In the end all we have is ourselves. Even in the company of countless others we are subject to the solitude of finality. Shadows fall, light flees, and all pain subsides. Life is to be marveled, and no less so than by he who teeters on its shared precipice with death. It is almost proud, drawing ever closer to the inherent quality of not-living, yet not wholly proud until it has you fully in its embrace. Tides thrash and walls crumble and at once you are ensconced in a world utterly apart from the world of the waking.
Precious moments dripped by into darkness, and so too dripped the life of Thorin Oakenshield. Protectively clasped in Beorn's mighty bear-arm, the noble dwarf lay with many deleterious wounds. The giant skin-changer smashed through any adversaries that crossed his path as he carried Thorin to someplace safe. His immense strides lent themselves to a quick retreat. Moving farther and farther from the front lines of the battle, no one pursued the great Beorn, for he possessed a might so massive that it would be folly to confront him.
Where foe would not follow, friend did; and so, Gandalf followed Beorn. Swiftly ran the wizard, with agility that surpassed his aged exterior, in pursuit of the bear. He passed hoards of goblins, wargs, orcs, and countless other fell creatures, killing some in his wake. He passed also the strong soldiers of Dain's army, come from the Iron Hills. Ever and anon, as he drew farther away, he would see lingering members of their alliance rushing into battle. Guttural cries of anger and deep murderous rage rang across the fields, growing dimer in the ever-lengthening distance Gandalf put between himself and the battle. The Istar glanced back and looked on in dejection at what he saw: reams and reams of new orc soldiers pouring onto the field. This was the second wave of an army led by Bolg, come to the Lonely Mountain. Gwaihir, if ever a time I needed you, let it be this time, and let you hasten to our aid!
At length Beorn halted, now a reasonably safe distance from the carnage spread out against the land. Solemnly and with tremendous care, the shape-shifter placed Thorin on the ground. A pained whoosh of air escaped the dwarf king's lips as the hard ground met his body. A frown formed on Beorn's face while he looked down at his injured friend. Presently hatred for the goblins and orcs burned like fiery bile in his stomach. He pulled himself to his enormous height and, being consumed by rage and pain, he let out a deafening roar. Eyes alight and hackles raised, Beorn leapt with mighty bounds back toward the battle. In him all caution was lost and he mercilessly clobbered any foul thing that he met.
Careful not to get in the way of Beorn as he charged back into battle, Gandalf moved toward Thorin. Worry etched lines on the old and weather-worn face of the wizard as he bent down to examine the felled dwarf. It was plain that any vestige of consciousness had slipped away from the dwarf who now lay very still. Gandalf made a displeased humming noise while he considered his options. He wanted the dwarf king to stay alive, if it could be helped, but under the circumstances there was only so much to be done. Pensively he stared at the motionless Thorin Oakenshield set before him. At length he settled on a spell that was intended to summon light and life within a dying being. This, at least, would bide him some time.
"Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen," he whispered, a hand pressed to Thorin's chest.
Blessedly some colour chased the pallor from Thorin's face and his breathing evened out. The pained expression on the dwarf's face was replaced by a blank expression of unconsciousness. The wizard carefully pried the rent armour from Thorin's body to examine his wounds. He found that the wounds were many and they were ghastly. He tasked himself with stopping the bleeding and bandaging the wounds. The dwarf was badly bruised and Gandalf suspected he suffered from internal bleeding, in addition to the obvious abrasions that bled externally. He muttered another spell as he ran his hands over Thorin's half-bare chest. To his pleasure, some of the dark bruises receded and the bleeding slowed. Gandalf was hopeful, but did not allow himself to feel relieved yet, for he knew that this was only temporary at best. Verily, his healing skills were superb, but the dwarf was in need of greater ability still.
Far off the sound of the battle raged on and Gandalf knew he must return. He did not want to leave Thorin alone to die and thus began contemplating who might be fetched to watch over him. Well, he would have to return at any rate and for a time Thorin must be companionless. Gandalf wrapped some last minute bandages around newly discovered wounds, returned Thorin's clothes to his body, and did his best to hide the dwarf king with shrubbery and other foliage before heading out. He rather expertly camouflaged the dwarf so that he would be easily missed by any of the opposing armies' soldiers. Scouring the depths of his great mind Gandalf began to devise a plan to deal with the particulars of Thorin, son of Thrain. Of course, much of what would be done was dependent on who he could find and who would not be missed from battle.
