A/N: As promised, the sequel to Fiercer Than Fire. :) We hope you've all had a wonderful past few months, and are refreshed and ready to withstand more BagginShield dramaticness. We've been having a great time plotting new torments for our characters- adventures, I mean. New adventures. ;) Quite frankly, after having to watch the entire line of Durin be annihilated in the final Hobbit movie, we're very much in need of more drama and fluff. And certain people being not dead. *nodnod*

Much love and cookies to you all. We hope you enjoy, and look forward to hearing from you in the reviews.

Prologue

There was new strength in his limbs, a deep awareness of the stone beneath his feet. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that there were at least 500 warriors before them, and thousands more waiting to take their place, should they fall. Even though the causeway was narrow, the stream clogged with bodies, the gate barricaded shut, in spite of all his preparations and caution, Erebor would fall.

The halfling was still fighting. He could see her at the gate, hacking and slashing with her little sword, side by side with Dori and Bifur, defending the fallen body of Dwalin. His heart seized with pain, and he turned from the scene. The sounds of battle faded behind him, and he found himself in the Healer's Hall. Óin sported an ugly gash across his face, but was tending the others all the same. Balin, shuddering and coughing scarlet into his snowy beard, gnarled hands wrapped around the last of the orc arrows that had pierced him. Kíli, already lost to blessed unconsciousness, the stump of his arm bleeding through the bandages that concealed the lost limb. Bofur, his complexion more grey than tan, hands shaking as he forced a thick needle through the flesh of his own leg, pulling closed the ragged lips of the wound which still wept black icor. Fíli, who didn't appear to be breathing, propped up against the wall. Óin hadn't gotten to him yet. Most of his scalp was missing.

If the orcs reached the Healer's Hall... no, when they reached the Hall. There were too many. Already, he could see the atrocities they would wreak upon the wounded. Hacking, biting, tearing, ripping, burning. Little Ori, cradling her tiny newborn in the far corner - she would get the worst of it. She wasn't yet injured. They would take their pleasure of her, then... he shook his head. The tales that came out of orc-camps were terrible, and he didn't doubt the truth of them.

"Thorin, we won't have much choice," murmured Óin. "The fighters at the gate will fall soon. We can't defend them forever."

He had made an oath to his sister - he would NOT let her sons fall to these monsters. There was no one left to defend them. He could only give them the last rest, the peace of death. And did he not owe the same to the rest of his Company? Would that he could have spared those at the gate, too.

He drew his sword, and for once, Orcrist was heavy in his hand. It was as though the weapon knew that it was to drink the blood, not of enemies, but of dear friends and kin. A "mercy kill," they called it. It was merciful, he thought, only to those who died.

Kíli was the first to feel the sharp blade, and his brother soon after. Their deaths were quiet, and he felt almost relieved to have it done. Balin was next, and though the old dwarf said he understood, there was fear in his eyes as he submitted to death. What waited for them on the other side? Better than what waited for them here, he hoped.

Bofur was something more of a problem. He begged to be spared, delirious with pain. The king's hand shook as he ran the dwarf through, silencing him forever. Óin died quietly, grateful for the release. Only Ori was left. She and the tiny infant cowered before him, pleading, weeping.

"Let me hide. Let me run away. Please. I'd rather face the orcs than die here. Please. Don't kill me. My son - spare my son."

Would that he were deaf to her cries. He lifted his sword, and suddenly, she was running away. Out, through the door, into the hall. He followed, calling for her to come back, but Ori either wouldn't listen or couldn't. Sobbing for breath, clutching the child to her bosom, she ran, fleeing straight into the tide of orcs that swept toward them. The babe was ripped from her arms, and he could hear her tortured screams-

"Billa! Billa, wake up!"

She thrashed wildly, the blanket tangling around her body, binding her, choking her. The orcs! The orcs were coming, and it was her duty, she had to-

"Billa."

The halfling blinked, shaking and panting. In the half-light of the dim chamber, she could see Thorin's eyes gleaming at her, his aquiline nose, his short beard. No orcs. No Ori - and that had been ridiculous anyway. Ori didn't have a son. And besides, Dain would have defended the Mountain with his life. Where had he been, and his soldiers?

"Are you alright? You... you were screaming." Thorin sounded a little shaky himself. Billa forced a short laugh, but it sounded hysterical, so she gave up.

"Nightmare." She ran her hands over his arms, his neck, his face. He was alive. He was alright. "I was you. The Mountain was under attack. The orcs were going to... I couldn't let them. I had to..." She trailed off. She didn't want to remember.

"It was just a dream," he assured her, one hard arm wrapping around her waist. "You're alright. You're safe here."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

"It never is." She felt his deep voice vibrating through her bones as he held her close, and relaxed slightly.

"If it was, then I can imagine a few things that would have turned out a little differently." Billa even managed a smile.

"But they didn't. Go back to sleep, Billa." She could tell he was relaxing again, and wished she could see well enough to know if he was smiling.

"I'll try." Maybe neither of them would sleep for a long time, but as long as he was there with her, then the night was friendlier. "Just don't leave me."

"I don't plan to. Ever."