The Lovers' Three Swords
It is said that you become conscious of what you have only when you lose it. Ofelia almost lost Kíli.
Words Count : 2,749
Pairings : Kíli x Ofelia (OC), slight Kíli x Tauriel if you squint really hard.
Warning : Angst, Canonical Events (but not too canon), Injury, Near Death Experience.
Author's Note : So obviously this is set during BotFA. This is pure angst. From beginning to end.
Also, the title in itself does not make much sense unless you know the meaning of Tarot Cards. I'm kindly inviting you to check the meanings of The Lovers and the Three of Swords.
Snowflakes were falling from the sky at a slow pace, delicately landing onto the cold ground. Everything looked so pure, immaculate. The rocks covered in white, the scattered goblins’ limbs, the crown prince struggling to breathe. Immaculate.
The few sun rays that peeked through the clouds shyly made the snow shine like thousands of tiny diamonds. Ofelia had never seen diamonds before. But neither had she needed to handle a sword. So, perhaps the day would come when she would lay her eyes upon one of these precious stones.
She, too, looked immaculate, despite the blood that had splattered onto her soft face and ripped garments. Although, she did not know whose blood it was. Hers or theirs? It did not matter when she quickly pulled her blade out of one of those vile creatures to bury it into yet another one of them.
It was messy because she could not aim properly, her lack of skills causing her to tumble backward. Ofelia gasped in surprise when her backside hit the hard ground, sending sharp sparks of pain into her entire body. Or was it in fear at how vulnerable and helpless she now was, at the mercy of those who wanted nothing more than to spill her blood?
There was no place for tears or thoughts in a battle. It was only about surviving or dying. As she watched a goblin charging in her direction while she desperately tried to reach for her sword, discarded further away, there was only one thought that crossed her mind: she would die.
Goblins were fast. Terrifyingly so. It was on her within a few seconds. Ofelia cried out, her feet kicking at the thin layer of snow beneath her. Her fingertips brushed against the cold metal of her sword’s handle. She cried out again as if to encourage the weapon to come closer. Of course, it did not. So, the poor hobbit kicked harder, sending the goblin onto the ground.
Ofelia thought she would die, but she would not. Not yet. She grabbed the sword tightly and moved back onto her feet. Inside her chest, she felt her heart swelling with fear as she lifted the blade above her head. If she aimed right, she could get rid of it. Kíli had taught her how to aim properly.
Kíli.
“What are you doing with that stick of yours?”
Ofelia turned around, her arms lifted above her head as she readied herself to hit the nearest tree trunk with a thick stick. It was easy to pretend it was an enemy, another troll perhaps. And the stick was heavy and long, like a sword. Not that Ofelia had ever handled a sword. There were not many hobbits that carried weapons around the Shire.
It was easier to pretend when no one looked. And looking—staring even—, that the dark-haired prince did really well. Ofelia’s arms dropped to her sides in defeat, her wooden sword hitting the ground.
“It is not a stick,” she explained softly, “it is a weapon. I, too, need a weapon”.
At Kíli’s roaring laughter, Ofelia felt her cheeks heat up. Unfair. It was mean and unfair. Sadly, she dropped the stick—the simple, idiotic stick— and began to walk back to the camp.
Behind her, the thunder died down. She heard twigs and leaves cracking as the younger prince walked fastly, catching up with her.
“Oy, Feli!” he called, grabbing Ofelia’s wrist gently. “Please do not be mad. I didn't mean to offend you.”
“These are not proper apologies,” she snapped. “And do not call me Feli!”
The soft caress of Kíli’s rough fingertips on the sensitive skin of her wrist sent shivers down her spine.
“My apologies, Feli,” the prince declared solemnly. Although, she could hear the grin in his voice. “Allow me to make it up to you?”
The offer made her turn around to face him. Ofelia gave him a questioning look, eager to know more.
“How so?” she asked.
She stayed still and quiet when he began to look around them, his eyes scanning the area. Finally, after a quick study of their surroundings, he bent down and picked up another stick. Not as thick and slightly shorter than the one she was playing with a few minutes prior.
With a big smile plastered on his face, Kíli handed it to her. Ofelia took it hesitantly, her eyes still full of questions.
“Let me teach you how to fight.”
And so he had taught her. Every single night, they would both disappear. And, hidden from anyone’s view, they would train with wooden sticks. It had been hard, at first. But Kíli had been patient with her.
It had gone on for weeks, months even, until Kíli had deemed that she was skilled enough to have her own sword. One of his swords. The same one that collided with the goblin’s throat and sent thick crimson liquid everywhere to soil the ground and herself a bit more.
