Chapter Text
Year 2921, Third Age
The day Fíli was…changed…was also the day he died. The morning had dawned bright and clear, hot but breezy enough to make the warmth enjoyable rather than uncomfortable. Fíli rose early and enjoyed a quiet breakfast with his mum, watching her putter around their small personal kitchen. It was a rare day off for him, no lessons with Balin, no training with Dwalin, no time spent at the forge or sitting in council under Thorin’s assessing gaze.
Fíli kissed his mother on the cheek and took the satchel she handed him with a quick “Thanks, mum!” and then he was out the door and heading for his favourite spot in all of Erebor - a small, high meadow by the river that wound through the foothills of the mountain, not far from the falls. Fíli took off at a run once he’d left the smoothly hewn corridors and was out of the mountain proper, dashing through the woods with an ease borne of long practice. Reaching the meadow he turned his face to the sun and flopped down onto the lush early-summer grass. Lying on his back, eyes closed, Fíli fully intended to while away the whole day amongst the birdsong and fragrant meadow flowers doing absolutely nothing.
He was dozing lightly when he realized something was off. The late afternoon sun was still warm, the buzzing of insects loud in his ears; too loud, his mind whispered. Where was the birdsong? Fíli tensed, eyes snapping open, sudden silence in the wild was never a good thing. He reached for his sword, within easy reach even here, on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain itself.
Fast as he was, though, he wasn’t fast enough. Before he could draw the blade the beast was upon him. Fíli tried to roll out of the way of the creature’s lunge, desperately wrenching his sword free of the scabbard. Even as he moved he realized that it wasn’t going to work, he was still within easy reach of the warg’s powerful jaws. He had barely a moment to feel gut-wrenching terror before wickedly sharp claws were tearing into his now-exposed back, teeth biting deep into his shoulder. Fíli screamed as his flesh tore, the long, hooked claws shredding skin and muscle as easily as they shredded his tunic.
Blood was flowing fast and hot, liquid heat soaking his clothing and staining the meadow grasses crimson. Fíli didn’t pause, despite the shrieking of his injured shoulder and rolled onto his back, feeling his lacerated flesh tear further. Whimpering and panting with pain Fíli thrust his unsheathed sword between himself and the warg, clutching the hilt tightly with shaking hands, the searing pain lancing through his left shoulder made it difficult to grip the blade. Before his screaming body could fail him the warg turned and launched itself toward him again, only to impale itself in the chest. The finely crafted blade sunk smoothly into flesh with a slick crunching sound, the blade catching slightly on bone before sinking into the creature’s chest to the hilt.
The warg jerked in its death throes, jaws snapping inches from Fíli’s exposed abdomen, its blood mixing with his own, darker red on Fíli’s tunic and staining his hair nearly black as it thrashed. The spurting blood made his grip on the blade even more precarious and Fíli heaved upward, pushing the carcass up and off, letting it thump heavily on the grass beside him, sword still buried in its chest. It was all over in minutes and Fíli was left shivering and nauseous from pain, fear and adrenaline, his clothing soaked and hair matted with blood. Still, it wasn’t until the body of the warg started to shrink and shift, changing shape, that he started to cry.
Fíli’s legs were threatening to go out from under him as he stood - leaning heavily on a tree, but still standing – and surveyed the scene before him. The perfect tranquility of the meadow was shattered by the ugly pool of blood at its center.
Uprooted stalks and flowers were testament to the violence that had occurred. His sword lay at the edge of the pool, still covered in blood, just where he’d left it after pulling it out of the dead were-warg’s chest. The moment the body had started to revert back to its true form Fíli had realized that he had to die here. Were-wargs were rare, but every warrior in both Erebor and Dale knew of the danger they posed. Even safe within the stronghold of the mountain, they wouldn’t risk losing any fighters to these things, no patrols went out on the full moon.
Pain and shock combined to make him feel slow and stupid and fear made his muscles tense, stoking the burning fire radiating out from his mauled shoulder. He couldn’t begin to try and unravel why a were-warg was in beast form during the day, weeks from the full moon; he could only focus desperately on putting on foot in front of the other. If he stopped to think about the were-warg, about what he was doing, he would surely break. Huzûg, monsters, Thorin named them; and now he was one of them. The knowledge that his family would never accept him back was a terrible, icy pain in his chest, jagged shards tearing him up inside.
Fíli rubbed a hand across his face, further smearing blood and tears over pale skin turned greyish. He’d lost an awful lot of blood, but not as much as he should have. If he hadn’t been sure what the muzmûn was before, it was all too clear now. Fíli shouldn’t be able to stand after a warg attack, let alone walk. The same curse that had just destroyed his life was keeping him alive. Aulë clearly had a cruel sense of humour.
A path of trampled grass and smeared blood led away from the tacky-dry pool toward the riverbank. Fíli had been careful that no boot prints, in dirt or blood, gave away that it was no animal dragging a corpse through the trees. Tattered pieces of his ruined tunic were snagged on rough bark and low branches, not entirely by intention. At the riverbank a hunk of his own hair was caught, tangled in a low thornbush.
Bits of flesh and beads of blood still clung to the roots. Tearing it out had brought more tears to his eyes, but he believed that his family, not to mention the guard, would need the extra proof of his demise. He’d dumped the body of the were-warg in the river, knowing it would be carried over the falls. If it was found at all it would be nothing more than a mass of battered flesh and broken bones, unrecognizable. The small man had been blonde.
Fíli took one last look at the scene in the fading daylight, too tired and hurting too much to do more than weep silently. He decided that it would do. His hair was loose, braids half-unravelled. The rough, nearly wild outer ring of Dale was a fair hike from his meadow and Fíli was by no means sure he could make it there. He had no choice, though. Despite the quickened healing ability brought by the curse if he had any chance of surviving the night he needed a healer. His hair clasps – gold, engraved with the emblem of his Line, a gift from his mother - were tucked into the satchel he clutched in one shaking hand, along with food he hadn’t been able to choke down. From now on he was no longer Fíli, son of Dís, Prince of Erebor; he was just Fíli, houseless and homeless.
As he stepped into the river and concentrated on simply moving forward, one step at a time, towards the city he wondered if maybe now his uncle, so grim since Fíli’s great-grandfather’s death, would speak of him with pride. He hoped that his uncle would stay and not go haring off as he had in times of grief before, he didn’t want his mother to be alone while she…while she grieved. The rushing river water numbed his bare feet, but Fíli barely felt the icy cold in his limbs – it was nothing compared to the icy cold gripping his heart.