With Bard's permission, the company boarded the barge. The temperature had dropped considerably; ice littered the water and it had begun to snow very lightly. Bilbo hugged himself while pacing in an attempt not to freeze. Some dwarves sat, others counted what gold they had left. Thorin remained near the front, his eyes on the lake.
Kili sat near Fili and Saeril, completely silent and paler than usual.

Thranduil walked past their hostage, his eerily blue eyes landing towards the orc. “Such is the nature of evil. Out there in the vast ignorance of the world it festers and spreads, a shadow that grows in the dark. A sleepless malice as black as the oncoming wall of night. So it ever was; so will it always be. In time, all foul things come forth.” 
 
The orc only smirked in response. “Not thirteen; not any more. The young one, the black-haired archer, we stuck him with a Morgul shaft. The poison’s is in his blood. He’ll be choking on it soon.”

Tauriel frowned, for she remembered witnessing the attack. Saeril had made short work of Bolg. “Answer the question, filth.”

The orc growled lowly, resisting their questioning. “Sha hakhtiz khunai-go, Golgi! (I do not answer to dogs, She-Elf!)"