As she stared down at the creature’s lifeless body, Ofelia mentally scolded herself. She should have gone with him. She should have followed Kíli and Fíli. Poor Fíli, he who was battling against himself to stay awake.
Everything around Ofelia seemed to slow down when she stopped to consider that maybe Kíli was also dying somewhere. She felt her guts clench and the urge to throw up as a lump formed in her throat. She needed to find him.
Guided by only her feet and the wind’s soft whispers, she began to run. Clutching her sword as if her life depended on it—because it did—, she ran through the dozens of goblins that surrounded her, her blade dancing haphazardly in the air in a weak attempt to hurt anything that ventured too close to her.
“You must hold onto it tightly, Feli. But not too tight, or else it will be a bother and hurt you. Relax your fingers a bit more... Aye, perfect.”
The contrast of the cold snow beneath her feet and the leather burning her palms was overwhelming, but Ofelia could not bring herself to loosen her grip, was it only slightly.
“Do not be so stiff, you have to rela- no, not too much. Here, just like that, alright? Great. Now hit.”
Ofelia’s muscles were aching with how tense she was. She swung her sword again in an all too painful movement. Her head was pounding. Was she running for his life, or hers? Perhaps both.
Everything looked the same, covered in pure white snow. Ofelia was pretty sure that she had come here at least twice already. A voice, coming from deep inside her heart, shouted at her that she should have never left the Shire. There was no place in this war for a simple hobbit lady such as herself. There was no place amongst dwarves and elves, men and orcs, for a little hobbit.
“It is not easy, using a sword, Feli. It is alright to make mistakes. Everyone does. Mahal, I do not have enough fingers to count how many times I made mistakes. But, it will be worth it, in the end. You will see, Feli.”
And once she would find him, it would be worth every cut, every blister, every tear. Firmly planting her feet on the ground, her lungs feeling too tight from how much she had run, she screamed his name. She called for the prince, snowflakes crashing onto her face, hoping that he was still alive enough to hear her and call back.
It was not Kíli who answered. At first, Ofelia thought it was an echo, sending her unanswered cry back to her. But it was not. It was an equally desperate voice, one that did not belong to her or Kíli. A voice filled with pain and fear.
Ofelia shivered and began running again. This time, she followed the foreign voice. Whoever it was that was calling after the prince must have known where he was. Hopefully.
It was hard, running in the snow. Inevitably, she slipped and fell, her chin colliding with the ground. Inside her mouth, her teeth sank into her cheek and soon she could feel the unpleasant coppery taste of blood.
Ofelia hissed in pain. But there was no time for pain, no time to stumble or fall. Once more, she heard someone calling Kíli's name. Louder, this time. She was getting closer to it. Closer to him. It was enough to pull her back up.
In the fairy tales children were told, no one ever spoke about how unreal and slow everything felt whenever the hero was fighting. Nor would they speak about how distorted everything looked, including distances.
Ofelia did not think she was the hero, not even close to that. She was a hobbit from the Shire. A short creature who lived on good food and a pretty garden. But when she stepped forward, the prince and a red-headed elf—Tauriel— entering her view, she felt so far away. She felt as if she would never be able to reach them, no matter how many miles she would run.
Further down, Kíli and Tauriel fought side by side. It looked beautiful, Ofelia thought. Ironically beautiful. They moved so easily as if they had been made for that and that only. It looked as if they were dancing a dance that could cost them life.
One of the Orcs was creeping behind the prince, ready to strike. The little lady felt her heart pounding against her chest, yelling at her to do something, anything. But she would never be able to reach them in time.
“Kili!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, hoping it would catch his attention. It did not. Although, her eyes locked with Tauriel’s green ones.
Ofelia had heard of the beauty of elves before leaving her beloved Shire. And she had witnessed it in Rivendell and when they had been held captive in Mirkwood, and again in Laketown when Kíli was ill. Tauriel was one of the most beautiful elves she had ever seen.
Quickly, she indicated the creature behind Kíli. Tauriel’s eyes followed the direction of her finger, and although Ofelia could not hear a single word, she was pretty sure that the elf had warned Kíli because he swiftly moved away.
Caught into another frenzy, Ofelia rushed down the stone stairs, careful not to slip again. She was not so sure that she would survive it this time.
Orcs were tall, way taller than her. It was easy to take down a goblin when it was almost her size. But this...It was monstrous. Next to it, Ofelia looked ridiculous. Yet, a spark of bravery shot through her body and she bolted towards it, burying her blade in its calf. She knew, deep inside, that it must have felt like a mosquito bite. Yet, she felt a certain pride when the Orc hissed.
