Shadow blew out a breath through his nostrils as he plodded onwards, Arien trying –– and failing –– to make him go any faster. Last night had been... harrowing, to say the least. And not just because of the storm. The swirling wind and driving rain, the flashes of lightning, the crashes of thunder, they were like echoes, projections, of the thoughts churning inside her mind, the fears and memories that she had spent most of her life trying to drown out and were now returning to shatter her. She wouldn't tell Thorin. Wouldn't tell anyone. There was no one who would understand, anyway. She sighed and said

"So tell me, Prince, what does your name mean?"

Thorin huffed out a laugh at the randomness of her question. She had only spoken to distract herself. "It means 'darer'," he told her, a slight smile on his face. She thought his smile was beautiful, all the more so because of its rareness. It gave the effect of sudden sunlight, of a kindness and warmth that was so innately Thorin, despite it being covered by his hot tempered exterior.

Arien smiled. "I like that. 'Darer'. It suits you."

"So what does yours mean, Arien Feathalion?"

She hesitated, but... She trusted him. "Arien means 'sunlight' in elvish. And Feathalion... 'strong-spirit'."

"It describes you very well," Thorin said quietly.

She opened her mouth to reply, unable to admit what it did to her for him say that, but Shadow suddenly veered off the path and her words were cut off as she concentrated on bringing him back to it.

"Have you ever gone to war, Prince?"

"Not on the scale of what happened to your people," he answered. "But yes, I have been sent to dispatch bands of orcs that have grouped together to attack Erebor. And sometimes, very occasionally, my grandfather has dispatched me to deal with certain dwarves who have... have joined the orcs."

Arien nearly put a hand over her mouth, then remembered that if she did Shadow would immediately start eating and it would take forever to get him moving again. "They... they do that?"

"Not many, but there are a few who don't seem to be satisfied with dwarvish life. A few that seem to think torturing and killing their kin is the right thing to do." He sounded angry and defeated.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I..."

"It doesn't matter." He shook his head, making that inky black hair fall over his face. He shook it away impatiently. Something about the movement seemed to hold Arien transfixed.

She gave her own head a little shake and surveyed her surroundings. The sparse, bleak grasslands around the foothills of the Mountains had given way to lush, green pastures as they travelled. Familiar landscape, considering it was near Rivendell.

One more night, Arien thought.

A mixture of dread and excitement pooled in her gut.

One more night, and then...

And then she would see her homeland.

After a hundred years, she would finally see it again.

Arien shivered, as if a cold wind blew down her spine at the thought, though the sun blazed bright and hot above them. The storm last night hadn't done much to lessen the sun's heat, Arien thought.

She kicked Shadow into a trot to catch up with Thorin.

She was dreading the night, and the dream she knew would come. The same dream that had haunted her sleep every night since they had crossed the Greenwood.

Her mother's scream as that orc's sword pierced her father's chest and he dropped like a stone, Arien's wide, horrified eyes, Gilwen's sword flashing as it severed the orc's neck...

Then her mother's face in hers, blood splattering the smooth skin, brown hair falling wildly across her face, murmuring words that Arien, no matter how hard she tried, could never remember.

Gilwen's eyes, wide and fearful, still on her face as she backed away from her daughter, boots splashing in Arien's father's blood, screaming at her to run as more orcs streamed into the palace.

For a moment Arien had been frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from her father's body, but then a Taurhelim soldier had shoved her towards the palace's other exit.

Only for an orc's sword to slice across the soldier's neck. Only for deep red blood to splatter the three-year-old princess, for her to stare in shock as the headless torso clothed in the armour of the Taurhelim fell to the ground, bleeding onto the ancient rock. His last act that of saving his princess.

And every time, in every dream, that soldier was replaced by Thorin.

Her mother's screams replaced by Arien's as he slumped to the ground.

It was why she had stayed awake last night.

And why she was dreading the darkness.