Thorin could feel the searing heat, the helpless panic, the all-consuming fear around him. Bodies pressing forward, sweeping him along. His father, Thrain, yelling for him to go, to escape, to lead the others. The scream of his mother, Rinora. His mother, in pain. His mother, dying. Little Dis, caught up in Frerin's strong arms. The roars. The great, ugly head, snaking around the corner. The dragon's fire. The manic light in the great golden eye.
"Thorin!"
Thror, sprinting for the treasury. Thrain, following him. Nowhere to run. Dwarves, flooding out through the front gate. The dragon's laugh as he cut them off. Lungs aching, legs burning, heart pounding. Run. Run. Run as fast as you can.
"Thorin!"
Dis, wailing. Frerin, clapping a hand over her mouth. Distant screams. The rock under their feet was warm. Was hot. Was steaming. One of the pillars fractured. Thror, standing up on his throne. trying to reach the Arkenstone. No time. No time for this. Thrain, dragging his father down off the throne, shoving him toward the passage. Thorin could feel the others following him. There had been a hundred. Now only seventy. Now only fifty. Some turned back. Some fell. Some were lost.
"THORIN!"
A frightened, angry, female voice broke him from his reverie, and Thorin gasped. Dis was gripping his arm so tightly that he was sure there would be bruises. Dis... who was full-grown and had two grown sons. Thorin took another breath, feeling the present return, along with some measure of control.
"I'm fine, Dis. Just... remembering." He looked down at the mummified remains of 156 dwarves, trapped in the Reaches, with a dragon between them and the only known exit. No food. No water. Thorin's chest ached, and he looked away.
"See them buried properly."
"Aye, your Majesty."
This is for you, my wonderful readers, as an apology for not updating on time this week. Please forgive me. *grovels*