It did not last long because, in one swift movement of its leg, it sent her a few feet away.
“Ofelia!”
The sound of his voice ringed in her ears and she looked up. Kíli was there, right in front of her. And she could not help but smile brightly at the sight of him.
“Kíli…” she breathed out. And like a toddler who craved their mother, she reached out for him, tried to pull him close to her.
But there was no place for love here. Before she could register what was happening, a greyish hand snaked around Kíli's throat and dragged him away from her.
The prince looked worn out, exhausted. For how long had he been fighting before Ofelia had arrived? Was the blood on his face his or theirs? Tauriel, too, looked as if she had not been able to rest for centuries. Her breathing was erratic. They were not dancing anymore. They were dying. Both of them.
The Orc's blade was pressed against Kíli's chest, preparing itself to dive into the soft flesh.
She looked around for her own weapon. But the Gods were not on her side anymore, and she stared at the shining steel that laid at the Orc's feet. And she knew that the creature was aware of her helplessness when he gave her the coldest and cruelest smile.
“No!” she cried out, standing up to try and get her sword back. “No!”
The little lady did not have time to go too far when two slender, yet strong arms wrapped around her middle, keeping her on the ground.
Tears began to run down her cheeks, bruising the soft skin. She tried to fight, tried to free herself from the strong grip.
“Ofelia!” Tauriel begged, struggling to keep her down.
Hobbits did not have the same eyesight as elves, nor could they hear the same thing they did. But when the blood-stained blade plunged into Kíli's body, she swore she had heard the sound of his skin being ripped in two. And although she was at a good distance from the prince, she saw his eyes turning completely black due to the pain, his pupils twitching disgustingly.
Behind her, Tauriel sobbed. Ofelia felt the elf's nails digging into her skin. But all she could focus on was the tiny red droplets that glided down Kíli's body to crash onto the pure white snow. Immaculate.
Ofelia screamed. She screamed and it burned her throat, sucking all the air out of her lungs. She screamed until her jaw began to hurt and her voice broke into tiny sharp pieces that sliced through her heart. She screamed until Kíli's body hit the ground, his hair spread out beneath his head in a dark halo.
Death was not fascinating, nor was it intriguing. It was devastating. Although, Ofelia could not tear her eyes away from the prince. She watched as his chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm as he struggled to breathe. She could not look away from him, even when she saw the Orc coming closer from the corner of her eye. She could not look away either when Tauriel tightened her arms around her.
For the second time this day, Ofelia thought she was about to die. And she wished to die looking at Kíli, son of Dís. But she would not die, not yet. Nor would Tauriel.
The Orc—perhaps it had a name, Ofelia did not care—fell before them. A dagger was stuck in his skull, the handle pointing proudly towards the sky. It was dead.
Slowly and carefully, the short lady extricated herself from Tauriel’s protective embrace, and like a wounded animal, she crawled towards Kíli. She ignored the voices behind her to listen to his breathing.
“Oh, Kíli…” she whispered, her hand cupping his cheek delicately.
The young heir grabbed her wrist, his fingers shaking. The pained moaned he let out broke her heart a bit more. Without help, he would die. Without help, she would lose him.
Ofelia turned around sharply, her eyes falling onto Tauriel and another elf, one with blond hair.
“Help him,” she ordered, her voice sore from the screaming. None of them replied. They gave her the look. The one that meant there was nothing left to do. Angrily, she pointed a finger at Tauriel. “You healed him once! In Laketown. Do it again! Do it again!”
“Ofelia…”
It was lower than a whisper, barely audible. And maybe Ofelia had imagined it. Maybe she had imagined all of it. She hoped so.
Kíli moaned again, louder this time. And perhaps she acted on impulse again. Perhaps her decision would be his ending. But at least, she would have tried. Ofelia decided that Kíli would not die, not yet.
Determination painted on her face, Ofelia stood up and pulled Kíli to his feet. He screamed in pain, hurting her ears.
“What are you doing?” Tauriel asked. “You’ll hurt him even more!”
It was true. Kíli was in pain and Ofelia could not even imagine how he must have been feeling at this moment. But she ignored his crying, and she ignored their looks. The little hobbit lady began to walk away, supporting the dwarven prince as best as she could.
“Kíli needs help or else he will die,” she explained, droplets of sweat already beginning to prickle on her forehead. She looked back at them one last time and pronounced the same words that Kíli’s own brother had used the first time he had been about to die:
“I will carry him if I must.”
