The clash of iron meeting iron rang out on the northern slopes of the Lonely Mountain as orcs and dwarves fell upon each other in battle. Orcs had outnumbered the dwarves at the outset of the skirmish but were losing their advantage as the fight wore on. Clad in tough mail, the stout dwarves bore the finest weapons to be crafted from Erebor's forges. The orcs with their crude mail and arms were no match for the dwarves, but they fought all the harder in the knowledge of their defeat.

One dwarf strode through the fray, undaunted by the creatures' howls and battle cries. He bore two mighty axes and swung them in great arcs, cleaving orc flesh with each pass. Orcs possessed of any sense fled when they saw the wrath in Dwalin's eyes. His foes were right to flee, for he fought with single-minded purpose and would not stop until the last of his enemies had fallen, preferably by his own hand. With every sweep of his axe, the words that fueled his battle rage repeated in his mind.

Thorin. Fíli. Kíli.

His revenge would be spent in orc blood.

#

All through Erebor's healing rooms were the sounds of groaning dwarves, the low murmurs of the healers, and the acrid stench of sweat and blood. Thirty cots in the infirmary were filled with the injured, while more soldiers milled about, bleeding where they stood as they waited their turn to be tended. Every healer in the halls was present that evening, working desperately to mend and soothe.

Lív examined a young dwarf whose shoulder had received a terrible blow from an orc mace, leaving his flesh flayed. It was far from the worst wound she had seen in her forty years as a healer, but the glint of white bone peeking through the lad's jagged flesh still made her stomach creep. Such sights were not easy to grow accustomed to, despite their recent increase.

Four years after the retaking of Erebor, orcs had once again strengthened their numbers. While rumor had it that most of the surviving creatures had fled south, a small faction had regrouped in the Grey Mountains just to the north. Occasionally these orcs banded together to strike against Erebor's outermost watchtowers. It was the defense of just such a strike that led to the wounded Lív now tended.

Another healer, Vestri, joined her as she assessed the injured dwarf's shoulder. "He is lucky the bones are sound, but it will be some weeks before he can leave the healing rooms," Lív said as she mopped at the thick blood.

"What is your name?" she asked the male whose shoulder had been laid bare.

"Búri." The young dwarf groaned and turned his wide eyes up to her. "I'm to be married..." He bit back a scream as Vestri began cleaning the open wound. Blood, dirt, and herb-infused water swirled together as they drained into a waiting basin.

"And so you shall be," she told him. "Though you might not be ready to carry your new bride over the threshold." She smiled down at him and he was apparently relieved by her assurances. He nodded as best he could, though his face still contorted in pain. He had already been given the safe maximum dosage of pain relief - he would have to suffer through the closing and bandaging of his shoulder. It would be unpleasant, but Lív preferred he endure it rather than lose consciousness.

After preparing a salve to further cleanse the injury and stave off disease, she packed the mixture into his wound. He gritted his teeth and tried not to thrash, but Vestri had to hold him down for the worst of it.

"What is your beloved's name?" Lív asked him. Such tactics of distraction often didn't work when a patient's pain was this great, but sometimes it was enough simply to direct their minds to something other than the agony in their bodies.

"Eir." He gasped as she worked her needle through his flesh. That he could feel it at all was a promising sign.

"I'm sure she's lovely," Lív said out of habit. Weren't all betrothed wives lovely?

"Her heart sees mine," he managed to say between groans.

Such a beautiful sentiment from one so young. "You're very lucky."

He nodded, but it was clear he had reached the edge of what he could tolerate in the treatment of his injury. He was doubly lucky, then, for she had finished closing it. Perhaps the distraction had helped after all. She left Vestri to wrap his shoulder while she saw to those who remained.

Moving slowly among the wounded, she assessed injuries and assigned available cots based on severity. It had been the better part of three hours since the injured first began limping into the healing rooms and the worst cases had already been tended. The few dwarves left standing now were minimally wounded, but they would still need to be treated as quickly as possible. She had not had time yet to ask how many warriors had been involved in the army's response. Had all been wounded, or was this a small fraction of those who had set out from the Mountain? No word of either the orc attack or the subsequent defense had reached Lív. She was not privy to the doings of warriors except when it led them to her care.

