So, eeehh, yeah, I've been looking around for anything along the lines of Fili!whump to read for a while now, but, well, my searching has kind of left me empty handed. I mean there are a few stories, but there's just not much (especially when you compare it to the amount of Kili whump), so yeah, i'm setting that wrong right anyway ^_^. And I'll probably be adressing some of the problems I felt while watching Battle Of The Five Armies, because as much as I wanted to like that last movie, looking back on it now, I feel it's quite disappointing (a small example being the movie supposed to be about dwarves completely forgetting about them safe for two...).

So, before we get started, warning! This is likely to contain both physical and mental trauma, so if there is a possibility that it might make you feel uneasy in any way, I strongly suggest you return to browsing the rest of the Hobbit archive, where you'll surely find something more appealing to your tastes. :)

Also, Alfrid! Yup, this guy is going to be in it A LOT! But! Butbutbut, before you run away because of how annoying he was (trust me, I really didn't like him either), I swear, he's not the unfunny comic relief thing he was in the movies (seriously, he was as useless as Tauriel in that last movie -.-). Anyway, I've made him a little smarter in this version, and just imagine him with a fuller beard and a deeper voice, because that's going to come into play later, and if you didn't already hate him in the movies, prepare yourselves to want to strangle him now, because by the end of this, you probably will! ;)

Update wise, I have no idea how often it will be, as I still haven't finished the outline for this story (and I'm about to start my second year in University too), but yeah, I hope I won't take too long to update!

Anyway, here's the first chapter, so sit back, and enjoy! :D (For there is much angst still to come...)

"Alfrid."

He sighed, having realized he'd been caught, and by Bard no less. What was it with the honor-bound bargeman that made him constantly get under his skin? Couldn't he just let him go without having to remind his conscience that he wasn't exactly the most honorable of men? That he should also be fighting alongside the men and women of Dale? Well, sorry, but in Alfrid's books, he wasn't foolish enough to risk his life for them, and he certainly wasn't going back there, no matter what stunts Bard tried to pull on him, no way.

As if to prove his point, he took a step back from the taller man, and tried to muster a would-be impressive scowl, hoping it might just be enough for Bard to leave him alone so he could escape (preferably somewhere far away). He already knew he wouldn't be in any position to fight him, and besides, the only weapons he had on his body were a bag full of bottles of liquor –the only things he'd managed to save from his Master's downfall, and a sharp dagger (and Bard would probably be able to wield it better than himself, if he were honest). It wasn't much, but for Alfrid, it was enough, it would guarantee him a few days walk at least.

"Try not to do anything foolish."

His head perked up, eyebrows shooting upwards, not having expected this in the slightest. He'd been waiting for Bard to lecture him on morality and the importance of being a man of honor and keeping to his word, but… was he actually letting him go? Even after everything he'd put him through over the past years? It wasn't that Alfrid felt any regret for being an especially big thorn in Bard's side, but he'd have expected Girion's descendant to at least take some kind of revenge, do something to make him pay for making his life Hell for the past several years, but… Nothing?

Alfrid grated his teeth, steeling himself against his conscience trying to explain to him why. Of course, he already knew, he knew that Bard wasn't one to hold on to grudges, he knew the other man understood that such things were best left behind when one was at war, and it made Alfrid hate him all the more. How was it that Bard somehow always managed to rub it in his face what an honorable person he was, even without seeking to do so? Why was he always reminding him that what Alfrid was doing was wrong? Curse him! Curse him and his ancestor!

Shaking his head furiously, and convincing himself once more that this was the right thing to do, that this was the only chance he was ever going to get to make it out of this alive, Alfrid turned away, leaving the clash of swords and the screams of the dying behind him, where they could not touch him. As long as he steered clear, he would survive, and that was all that mattered to him right now, surviving. Winter was upon them, and with the little he'd managed to store away in his black coat, he wouldn't last long if he did not find someplace to settle down in, if only for a while. Thinking about it a little more, if it meant living to see the next spring, Alfrid thought he might just be willing to offer his services to someone if they would ensure his survival, after all, he knew how to satisfy and obey quite well, given all the years the previous Master had kept him under his wing, so surely, his services could also be used elsewhere. Besides, if he had to relinquish a small amount of comfort for the sake of keeping himself alive, it wasn't much to pay.

