Ori trembled. The orcs were coming. They were already beginning to hammer at the gates of the room they were in, in the great halls of Moria. No light was there beside the torches of the frightened dwarves. For three days they had dodged the orcs. But they had finally caught up with them.
Balin was dead. He had died, pierced in the back by a dwarf. He was layed in a tomb now, and Ori was glad. Many tears he had weeped and many sorrows he had sung. His book of writing was worn now, his every thought put into it. THUMP. The doors trembled. He heard the distant screeching of orcs and goblins. And something else. A fire man, wreathed in flame. Ori squeezed his eyes shut. So this is how it would end. Not in the fires of Smaug, nor taken by elves. Cowering, long after his first adventure, hidden in the dark. He couldn't stop it. Tears dripped from his eyes and spilled over the ground. But even as he watched, and the frantic whispering of the dwarves grew louder and the gates rattled again, he saw a tiny flower grow.
Small and white, it curled from the ground, spreading its petals to an invisible sun. Ori didn't know if he was dreaming or not. The tiny flower seemed to radiate a light of its own. And with it, came a good feeling. A remembrance of sunlit fields, and ripe berries. Of Bilbo and the company. Of the bees in Beorn's garden. Of his child, named after Bilbo, sitting at home. Waiting for him to return.
THUMP. The dwarves cried out in fear, but Ori was not afraid. He cupped his hands around the tiny flower, and plucked in gently. He held it softly in his palm, watching it. He remembered his family. He remembered the treasure of Erebor. And Nori and Dori. And in a flash, he remembered Thorin's smiling face and Gandalf's wise one. "My friends." he whispered. "Until the end."
And the door burst open.