As she scanned the room, she saw the Captain of Erebor standing like a small mountain himself, an imposing mass of muscle and strength. He, too, was keeping a close eye on the state of his warriors. Bristling with weapons, he seemed to take in everything around him at a single glance. He would know whether Lív should expect another wave of wounded, so she made her way over to him. At her approach, he turned his hard gaze on her. She was no stranger to tending tough warriors, but he was quite a bit taller than she, and, in combination with his breadth and look of menace, was somewhat startling to behold at such close range.

"Captain Dwalin," she said with a slight bow, "are these the last of the injured?"

"Aye," came his gruff response.

That was a relief for all involved. "Were you a very large force that set out?"

"Aye."

A conversationalist. Excellent. "A few of your warriors will need to remain here for several days while they recover."

No response. He just watched her with a blank look on his face. She might have thought he was simply too weary from battle to engage her in conversation, but she had observed Captain Dwalin enough in the past few years to know this was his usual disposition. He stared at her so long and with such an unemotional expression, she finally averted her gaze.

"I thought you would like to know how they - you're bleeding!" His right trouser leg was coated in blood and red rivulets stood out on the fur lining of his boot. "Let's get you to a cot so I can have a look." She gestured for him to follow her but he made no move to do so.

"No." His voice was a defiant rumble.

"No? You're injured."

"It's nothing." He remained where he was but turned his face away from her as though she, too, were nothing.

Although rankled, Lív was not about to back down. It was no stubborn dwarf's place to refuse treatment by a healer. Even a small wound could prove problematic, surely he must know that. "You may be in charge on the battlefield, but in here, I am in charge. This injury requires attention."

Avoiding her gaze as though she were unworthy of his attention, Dwalin merely blinked slowly, dismissing her. She felt the sting of his silent insult as vividly as if he had called her a name. Never had she been treated in such a manner in the healing rooms. Nettled by his incivility, she took him by the forearm, making the bizarre metal contraption he wore over his hand clatter. His bare skin was hot against hers and he turned his face sharply to look her in the eye. His grey eyes reflected his own sudden anger, but she was not daunted.

"Come. Now." She barely opened her mouth to speak the terse commands. It occurred to her he might resist and she would be forced to actually try to move him, a thing she was certain she could not do. She was just angry enough to try, but the ensuing humiliation would be unlikely to improve her mood. However, it seemed her firm grasp was enough of a shock to get him to comply, for he followed her to an empty cot.

He stood by it, simply looking down at her with those impassive eyes. Mahal, he was exhausting. Was he really going to fight her every step of the way? No wonder he was captain of all of Erebor's armies - the dwarf was an expert at turning everything into a fight. Clearly he was used to winning.

"Sit." She nodded towards the cot, her left hand still holding tight to his sinewy arm. Though she had no real strength against the muscles that rippled beneath her fingers, she held on all the same. She didn't want to release him until he had consented to her inspection, lest the spell break and he walk away leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

Dwalin sat, his eyes firmly fixed on her now. She watched him a moment, afraid he might bolt away in defiance. When he showed no signs of it, she tentatively let go his arm. His gaze drifted down to where her fingers had held him, then back to her face. Did no one touch him? Perhaps she had offended him. Well, she would just have to deal with that after he was tended.

She knelt beside the cot to look at his leg. What with his mud-caked trousers and heavy boot, she could see little of the wounds but the blood that had escaped them.

"I need to take off your boot," she told him even as she unstrapped and unlaced the massive thing. He neither spoke nor made to move, so she assumed he had no objection. If he had, she would have fought him on the matter anyway - the boot had to come off. He did nothing to assist her in the process, but after much enthusiastic tugging, she finally extricated his foot. Blood had pooled inside the boot, but his foot was unscathed. "I'll need to cut away your trousers."

