The air was thick with dust and the rank of orc. Clangs and the clash of steel on steel rang around him, and Fíli let his sword fall again, and again, feeling it slice through warg and orc alike, indiscriminate between the two. Around him were unlikely allies; an army of men and elves joining with the dwarves in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain to defeat a common enemy.
An alliance, temporary though it was, that had not been seen around these parts in living memory. A shaky alliance, one that would not break through the blood feud between the dwarves and the elves immediately, but serve as a stepping stone to a possible truce.
This was the deed of legend, of songs, of dreams. After all, wasn't this what Fíli had often dreamt of, lying underneath the stars with his brother Kíli by his side? The chance to take back what was theirs, their right as the line of Durin, wreaking a revenge on those who had stolen what was most dear, and those who had come to take even more.
He had dreamt of this moment. Victory was soon at hand. Fíli could taste it.
Fíli never felt safer or more secure than when Kíli was near. They had never parted, not since the day Kíli was brought into this world and Fíli had made a promise to watch over him during the uncertain times of their childhood. Even now they continued that tradition, moving with perfect synchronisation and guarding each other's back against the dangers around them. Fíli felt invincible as long as he knew Kíli was there.
But it was not to last.
A tidal wave of orc was upon them. Fíli and Kíli hacked their way through the latest batch, moving with a dwarf's efficiency. Not too far away was Thorin, whose expression was almost too terrible to behold as his arm moved without mercy, felling orcs and wargs with a single stroke. His enemies, had they been less foolish, would have run away at the sight of the King under the Mountain.
To Fíli, the sight gave hope.
Thorin was his uncle, his inspiration, a role model to look up to even in the dark of the goblin caves.
Thorin was his king.
Fíli turned, ducking under the rough swipe of an orc sword and stabbing his own through the orc's chest. But it felt as though the sword had pierced his own chest.
Kíli was no longer beside him. The madness of battle had torn the two brothers apart, and a sea of orc now separated the two.
A sort of panic gripped his heart, and a manic frenzy overcame Fíli, one that he couldn't explain. His thoughts all turned to Kíli, his only goal to reach his brother. 'Kíli!'
Kíli heard Fíli's voice over the din of combat and his head turned to see his older brother heading towards him. Kíli gave him a great smile. The young dwarf, gaining his first blood in a true battle and finding he liked it.
'For Erebor!' Kíli shouted in a battle cry, thrusting his sword high into the air.
Fíli broke through the last orc barriers and staggered to his little brother's side. 'For Erebor,' Fíli agreed with a nod, a little out of breath.
'For Erebor!' both brothers roared, and together, they dove back into the swarm.
Five defeated foes later, and Fíli looked back up to the rock where his uncle was fighting. The orc and warg armies seemed never ending, the two dwarves both felt the strain of battle, and Fíli needed the sight of Thorin to harden his resolve. As long as Thorin was standing, there would still be hope.
Thorin was indeed standing – but the hope was tainted.
'Kíli!' Fíli nudged his brother, and Kíli looked up, taking advantage of a brief respite in the attack.
Something was wrong. Thorin's blows were growing steadily weaker, and he was leaning heavily to one side. His defences were slackening and his enemies were finding it easier to break through.
'Thorin!' Kíli cried out, and he led Fíli through the armies, pushing aside elves, men, orcs and wargs in an effort to reach his uncle and king.
Kíli, who had always been so eager to gain his uncle's respect, always so willing to prove himself worthy of being of the line of Durin, was the first to reach him. He had put down his sword in favour for his bow and arrow and was shooting off arrows in quick succession and with a precision that would rival even an elf's. Orcs and wargs were dropping down around Thorin, with the aid of Fíli and his sword and Kíli and his bow, but it was not enough.
One orc was cut down and another three seemed to take its place. Thorin was king, and every orc was drawn to him, hungry for the glory of being able to claim they slayed the King under the Mountain. Fíli and Kíli stood side-by-side in front of their uncle, weapons moving in a blur, desperate to thin out their foes.
Thorin was lightheaded, his movements sloppy. He had taken one too many blows, and its effects were taking a toll. Thorin dropped to one knee, his arm up in a struggle to defend whatever attack he knew had to be coming.
Fíli caught sight of his weakened uncle out of the corner of his eyes. Fearing the worst, he cried, 'No!' and his attacks doubled in intensity. If Thorin was to fall, Fíli would be next in line for the throne. But Fíli wasn't ready to be king. He couldn't; he was too young, too inexperienced.
Breathing raggedly, Thorin turned his face up to the sky. He was aching all over; he couldn't seem to remember a time when he hadn't been aching.
An arrow whizzed by his ear out of nowhere, but it wasn't aimed for him. The orc arrow – dark and roughly crafted – seemed to simply appear out of Kíli's back. The sight of it added a much needed fire to his blood, but only for a second – his wounds were too extensive to sustain a skilled attack, and Thorin suddenly found himself on his back, struggling for air.
Kíli's face fell, his arms going limp and his shoulders slumping forward slightly. Fíli, instantly knowing something was wrong, turned to his brother. 'Kíli? Kíli!'
Kíli's bow fell to the ground, and Kíli followed soon after. The young dwarf seemed to be confused.
Everything moved in slow motion for Fíli. A fury took a hold of him, and for a while, Fíli was unstoppable. An orc appeared; he slayed it. A warg snapped at him; it dropped dead to the ground a second later.
Not his brother. Not his uncle. Not them.
Where were the men? Everywhere Fíli looked, there were orcs and wargs, snarling and growling with cruel pleasure. Where were the elves? They had failed him, just as they had failed Thorin.
The spear appeared out of nowhere. Fíli barely felt it penetrate his stomach, not until it was wrenched out when the now-beheaded body of the orc fell back. Fíli's sword hit the ground, and a hand pressed up against his stomach, trying to hold the wound closed.
He blacked out for a moment, and when he came to, he was laying half on top of Thorin. The battle raged around him, but Fíli felt strangely apart from it all. All that mattered was the slight rise and fall of his uncle's stomach, and his brother next to him, his head on their uncle's chest, gasping for air.
Fíli felt strangely at ease. He hadn't failed.
'For Erebor?' came Kíli's weak voice, a slight chuckle, and the ghost of his usual bright, youthful grin.
'For Erebor,' Fíli agreed, and his eyes closed.
Just as they had lived together, feasted together, fought together … they died together.
Thorin was aware of the bodies of his nephews covering him, protecting him from further harm from a flying weapon or piece of debris. Yet he was bizarrely reminded of a time, decades ago, when Fíli and Kíli had been little more than young dwarflings, and Thorin had relaxed the mask of kingship and allowed himself to play the role of uncle.
At the end of the night, they had laid by the campfire, with his nephews using him for a pillow, and Thorin had never felt more warm and content since they had left the Lonely Mountain.
The memory soothed Thorin. A small smile graced his lips, and Thorin let himself fall into the darkness.