Thorin could not feel much as the orc came to stand over him, his mind addled from the blow of the rock. Blood rushed through his veins as despair overcame him. He had failed. Failed his kin and failed to bring his people back to their lands.
He would never see the Lonely Mountain again; home was lost to him now.
Try as he could, there was no strength left in his limbs to fight on. With flames glinting off the dirty blade, the dwarf watched as the orc raised the sword above his head. It was over. The wicked edge of the sword was brought down to touch his throat once lightly before the orc extended his weapon one final time to deliver a fateful blow. Thorin fixed his gaze upon the dark sky as smoke from the fire clouded the view of any star.
That is okay, he thought absently, dwarfs are creatures of the earth, not sky. I need no fine view.
Thorin waited but the finishing blow did not come as he had expected. Instead the orc was knocked down by a swift moving figure. Thorin watched as a knife pierced through the orcs' belly. A pale blue light shown from the blade as it appeared — twice, thrice, again and again until the orc had fallen.
Thorin turned his head to see who had come to his aid, his movements still sluggish from the wounds his body had taken. It was The Hobbit.
The one he had degraded at every turn now stood between him and the Defiler. Bilbo made no grand speeches. Thorin saw the way his hand shook as he held the blade, but his feet where firmly planted like the deep roots of the mountain Thorin so loved.
Thorin's eyes began to dim, numbness creeping into his limbs. He watched Bilbo for as long as he could, taking in the sight of him, until his eyes grew too heavy to keep aloft. Even as darkness took him, Thorin felt secure knowing that it was Bilbo who stood guard over him.
For in that moment the smallest of their company had stood as tall and noble as any warrior Thorin had ever seen.