A/N: Hello everyone! Well, to paraphrase Edmund Blackadder, everybody has one Battle of Five Armies death!fic in them, and this is mine.
The idea first sprang from two songs on 'The Hungers Games' soundtrack: 'Kingdom Come' by The Civil Wars and 'Safe and Sound' by Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars. I then re-read Markus Zusak's fabulous novel, 'The Book Thief', which is narrated by Death, and decided to merge the two ideas together.
Forgive me.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, and I almost wish the fic itself wasn't mine, considering the amount of emotional trauma was inflicted by writing it.
ALL THE WARNINGS!
First, I must tell you this: Dwarves are made of stone, and so their souls are heavier than most. It is often with great difficulty that I cleave their souls from them.
Thorin Oakenshield and I are old friends. Sometimes he seems determined to live forever just to spite me, other times he screams my name into the darkness, begging me to visit him. He is one of the few people who speak to me instead of their deities. This I have always appreciated.
Second: They have reclaimed a kingdom, but when they say kingdom come, they are talking about me.
I have never been able to surprise Dwalin, son of Fundin. He seems to sense me lurking in his shadow, following his footsteps like leaping from stepping stone to stepping stone, and he knows I am here now, in my element on this black and white battlefield, throwing about my red runes. Yet, Dwalin insists on fighting me when it isn't necessary. He knocks orcs from Ori's path as lazily as one would flick flies from a wound. But I will not come for Ori until he is clutching a book he has yet to write. Dwalin will be the last of the Company I call on (besides Bilbo Baggins that is, but that is an altogether different story) and he will paint the air between this world and the next blue with the foulest language and demand to know what has taken me so long.
It is unfortunate that Dwalin will live so much longer than his kin, two of whom I must visit now, as they are broken and curled like cubs in a corner of the battlefield.
When I came for Frerin, son of Thráin, his soul sat bolt upright as if woken from a loud dream. I had to drag him away as he watched his bloodied brother punch bruises into his chest as he tried to restart the ticking of his very large, but ticked-out heart. That was the first time Thorin Oakenshield called me by my name. It was not the last time he tried to bargain with me to take him instead.
Azog the Defiler is lying where I left him, an hour or so ago. He was surprised. I believe his own mortality really did come as quite a shock. I heaved his black, shapeless soul from his white, crumpled body and he stared at me for a long time. I said the same thing to him as I did to Smaug: I am Death. You were just a pretender.
To Azog's right, a triangle of souls who have not yet met me. Thorin was cut open cutting open Azog. Kíli was cut open protecting Thorin. Fíli was cut open protecting Kíli.
Kíli has a hole in his side which is usually split from laughter. There is blood creeping across the dirt beneath him like a stream clogged with autumn leaves. Fíli's head is in his lap and Kíli is crying. It's all right, it's all right, Fíli is whispering. But it is not all right. Fíli knows this because Fíli has always known things; this is why he is the quieter brother. He knew his father was going to die and when I took him, I saw Fíli's soul age considerably. This is something no one else has ever dared comment upon. These are the things Fíli knows now: He is going to die. For however short or long a time, Kíli is going to be alone. He is going to wait for his brother. He will not see his mother again until I come for her too.
Fíli's collar bones are pointing to the arrow in his chest. Another stands proudly in the bull's-eye of his stomach. Two thick, black arrows like the burnt trunks of sapling trees, spiked feathers fluttering in the breeze, trying to mean something. Fíli thought the arrows were meant for Kíli. He doesn't realise that they were always meant for him.