Nodding to himself as he conjured up all of the unsavory images, cringing at the mere idea of having to yet again be ordered around and accept it without saying much, Alfrid pushed his way though, not stopping to confirm whether the unfortunate civilian he'd just shoved out of his way was an elderly man or a young child. What did it matter? If the poor soul stayed here for much longer, it would end up dead, and if not by being killed by the orcs that were gradually surrounding them, then starvation was definitely going to eat at their bones sooner or later, for there was not much to live off around Dale, the days of it's prosperity had ended at least decades ago, when the dragon had come down from the Mountain and set the city aflame. If he could, Alfrid would rather be long gone than have to face that.

As the freezing wind bit his face, he suddenly found himself glad to still be wearing the heavy black coat the Master had offered him. Sure, it had seen better days, and it was probably not the warmest, but he would rather still find himself in that than have to go around in his undershirt, which would, on top of making him sick, would make him easily pass for some random peasant, and Alfrid was certainly not seizing this new chance at life to end up a poor man having to rely on body strength to labor for the rest of his days. He was smart, cunning even, he could often try and use his skillful tongue to escape a sticky situation, and he would rather spend the rest of his life making the most of it rather than coming home bruised and exhausted after hours on end spent harvesting somebody else's crops.

No, from now on, he would either be his own Master, or work for someone who would pay him handsomely, because, after all, one never got enough of money, really, and he could actually do with some of that right now. It was torture, in a way, knowing he was leaving the dwarven Mountain behind him, with all of it's gold and jewels, (and had it not been for Thorin-bloody-Oakenshield, he probably could have been happily claiming some of those shiny artifacts right now), but he would have to be a fool to try and venture in there, for daring to approach the Mountain meant he would have to be willing to fray a passage for himself in the battlefield, where a swing of an axe or the stab of a sword could bring an end to his life much to prematurely. No, as much as he would have liked to find a way into Oakenshield's Mountain, maybe even claim some of the treasures there for himself if nobody was watching, he still valued his own life above such trinkets, and was not willing to risk it for a couple of keepsakes, even if they would have made him the richest man of Dale.

Curse the stubbornness of dwarves! This was all their fault, none of this would have happened in the first place had Oakenshield kept to his word, Alfred seethed. He would have been the new Master, have kept Bard groveling at his feet while he would have been swimming in the piles of gold the dwarf lord had promised them, but Thorin's stubbornness had brought war, and was now the reason why he was fleeing for his life, with nothing more than a bagful of strong bottles of liquor and maybe a sharp blade or two to ensure his survival. Ha! He could almost laugh at how miserable he must look, fleeing with not even what would be required to survive a few days. His only hope now would be to find a soul he could talk into letting him seek refuge in their place, where, if all went well, he just might be able to bribe them with his skillful tongue, at least that was one asset that hadn't been taken away from him, and if it was the only thing he could rely on to get out of this mess, Alfrid knew already he wouldn't hesitate twice to use it, no matter what might happen, once he made it our alive in the end of the day. Yes, Oakenshield may have taken everything from him from the moment he declared war, but he had not taken his tongue, one thing Alfrid knew he would very much like to keep in the near future.

As the initial pump of adrenaline soon fled him, Thorin found his arms aching under every blow he parried, the weapon becoming a little heavier as the minutes flew by, he knew there was only so much he could take of this, and his limits were soon going to be reached if he didn't come up with a plan, and quickly.

After he'd lead the rest of his company out from their stronghold in the Mountain, joining the battle to fight side by side with the men, elves, and the dwarves from the Iron Hills, he'd gotten separated from the others, or at least he thought he did, for it was difficult to make out friend from foe in the turmoil that the battlefield had become, but he certainly wasn't about to retreat back to the safety that Erebor had procured to him, not before this was over and he'd apologized to Bard (and maybe the Elven king, though that would probably depend on Thranduil's civility towards him) for not honoring his word, for he had nobody else to blame but himself for turning the bowman's reasonable request aside. He'd give Bard the gold he was due, and he'd probably find himself in a position in which he'd have to return Lord Thranduil's gems to him, too, and besides, if it would get the witty elflord out of his life for good, it was a little price to pay, but first, they needed to all live to see the end of the day.

"Thorin!"

