's okay. I don't know if I'll ever see him again. And it...it just…"

Lyla trailed off for a moment, trying to clear her throat and steady her breathing.

"I couldn't be sure that he was alright, and then when you fell and when it wasn't certain that you'd...that you might...I just couldn't sit there and watch you wither and die. I couldn't stand to lose you and I'd rather have some hope that you would be alright than to know that you had died because of me. And, maybe it was selfish. Maybe I was stupid for doing that and I am so sorry to have hurt you. But I just...I didn't want to lose anyone else. I wanted something to hope for, someone to look forward to returning to."

The hobbit hastily wiped her eyes.

"But, it's more than that Bofur. I also...I just couldn't stand the thought of you seeing me like this, being destroyed bit by bit. I…"

"I'll not let that happen, lass, ye know that," Bofur's voice had taken a hard edge to it again as he finally spoke, "Yer life isn't over. Ye can't give up."

"This ring is evil, Bofur," Lyla's voice had risen slightly, as she leveled a hard glare towards the dwarf. "It's evil. And I feel like...like I'm being burned from the inside out. I can't...there are voices and the growing darkness I feel consuming every sense. I can't...I don't know if I can escape it. Even if I do destroy the ring. I feel so...tainted and dark and like I'm losing myself. And I didn't...I didn't want that to be the last memory you had of me should I not make it back."

"You will make it back." Bofur's voice was adamant this time as he glowered at the girl, differing emotions warring in his eyes. "Ye cannot give up."

"It's not that," the girl remarked softly, finally tearing her eyes from her friend, feeling the surge of emotions washing over her, "It's just...it's just a feeling I have. I don't think I'll be returning, whether I want to or not. I don't think the ring will let me."