I listened to The Last Goodbye. Bad idea. :'( I write for the fallen Sons of Durin.
(Neocolai does not own the Hobbit or anything related, or else no one would have died in the end - except Bolg)
When victory seemed tangible and the end seemed nigh, he was cut off from the others. His crown and royal insignia betrayed him. Orcs poured in from all corners, separating him from the stout, ironfoot soldiers who would have defended him.
Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Lonely Mountain, stood alone in the plague of Mordor. His crown was dented and his shield sheared in half, and still he gripped his sword, legs trembling with exhaustion, hands weighed down as the sun sank into the hills. The enemy enclosed and a pike slipped past his guard, ramming through his left breastplate.
Shouting hoarsely, Thorin fell to his knees. His sword was kicked away and his shield trampled. Another blade pierced his thigh. Hateful oaths rolled from his tongue, and the Orcs mocked him in return. The largest captain lumbered forth, battleaxe raised to execute the forsaken king.
In a burst of silver and gold the enemy was pushed back, the Orc chieftain's head rolling to the side. Fíli and Kíli leapt over the wall of iron shields, swords flashing and corpses spiraling until the princes stood on either side of their uncle. Bloodied and furious, teeth bared and stances rigid, they defended their fallen king. Fíli's left arm dipped from a ragged gash, and Kíli's arrows were spent. Both favored one leg. Ragged shouts tore from Thorin's throat as he implored them to leave him – to preserve the last of Durin's line.
Senselessly loyal, they would not listen. The black hoards convalesced again and Thorin could only watch as silver and gold were overthrown. An arrow pierced Kíli's sword-arm and Fíli's shoulder was gouged. They switched hands, whirling to protect one another. Endlessly they circled Thorin, driving the Orcs back even while blood spattered their armor. A scimitar swept wide and Kíli grunted as the left side of his face was split from temple to chin. Fíli crumpled inward as a spear crunched through his armor. He fell across Thorin, grasping his middle, scrabbling back so that his golden hair hid the king's visage.
With a roar Kíli threw himself upon the Orcs, taking up Fíli's sword to defend them all. He was a lone star amidst the black hoard of Mordor, and they gleefully extinguished his light. An axe hacked into the base of his skull, and before he could recognize any pain the life left his eyes and he sprawled across Thorin's legs.
Thorin felt the weight; heard Fíli's moan of despair, and he wept for his sister's sons.
"Thorin." Fíli's voice cracked as he gasped for breath. "They'll welcome us … Halls of Mandos…. Brave to … the end."
Triumphantly the Orcs returned to the battle. Thorin's tears were unwitnessed as he wrapped one arm around Fíli and tucked the other against Kíli's cheek.
"Stay with me, Fíli!" he begged.
Rasping, Fíli leaned to the side and closed Kíli's eyes. "B-Belong with … m'brother."
"Fíli!"
The golden prince exhaled, and there was no answering breath. Sobbing, Thorin reached around and pressed his hand over Fíli's eyes.
His nephews rested, and soon he would join them. Let the Halls of Mandos embrace his boys, for they had died valiantly.
"Find one another," Thorin whispered, staring into the red dusk. "Aüle, bring them together again."
The smoke shifted and for an instant he saw them both – not regal princes standing against the mountain, but two boys in travel-worn leather, contented and free as they waited for Thorin to join their adventures. Fíli nodded with a faint smile, and Kíli beamed.
"Hurry, Uncle."