Fíli had failed.
Thorin had fallen and he had been unable to protect him. He had been unable to protect his mind from the gold sickness and he had been unable to protect his body from the fury of Bolg and his guards.
Thorin was gone. As his heir, Fíli had vowed to follow his uncle to whatever end. He had kept that vow, even when Thorin's madness had turned him against his nephews and the other members of the company, even when Thorin had driven them into war against Fíli's better judgement. Even then, Fíli had been determined to follow him and he had done so, running after his uncle as he went straight for Bolg and the tall guards surrounding the son of his old nemesis. Fíli had followed his uncle to prove himself and to ensure that Thorin's dream of reclaiming Erebor would not be taken from him.
But he had failed.
Thorin lay slain at his feet. He had gone where Fíli could not follow.
Fíli was still fighting, standing over his uncle's body, back to back with his brother. They were surrounded by the enormous orcs of Bolg's personal guard, with the pale son of Azog himself standing back slightly, watching the fray with obvious enjoyment.
Fíli bared his teeth, snarling at his foes as he wielded weapons in both hands with deathly precision. He would at the very least keep them from desecrating his uncle's body.
He could not glance at his brother, so frantic was the melee, but he knew his own body was sore and bleeding from many small wounds, and he imagined that Kíli was faring little better. In the distance he thought he could see Dwalin making his way towards them. He clearly saw Ori for a moment, only for him to be engulfed by a pack of wargs. No help would come. It was just the two of them, Fíli and Kíli, together against the rest of the world. Their fighting had become automatic – slash, stab, dispose of yet another foe. Fíli knew that he was doing everything he had been taught and more; he knew that his brother was fighting just as ferociously, using all of his agility and energy to make this last stand of the line of Durin a memorable one. But he also knew that the two of them would not last forever against the onslaught of orcs.
He would fail yet again.
Suddenly, the orcs in front of him were withdrawing. Fíli looked up from the carnage quickly, fully expecting to see yet more devilries to be turned against the allied forces. Instead he saw Beorn, once again in the shape of a giant bear who cut through the goblin ranks like an axe through brittle wood, heading straight for the small hillock on which Fíli and his brother were fighting. Fíli used the brief respite to wipe the sweat from his brow and cast a glance at Kíli. His brother seemed to have escaped any major injury. Their eyes met for an instant and all Fíli saw was despair.
He had failed his brother as well.
He had failed to protect him from this pain, this misery. He had led the way and his little brother had followed. To battle, to ruin, to despair – but not to his death. Not while Fíli was still standing. He would not let them take his brother's life.
He would not fail in this.
They were brushed aside by the furry mass that was Beorn. The bear roared loudly as he bent down to where Thorin lay. He quickly rose again to his full height, picking up the fallen king and striding off towards the mountain. At least no enemy would be able to defile his uncle's body now, not while there were still Dwarves, Men, Eagles or Elves fighting and defending Erebor. Fíli was thankful for that small mercy.
Everyone in their vicinity had been stunned by the actions of the great bear and many stopped and stood staring, but this moment of silence passed quickly and the din of the battle resumed all around them. Bolg and his retinue sprang into action again. The largest of them all was drawing back his arm, clutching a vicious looking spear, aiming slightly to the left of Fíli. Aiming right at Kíli.
As soon as he realised that, Fíli shouted to catch his brother's attention, but Kíli was still transfixed by Beorn's appearance, could not draw his eyes from the spot where his beloved uncle's body has disappeared. He did not hear his brother's cry.
There was no time for conscious thought. Fíli acted on instinct. The moment he saw the orc rush forward, throwing the spear, he pushed his brother out of the path of the weapon.
He could not fail.
The metal tip tore through his body. He looked down to see the crude wooden shaft protruding just below the chainmail that covered his shoulders, the force behind the throw too great for his leather jerkin to withstand. His breath left him in a rush and then the pain came. A great wave of pain, bright red, seemed to crest over him. He fell to his knees, his limbs unresponsive, his vision blurring. He let the pain overtake him as he closed his eyes.
At least he had not failed – he had saved his brother.
Kíli! How could his brother be safe in the midst of the raging battle? Fíli forced his eyes open again, tried his utmost to remain conscious. Kíli was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. It was then that Fíli realised that he could not go like this, that he could not do this to his baby brother. With an almighty effort, Fíli shattered the spear with his right-hand axe and stood, shaking but determined.
He stood just in time to see an enormous morning star crush Kíli. The youngest Durin fell with the look of shock still on his face, eyes fixed on his older brother.
He had failed again. He had failed Kíli.
With a shout, Dwalin appeared on the scene, covered in blood, lodging an axe deep into the scull of Kíli's killer. Fíli felt nothing at the sight. Everything seemed so far removed. He had let his brother die. Nothing mattered any more.
This was his ultimate failure.
Bolg was upon him. Fíli felt the sharp bite of steel against his throat, felt the pain and then the warm blood spurting from the wound. He fell backwards as he tried in vain to draw breath. There was no air, only blood. Blood in his mouth, blood in his lungs, blood on his body and blood on the ground. He was drowning in blood.
Dwalin was next to him and for a moment Fíli managed to force his eyes to focus on the warrior who had been a friend and a mentor to him for so long. He wanted to say something, but again there was only blood.
He knew that it was over, knew that he was dying. It was good. He did not deserve to live.
He had failed them all.
It was good that he was dying. His people did not deserve such a bad king. He had not been able to follow his king to the end; he had not even been able to protect his younger brother. He had not been able to fulfil his vows. He regretted that he would not be able to be with his mother again, but even that was probably a mercy. She would not want him now, not when he had shown himself unable to be there for those dearest to her.
With that thought Fíli, son of Dís and heir to Thorin Oakenshield gave up his spirit and died.
He had failed.