Occasionally there are souls who wish to take my task from me. They do not realise that their death is still my decision. If they want to die, but I do not want them to die, they will not die. When Thorin Oakenshield wrapped a coil of wheat-coloured rope around his neck in the corner of an empty barn one night after I came for his brother, I did not want him to die. Dís was drowning dishes in a tiny metal sink and I touched her shoulder. She found her brother before he jumped from the chair. Years later, when I came for her husband, Dís was silent, but in that barn she screamed and screamed and screamed as Thorin slumped to the floor in her arms. She thumped her fists into Thorin's chest, leaving heart-shaped bruises over his bruise-shaped heart. The roof of the barn was wooden and dark like an upturned boat and brother and sister were sinking to the bottom of the sea together. She said his name over and over again. He said: I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
The sun is setting now and there is a red sunset on Fíli's chest. He wants Kíli to kill him, to take the pain away. But he will endure the long minutes of agony to preserve one last shred of his little brother's innocence. His jaw is clamped shut and the monstrous scream frets the seconds away within the cave of his throat. He wishes he could sleep, but his eyes remain firmly open, watching Kíli. They will write songs about the blue of Fíli's eyes and sing of streams and skies, but I believe Fíli's blue is more akin to a forge flame, so hot it has been beaten blue, with just the hint of gold.
I have been distracted. Fíli is thinking about how he did not realise death would be so quiet. He thought he would leave this world to triumphant clashes of steel and iron, his own terrible roar of Du Bekâr! the last thing he ever heard. But the last thing he will hear is his own heartbeat drowning out Kíli's cries. Which is what happens now. The thump of his heart speeds up like a drumroll – I'm sorry Kíli I'm so sorry I'll wait for you I promise I'll wait – and then there is one final boom like a thunderclap and the lightning is in his wide blue eyes and then it is over.
Fíli's soul takes a lot of coaxing. He is stubborn like his father was. It is like wrenching tough, twisted bark from the trunk of a tree.
I cannot see him properly. One side of his soul is jagged and faded and frayed, and it looks like ice cracking underfoot. He is not quite whole somehow. But this is the very special thing about Fíli and Kíli, sons of Dís. It is something I see rarely: two souls that will never be complete without the other.
Kíli is howling and shaking his brother's shoulders. His whole face is full of water. From experience, tears are the most natural response to death. Yet, I am Death, and I cannot cry.
It is unusual, but about Kíli, I am undecided. In an hour, they will be found. Kíli could survive his injuries, should I want him to. However, as he rocks his brother's limp body in his arms, a distraught hum fills the air between worlds: just let me die just let me die I want to die I want to die do you hear me Death I want to die. Yes, I hear you, Kíli. And I appreciate you calling me by my name.
When healers tell weeping mothers and fathers and brothers that a passing was painless, they are usually lying, as they come to discover when they meet me for themselves. Dying hurts. When Kíli dies, it hurts. But, for Kíli, death is a mere prick of a pin compared to watching the light leave his brother's eyes. Made from stone he may be, but his soul is one of the lightest I have ever taken. It comes easily, like peeling off a soft, warm cloak.
He rushes to his brother and they are clinging to each other and they are laughing and smiling and Kíli is saying you waited for me and Fíli is saying I promised I would. And now the jagged edges are gone and there are two whole souls standing next to me.
They turn and incline their heads towards Thorin. They are waiting for their uncle, whom I have been neglecting. Thorin Oakenshield has been asleep in his own blood for some time, but still he felt me take his nephews and I almost felt his scream-less scream.
Almost. I am unable to feel pity or pain, but still there is a strange tugging, like a fist clenching then blooming, almost like a heart beating then dying then beating once more. There is one person I can ask about this. When I am finished here, I will go to the Blue Mountains. Dís is going to scream again. She will have no chest to beat into a heart-shaped bruise and this time she will have the bruise-shaped heart. I am going to ask her to forgive me. She is going to keep screaming.
Thorin's sister-sons are still looking at me expectantly. I shake my head. Not yet, not yet. I am going to give Thorin Oakenshield the chance to ask for forgiveness. The one thing that will never be granted to me. Come, your father is waiting for you, I say to Fíli and Kíli. I give Thorin one backward glance. Bilbo Baggins is going to forgive him, and then his soul will rush to meet me, and in the end, he will be relieved.
And in the end, he will smile.
So… Who is organising the mob this time?