His name rung out, and were it not for the thick accent, Thorin would probably not have heard it, but as it was, the familiarity of the voice instantly allowed him to conjure up a face, and, lowering his sword for a moment, trying to make out where it had come from, Dain managed to break his way through. It was good to see his cousin again, red hair as flamboyant as ever and face unscathed for the most part, and before Thorin could even greet the other dwarf lord properly (well, as well as could be expected while a raging battle continued on around them), he found his smaller frame engulfed by the other, much larger one, when Dain brought a strong arm around his back, bringing him closer.

Aye, it was good to see his family again, even if it was only one cousin.

"There's too many of these buggers, Thorin!" The poor warrior was exhausted, and if his slumped shoulders weren't an indication, the labored breathing were a definite indicator to Thorin that something needed to be done, and soon, or they were going to find themselves overrun before the sun set that evening for sure, but what could he possibly do to change the tide of the battle here, surrounded by so many dirty armor? He wasn't even sure how he was making out friend from foe anymore... Something had to be done, or they were going to meet their end much quicker than he'd like to. He already had a cut on his shoulder, from not paying enough attention to the threats in his back, and while it wasn't crippling, he could feel it throb from time to time, and would indeed like have it seen to by Oin sooner rather than later, knowing for a fact that leaving something so trivial unattended to could quickly spiral down into a much bigger problem for him.

And he had more than enough to be dealing with at the moment.

"I hope you've got a plan!"

Thorin turned back to Dain, his cousin looking at him expectantly, as if he would just magically come up with an idea to lead them to victory with a snap of his fingers. But Thorin was no wizard (and, truth be told, he doubted that even Gandalf might be able to come up with a better idea right now), he had not really planned anything with his company before charging out of Erebor, the sole thought of aiding his kin being what had mainly preoccupied him, but now, he was able to see the reasoning behind the flamed-haired warrior's words. If nothing was done, they were eventually going to be decimated, whether the dwarves from Iron Hills were accomplished warriors and the men of Lake-Town fought with everything they had made no difference, they were going to be overrun and either collapse from exhaustion or simply be killed off one after another, unless something was done.

He looked up, hoping some sign might appear out of thin air and help him, help him make the right decision, but nothing came, not a trail of smoke, not a spark, nothing, until his gaze fell upon a moving form atop Ravenhill. He hadn't noticed it earlier, the device seemed so small, but now, as it moved, something akin to fabric wings waving up and down and the orcs around them seemingly instantly trying to push them back towards Dale with more vigor, it took a moment, but eventually, it clicked.

They were being lead from up there.

Their leader was up there.

Azog was up there.

And suddenly, it didn't seem so hopeless anymore. Without any indications, the orc army would be at a loss of what to do, and if they managed to disorientate them, maybe it would be easier to bring them down. But to do so, he'd have to make it up there, he'd have to survive another encounter with Azog for it to work. He'd only narrowly escaped last time (and that had been mainly thanks' to Bilbo's timely intervention and Gandalf's healing abilities), but if seeking out the Defiler was what might guarantee them victory, he'd have to be a fool to toss the opportunity away, the shivers of fear running down his spine at the thought of possibly facing the Pale Orc once more would have to be ignored.

"Aye, I think I do." Looking around, he tried to make out Dwalin, knowing that were he to attempt this, he would rather have the accomplished warrior by his side. Sure enough, the younger son of Fundin was there, in the distance, fighting back-to-back with his brother, Balin, and to Thorin's relief, neither seemed to have sported any grave injuries yet. "Dwalin!"

The bald warrior instantly turned around, fighting his way over like the expert swords-master he was, acknowledging Dain with a nod as he got there. Up close, Thorin could see the nasty bruises forming on his best friend's arms and the neat gash on his face still bleeding and mentally winced at what he was putting his company through, but the sooner he saw his plan through, the sooner they would all be able to see to their injuries and finally be able to rest.

"Dwalin, I need you to find Kili and Fili, bring them back here, now!"

With a nod and no questioning (truly, Dwalin was probably one of the most loyal dwarves Thorin had ever had the privilege of meeting in his life, and right now, it was a blessing), the younger fighter's eyes followed the taller son of Fundin, as he once again threw himself into the frenzy around them, disappearing for what Thorin hoped would not be long.

Dain tried to get closer to him again, the few moments the new King under the Mountain had used to order his friend to search the battlefield for his family having been enough for a new wave of orcs to come between them. But still, he was of Durin's line, and Durin's line would not go down without a fight.