"Fine." He grumped as she pivoted him to lay his legs on the cot properly, but he refused to lie down. It was no bother to her - so long as he consented to her treatment, he could be as uncomfortable as he liked. She took up a pair of scissors and carefully cut through the fabric of his trousers and undergarment, peeling them away from his thick calf. Blood oozed freely now, which she mopped up with a clean cloth to get a closer look.

"This is no sword wound." She delicately touched the meat of his calf, examining the injury. "The cuts are ragged, more like a..."

"Warg bite." His voice was low and matter-of-fact.

"Warg bite?" She stared at him in disbelief. "You were going to let a warg bite go untreated?"

He seemed almost bored with the conversation. "It was just a pup."

She choked back a laugh at his obstinance. Shaking her head at how difficult males could be, particularly this stubborn warrior, she gathered her supplies and clean water. Just a pup, indeed. It still had had teeth enough to tear open his flesh in multiple places. She gently sponged at the edges of the wounds.

"The age of the animal really makes no difference," she scolded. "An injury like this can fester in the winter months."

He brushed off her concern. "I could have tended it in my rooms."

"That isn't wise, if not cared for properly -" She started and gave him a hard look. "Is that why you've never yet received care here? Because you tend yourself?"

An indifferent shrug was his only response. She wasn't sure if she was more irritated with his contempt, or impressed that he was still alive. "I hate to think what other injuries you've hidden away to care for on your own."

"You'd faint dead away if you knew." A glint of mischief in his eyes melted some of her anger. That there might be a spark of laughter somewhere inside this surly dwarf was a pleasant revelation.

"I'm sure I would."

The bite was not pretty. She cleaned the injury twice to be sure the tears were rid of all traces of warg saliva. The filthy creatures were rife with disease and could bring on all manner of putrid fevers. That the orcs to the north had even bred wargs was news to her.

"Were full-grown wargs seen among the orcs?" she asked as she poured fresh water over his wounds.

"I thought the age of the animal made no difference." He drawled out his answer, apparently enjoying throwing her words back at her.

She made no pretense of concealing her exasperation. "Do you know, you may be the most difficult male I've ever tended?"

"It's no surprise." He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the cot but remained sitting up. "Aye, the filth have wargs, now. Too small yet to be ridden, but vicious. None of those they brought to battle returned."

"I'm sure you made short work of the one that did this." Even in the healing rooms, Dwalin had two battle axes strapped to his back and three daggers looped in his belt, not to mention the devices he wore over his fists. He would not have suffered the warg long. "Still, I would not have you standing as adamant as the day is long, bleeding all over my floors, while you wait for lesser injuries to be treated."

"My warriors needed to be tended first." His voice was so sincere, she looked up at him in a new kind of surprise. His features had softened slightly - had his injury been more severe, she would have suspected blood loss had affected his mind, so altered was his attitude. "I would not be tended before every other lad has had his chance."

Of course. The captain must be the last dwarf standing. She guessed it went beyond just the nobility of warriors. Dwarves were a hardy race and few readily admitted to weakness of any kind. As captain of the armies and known as the most lethal of all the soldiers in Erebor, Dwalin must be even more reluctant to do so. Perhaps she had insulted him by demanding he let her tend him.

She lowered her voice to a more confidential tone. "Would you like something for the pain?"

He shrugged his giant shoulders. "It's not so bad."

His stubborn nonchalance was amusing, despite his utter disregard for his health. "No," she said, her voice full of mirth, "a warg bite is nothing at all."

His mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles. "I don't believe we've met."

"Not officially, no." He had been in the healing rooms under similar circumstances several times, although this was the first instance he had received care himself - the little mystery of his resistance to orc blades had been cleared up thanks to his admission of self care in his chambers. She had also seen him at the occasional court dinner she was invited to attend, but they had never yet been introduced. "My name is Lív."

"Lív," he said with a nod, "it's good to have the name of the lass who removed my boot with such vigor and cut off my trousers so indelicately."

"To tend your warg bite, let us not forget." She couldn't tell if he was genuinely upset or simply joking with her, but she chose to take it in stride.

After daubing salve over his injuries, she worked to bandage his calf. The punctures were jagged but clean and had not severed his tendons, which would have been the worse injury. Lingering pain was her greatest concern, but he did not admit to any. He should be able to walk on it with but a little difficulty.

