This was just sitting on AO3, and I thought I might as well post it here too.

For a prompt on the Hobbit Kinkmeme.

Some spoilers for the end of The Hobbit, obviously.

Prologue

Smaug the fierce, the invincible, the impenetrable, was dying. Down he crashed into the heart of Lake-Town, determined to rain as much destruction as he could before he breathed his last. Fury, white burning rage exploded through his body for the man who was responsible for his soon-to-be death, and for the dwarves that had come back to his home, for it was his, and drew him away from his treasure to discover and destroy the town from whence they had come and been helped by. He regretted this now more than anything, for it had brought his doom. And so, with his last dying breath, he focused his magicks, his soul, his pure hatred for the race of dwarves upon the one who had wrought his destruction in order to curse him evermore. And thus passed Smaug the dragon from the land of Middle Earth.

The sky burned red with the dying sun before black clouds blotted out the light. Death was approaching, and all who looked up to that sky knew it in their hearts.

The Battle of the Five Armies had begun, dwarves and men and elves fighting together against goblins and wargs, who desired nothing more than to slaughter them all for revenge and gold.

Tightening his grip upon his sword, Thorin raised his head, grimly surveying the seemingly never ending wave of enemies advancing from the hills in the distance. They were so numerous that from this range, they appeared like a grass upon a plain. Fear clenched at his heart, but he did not let it show upon his face.

Looking across their own forces, Thorin was uncertain of their chances. His eyes fell upon the hobbit, who had been their burglar, but now stood along with the elves and Gandalf. Hurt and betrayal still ate him like a singeing wound, for Bilbo Baggins, of whom they had thought infallible and dependable, had deceived their Company and the line of Durin and had handed the beloved Arkenstone over to the men and elves. His face scrunched in anger at the memory of it and that dratted hobbit of whom he had disowned, but he tried to turn his thoughts back to the battle at hand.

In a not too distant past, Mr. Baggins had far exceeded his expectations, saving their lives many times, risking his life for theirs to the point that they had all owed him a debt of gratitude that he was even now unsure if he could repay. The hobbit had looked fondly upon them all and Thorin had returned it, for he had greatly admired Bilbo. But now… he briefly closed his eyes, and all he could hear was the shrieking of the goblins drawing ever nearer. Every dwarf, man, and elf was silent in concentration. Thorin glanced again at Bilbo, whose face, even from this far of a distance, was clearly intent and hard-set, so very different than the hobbit they had first set out with. His gaze lingered there, and unexpectedly a wave of ill-omen swept across him, like fingers of icy death scraping across his soul, and Thorin flinched instinctively. He suddenly had an urge to run across the lines, away from the army of dwarves that stood behind him and against all reason, towards the elves, towards Gandalf, and towards Bilbo Baggins.

But before he could act upon this impulse, horns blared from all around him. Orders on all sides were being given to pull taut bowstrings, unsheathe swords, and ready hearts.

Thorin instead only adjusted his helm, and cried to his men to prepare for battle. The goblins and wargs were nearly upon them.

Their enemy crashed upon them like a wave on rocks, and chaos reigned. Thorin blocked, stabbed, swung, and kicked his way through what seemed like thousands of foul creatures, killing all who dared cross him. For the few moments of breath he had after he slew another warg or goblin, he would quickly glance around the battlefield and assess how it was proceeding, if things were in their favor or against it. For a while, on the two sides, death was simply everywhere, with no one gaining any ground or losing any ground.

But like oil sliding off water, the battle began to slip away from them. Good dwarves were dying all around him, his kin being killed before his very eyes, and Thorin began to despair. He glanced over to the east, where the elves were fighting, as he pulled his sword out of a grotesque goblin who was twice his size.

They were not fairing much better, but Gandalf as usual was worth 20 good men in battle, and goblins seemed to fear to approach him.

Thorin swung his sword around and sliced through the neck of an approaching goblin while crouching behind his shield. Kicking the goblin to the ground, he glanced back to the elves in time to spy Bilbo, a child-like figure among the elves and goblins, ducking and stabbing wildly at the bellies and legs of those who tried to attack him. Even in the heat of battle and the anger he felt towards the hobbit, Thorin had to suppress a chuckle at the stouthearted hobbit as a fierce warrior, but he settled on a thin smile as he cut clean through an arm that was swinging a sword at him.