"Cousin!" Again, Thorin didn't seem to have heard him, the clash of his own sword probably ringing in his ears painfully right now. "Thorin!"

He pushed off one of the offending orc that had dared latch itself onto his shoulder, severing it's gruesome head with the sword in his other hand, pushing his way over to the raven-haired son of Thrain, half dreading to try and make out what he'd told his bald companion, for the spark that had lit in Thorin's eye, while it should have given him hope, Dain almost feared that it would be associated with something reckless, and Mahal had he heard of the reckless deeds his cousin had sometimes had to resort to in order to get here (really, what dwarf would be foolish enough to seek refuge with a potentially life-threatening skin changer?). If he could prevent his future King of doing something he was likely to regret, now was the only chance he was going to have to speak his mind.

"What do you think you're about to do?" He hollered, warning tone barely audible as he had to scream his question in order to be heard, the sound of steel against steel ringing in the background.

"Dain! I need a couple of those war beasts you brought with you!" Because Thorin was certainly not going to attempt to climb that mountain by himself. He'd caught a glimpse of the fine war rams Dain had brought along with his army from the Iron Hills, and on top of being notorious for their steady feet in high grounds, it would probably be a lot quicker for him if they borrowed a few of Dain's steeds than attempt to climb all the way up the side of Ravenhill with nothing more than their bare hands.

"My war ra-What?!" It wasn't that Dain was unwilling to help his cousin, but what in Mahal's name was he thinking?! He couldn't just go trampling about on one of his beasts because he felt the sudden urge to do so, why would he be needing them anyway? "Why would you need-?"

"Now Dain! The sooner the better, trust me!" If he was to be the new King under the Mountain, Thorin had to gain the trust of those who would be loyal to him, he couldn't have Dain doubt his decision, not now. It was the only thing the younger dwarf had managed to come up with, and while some would probably call him crazy for attempting to do this, Thorin knew he would rather try and fail and have the knowledge that he'd at least done something rather than stay here and fight until he collapsed.

His regal tone seemed to have done the trick, as, immediately, Dain set about to find him what he'd asked for, calling out to some of his mounted soldiers to hand over their beasts to him, and, soon enough, Thorin found himself with four sturdy rams, and without listening to Dain's attempts to keep him here with cries of you're needed here! Or what will the dwarves think when they'll notice that their King is gone? He anxiously tried keeping his own beast close to the three others, until Dwalin finally reemerged, Kili and Fili in tow. It was good to see his nephews mostly unharmed, safe for the scratch on Kili's eyebrow and the bruise on Fili's face, but those were only minor injuries, which Oin could surely see to once this was over.

I'm going to destroy that piece of filth!

It was high time Azog paid for what he had done to his family, as first he'd beheaded his own grandfather and then had quite probably been one of the main reasons behind his father's disappearance, and for the threat he still posed. As long as he lived, the Defiler would stop at nothing to get to firstly him and then to his cousin, his sister the esteemed Lady Dis, and two nephews, for Thorin knew Azog would stop at nothing to accomplish his goal to wipe out his entire family. If he killed him now, while he still had the chance, it would certainly be a warm lite shining on the house of Durin once again, after living in fear for so long. Besides, it was the least he could do to avenge his grandfather, Thror deserved to know that his murdered had finally met his end, even if his body was no longer alive and able to acknowledge it.

Not thinking twice now to evaluate the potential danger his plan might have, Thorin dug his heels into the animal's sides, urging it to go as fast as it's short legs could carry it, Dwalin, Kili and Fili close on his heels.

His heart thundered in his chest, each stride bringing him closer to the one person he needed to wipe out to ensure their victory, each stride had his hands clench more and more tightly around the reigns, and soon cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck at the knowledge that this time, there would be only one warrior to make it out alive, and it had to be him, no matter how many gashed he earned, no matter how many bones he broke, he was the one who had to win, not for personal glory, but for the hopes of offering a new home to the dwarves of Erebor who'd suffered a long enough exile might get the chance of finally having their own home in a world that had constantly pushed them away, so that his family might finally at long last be able to settle down and live out their days as true heirs of Durin ought to.

Much to his displeasure, Bolg had seen himself forced to lead the second part of his father's army, the one supposed to come in and corner the dwarves, men and elves via a route from the North. He didn't like his position in the slightest, he didn't like having to heed to Azog's command, but he would do what was bid of him, as a son and future heir ought to do for their leader and father. If he was to prove his loyalty and capacity to lead to Azog for him to trust in his abilities, Bolg thought he might as well use this as an opportunity to impress him.