"It will scar," she warned.

His body shook with a huff of contempt. "I think I'll manage."

She gave him a quick once-over. He had scars enough already - his bare forearms had a thick lacework over them and on his face a thin one ran through an eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose. Considering what she knew of his history, she would have been surprised to find he had much pristine flesh left at all.

"I'll be needin' my boot," he said, rousing her from her examination of his features.

"Of course." Lív picked up the heavy boot and slipped it onto his foot, leaving the straps loose. "Don't lace it too tight, or you could increase swelling and irritate the wound."

He swung his legs to the floor. "It's not the first time I've had an injured leg, lass."

"Nor my first time tending one." She placed her hands on her hips, defying him to make another contradictory remark. "Now, have you any other injuries?"

"No."

"Can I trust your word, or will I have to strip you down to check?" Damn her stupid tongue. His eyes sparkled as he watched her and he might have smirked beneath his beard, but he said nothing - thank Mahal for that. She waved him off the cot to cover her embarrassment. "If you have no other injuries, you're free to go. You know to watch for signs of festering, I'm sure."

He inclined his head slightly and stood. "Good to meet you, Lív." Dwalin returned to the spot he had earlier occupied, not even limping on the bandaged leg as he went. He resumed his stance as before, arms folded across his chest, surveying his dwarves with a discerning eye. Now and then his gaze turned to her, and she wondered that it should. That her eyes were so often on him to notice it was equally surprising.

#

Dwalin entered King Dáin's council chambers to give his report on the skirmish. Dáin always liked an update after battle of any scope or scale. Dwalin thought his interest in the battle's results little made up for his absence during its execution, but that was not his place to say.

Dáin stood to welcome his captain. "How did it go?"

"No losses. Many were injured, but only a handful remain in the healing rooms. We're none the worse for it." His leg wound and the healer who had tended it briefly crossed his mind, but there was no call to mention either to Dáin.

"What of the orcs?"

He gave a brief shake of his head. "None escaped us."

A satisfied grin crept over Dáin's grizzled features. "I don't doubt it. Your battle rages are a thing of legend."

Dwalin shrugged off the comment. "Any word from Dale? What do they report?"

"King Bard has sent no word so far," Dáin said, his distaste for his fellow king evident in his tone of scorn. "Our scouts report no more than occasional skirmishes on their eastern borders."

King Bard of Dale's coronation had taken place the previous spring, followed immediately by his wedding. Dáin and his family had attended both events, along with Dwalin and a few others acting as their royal guard. Since then, Bard and his advisors regularly sought counsel with Dáin on trade agreements, but relations between the two kingdoms were strained. For now, they conducted business as though a great distance lay between their kingdoms rather than only one league.

"I'm sure they'll call for aid if they get in deeper than they can handle," Dwalin said.

"You can count on it." Dáin sat down in a large armchair and took up a glass of brandy. "Bard has no trouble at all with asking for things. He only gets touchy when he has to pay for them." He laughed at his joke, which fell flat under Dwalin's stern gaze.

"Now, about the orcs." He was suddenly all business. "What do you advise?"

"They're holed up somewhere in the Greys. We could search for signs of them, but that might take months. I wouldn't ask that of my scouts right as winter's coming on, they'd be as likely to die from cold as from an orc blade."

Dáin nodded. "I agree. A wild goose chase is better suited to spring. A small band like this can wait."

Dwalin bristled at Dáin's dismissive attitude toward the orcs. "We fought over fifty on the mountainside today." That was no small band to his mind.

Dáin nodded approval. "It will take them time to recover from that." He sank lower in his chair, apparently as comfortable as could be. "Thank you for your report, Dwalin. You may be at your leisure." He raised his glass of brandy to him. "Let's hope it lasts."

Dwalin nodded and left the king's chambers. He strode through the corridors, ignoring the guards stationed there who briefly bowed their heads in deference as he passed. His dark look took in little as he returned to his own rooms.

Leisure time was the last thing he needed.