He raised his shield to fend off another goblin's mace that was aiming towards his head. Looking again to the general chaos, Thorin figured that another volley of arrows would be of much use, but only if they aimed to the densest mat of goblins and wargs to the northeast. Yelling to his dwarves around and behind him to ready their bows, he gave the order and they released the bowstrings.

Thorin watched as the swarm of arrows flew through the air and across the battlefield, burying their tips into their foes, felling many.

His heart sunk though when he saw how many rushed forward to take their place.

Suddenly through the din and madness, a voice rang out, piercing the ugly sounds of battle.

"The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!"

Thorin looked wildly around as the call was picked up and repeated by all those on their side of the conflict, and glancing up he saw the great eagles approaching in the distance.

He joined in with the cry, and raised his sword, grinning. Finally, maybe, this battle would turn in their favor and the death would cease.

"Another volley!" he shouted gruffly, pointing his sword to that same dense pack of goblins. "Fire!"

Once again the arrows flew through the air, but perhaps because of the eagles approaching or some other unfavorable luck, the wind picked up at that moment driving the arrows more east and more south than intended. Thorin looked on in horror as they headed towards a patch of fighting between elves and goblins.

As much as he hated the elves, they were technically on their side at the present, and if there was any hope of winning, they'd need any and all help they could afford. And these were his arrows heading straight for them.

Thorin tried shouting but the shrieks of goblins and cries of men were too loud it seemed for anyone to pick up his voice through the turmoil. And so, Thorin Oakenshield was helpless as fifty arrows bared down upon their own side. He could only watch as the tips dug into the flesh of elves who were not looking up at that time, who had the misfortune to not suspect friendly fire.

Once the eagles arrived, tearing through the battle with their talons and beaks like a rock through water, they finally won.

Thorin, however, hung his head low as the guilt continued to weigh in his heart from the unlucky arrows. He slowly made his way over to that part of the battlefield, picking his way across corpses and groaning, dying goblins and men. He was convinced he had to witness how many of these needless deaths had occurred because of him.

He walked from body to body trying to see which arrows sticking out of bodies were of his people. He counted four elven bodies before he saw something that turned his blood to ice and stopped his heart. There, beside an elf, was the small body of Bilbo, an arrow sticking out of his neck and another out of his lower stomach. There was no question of the origin of his wounds, as the fletching on the arrows was unmistakable. Thorin, in a rush, knelt beside the hobbit, whose eyes were glassed over, but he was struggling for breath. Thorin's hand fumbled, reaching out and grasping Bilbo's and squeezing. Bilbo didn't squeeze back.

Bilbo's eyes managed to find Thorin's face. "Thorin?" he rasped, each breath seeming to cause him immense pain.

"You'll be fine," Thorin whispered. "You'll be okay," he lied.

Bilbo just nodded, and his eyes slowly closed.

Thorin felt frozen and broken. This hobbit, he had been so angry, he had felt so betrayed and now. Now. Thorin shuddered a breath, and emotion felt like it would burst from his chest. Why? he asked himself. Why did this hobbit have to die? It was random, the arrows, why was he here, why. Thorin slammed his other fist into the ground and lowered his head in grief.

He swallowed, holding back the searing fire of tears and anguish burning his throat. Trying to calm himself and stop his shaking hands, he took a slow deep breath, and raised his head again to look at the cold, hard truth in front of him, that Bilbo Baggins, their distinguished burglar, was dead, but jumped back in shock.

Instead, he raised his head to a red sky, an endless swarm of goblins and wargs approaching, and he stood once again to greet it. Thorin's mouth fell open in confusion and he nearly let go of his sword. He was at the beginning of the battle once again, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what just happened. And Bilbo? Thorin glanced over at the line of elves to the east and there Bilbo was, next to Gandalf, and as alive as ever.

I was imaging it, I was going over the battle in my head and my thoughts got away from me. Thorin sighed in relief that all of what happened was a nightmare of sorts and adjusted his helm. When the battle cries began, Thorin joined in, rallying his men for the enemy was upon them.