Striding through the slowly crumbling remains of one of the small villages just outside Dale, he watched with glee as the houses burnt, the screams of the dead and dying echoing in his ears. If his father could see him now, he would be proud. Not hesitating to order his soldiers around, he urged them to destroy as much as they could, knowing the less they left behind them, the more the men would struggle to survive, even if it was just losing something to protect them from the impeding cold, something they would learn to value in the coming days if they were to end up being besieged in their own town. Besides, the less they had, the more he and his army could guarantee themselves victory.

Beheading another human unfortunate enough to cross his path, he'd been about to make for the Ravenhill, where he knew his father to be waiting for him, when the sight of his warriors having surrounded a lone human caught his eye. Interested in how the unfortunate man would put up its last stand, he made to move closer, getting a chance to seize him up as he approached.

It was an average man, one like any other, black hair, bushy eyebrows like so many of those parasites seemed to have, darker facial hair, and the body one would expect when invading a town relying on merchants and traders, that was to say, it didn't look like it was very well trained in the art of combat, and if the fearful expression it's eyes so clearly displayed was anything to go by, Bolg was pretty certain this human did not want to die. But that was the fun part, wasn't it? Instilling terror into their weak bodies, pushing them and pushing them some more until all they begged for was for their life to be ended, for drawing another breath would mean prolonging their torture. Men were weak, after all.

He watched, as the man was backed into the wall of what was now an unfortunate civilian's destroyed home, he watched as the parasite was forced to his knees, he watched as it didn't dare look any of the orcs surrounding him in the eye. Aye, this one wasn't much of a man, for sure, and he turned away, a disinterested snort being the only response he could muster regarding the man's impendent doom.

"W-Wait! P-Please don't, I-I'l do anything you want!" The deep voice rung out, something almost familiar with it, and Bolg froze mid-step.

He didn't know what it was, couldn't pinpoint why exactly he ordered the orc about to slice the human's head off to still his hand, but he did, the command barked crudely as he observed the man on his knees, taking in the dark hair, the beard and the pure expression of fear plastered across it's face. He liked that expression.

"You, human." He was pleased to see his now prisoner look up at him, like a slave would look up to its master, as if he were finally a superior worthy of respect (maybe he could keep this human and train it as his own little pet?) "What's your name?" If he was to spare him, he may as well remember the name of the only human vermin he was ever going to keep alive.

"A-Alfrid, sire." Oh? And a sire to go with it? Bolg was definitely liking this one, maybe he could convince his father to keep it, for he would very much like to break someone into being his very own pet.

"Tell me, Alfrid, how far would you be willing to go to ensure your own life?" He asked smoothly, noticing how his men had tightened their grip around the shaking creature's arms to prevent him from escaping.

"A-Anything, sire." The deep voice shook again, a little hesitant but still taking the bait he was offering, recognizing this as a chance to keep his life. Maybe this human wasn't so stupid as Bolg had thought their race to be after all, maybe this one could prove to be of some use to him.

Bolg looked back to the cliff side on the top of which he knew his father to be waiting for him, spotting the four figures detaching themselves from the main fight. The one leading was no doubt Oakenshiled, he would be willing to bet his remaining eye on it, meaning those following him were probably somewhat close to him, for Durin's heir would only bring men he could fully trust if he was indeed attempting to make it all the way up to eventually confront the Defiler. Which also meant that those three dwarves Thorin had deemed necessary to go along with him were somehow close to him.

He looked back towards Alfrid, as he heard the sloshing of the bottles in his coat as one the orcs jerked his arms back a little harsher than would be needed, and did the same motion a few times, alterning between the cowering prisoner at his feet and the small party of dwarves his father would no doubt like to exterminate once and for all. Maybe Alfrid could be of some use to him, and besides, he could always kill him the moment he felt like it anyway.

He jerked his head to the side, ordering his men to move forwards, his own powerful hand grabbing the dark furs of his prisoner, "I'm very glad to hear that, my friend." And he gave him a slight tug, the bottles inside the dark-haired man's coat sloshing once again, making Alfrid hope that somehow, his idea of deeming them important enough to forsake any weapon he could rely on would somehow save his life.