Rushing back, something stopped the grey wizard: a sound, a soft cry that could scarcely be heard over the sounds of war. He strained his ears and listened more carefully. "The eagles! The eagles! The eagles are coming! The eagles!" As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow he heard the small voice of his favourite hobbit. Cries of "the eagles" rippled across the field and Gandalf's heart beat with hopefulness as he saw the great host of noble birds soaring proudly in the sky. They were Manwë's eagles, led by Gwaihir the Windlord, King of the Eagles, descendent of Thorondor, and they had come in a time of need.
Like bolts of golden lightening they dashed to the earth. Their massive shrieks wrenched cried of agony from the goblins that clung protectively to their ears. With cruel and wicked grins the eagles snatched up evil things and dropped them to their doom or smashed them against the side of the mountain. Gwaihir, flanked on either side by Landroval and Meneldor, led the assault on the advancing front of goblins. Most of the rest of his convocation joined them in taking out the second massive wave of goblins and orcs, but some acted on their own authority to grab and kill the hordes of wild wolves that were also on the field. Flying over the South spur, where the e
lves were set, and over the Eastern spur, where the men and dwarves were, the eagles arranged the demise of the enemy. They circled and re-circled, devouring what they could, and would do so until victory was assured.
When Gwaihir was confident that his flock had made the multitude of orcs and goblins less multitudinous, he went in search of Gandalf. He informed his close kin of his errantry, and with a tip of the wing dipped away south. In no time his keen sight led him to the grey wizard and he began his descent. The eagle lord saw Gandalf walking hastily toward Ravenhill, as if in search of someone or something. The wizard stopped, however, when he saw Gwaihir coming closer to him. The prodigious golden eagle stopped five metres shy of the wizard who had now changed his course and was walking to meet him.
"Gwaihir!" Gandalf greeted.
"Gandalf, my friend," Gwaihir greeted in return, his rich throaty voice thick with the pleasure of battle. "Long have we been suspicious of the goblins' mutterings, and we have watched their movements, however hidden they thought they were. It seems that we have come to aid none too soon. But lo! still the battle rages and soon I must return to fight alongside my kin and our allies. As always, though, I have a moment to spare for you."
Gandalf disregarded pleasantries in place of haste, for speed was what he needed and he would waste no time. Gravely he said, "Thorin Oakenshield is terribly wounded and only in the capable hands of Lord Elrond might he survive. Two favours this will be in the same year to the same company, but it would do my heart well to see Thorin returned as King under the Mountain."
"I sensed that our parting at the Carrock would not be the last that I would see of Thorin Oakenshield and company. It is a dangerous world in which we live and few are spared," Gwaihir began pensively, and then his tone sobered as he said, "It was you, Gandalf the Grey, who saved me from certain death at the hands of a poisoned arrow, and indebted am I to you. You are counted as a friend and gladly I will help."
The Windlord looked out on the field below him to see elves and men and dwarves strewing bodies of dead orcs and goblins about them. His eagles were making a sizable dent in the advancing armies, but as darkness approached it seemed less hopeful. Then in was evident that darkness came not only from the setting sun, but the sky was masked by many bats that flew to the aid of the goblins from the Misty Mountains. Gwaihir could see the advancing front switch from his allies to the enemy. Once the armies of men, elves, and dwarves alike had made progress, but it was dashed altogether by increasing numbers of evil creatures lumbering forth.
"Victory is not a certainty and I do not like to leave in such a state," the eagle lord said after a moment's consideration.
"Please Gwaihir, Thorin does not have much time!" Gandalf pleaded, though he knew that it would matter not if they lost in the end.
"Now, I said that I do not like to leave in such a state," the great eagle reiterated. "I am the swiftest and the strongest to be sure, which is why I will remain to fight. Meneldor has immutable stamina and he is a fleet-winged traveler. I shall send him to retrieve your Lord Elrond."
…
With a nod Gwaihir was off. Gandalf braced himself against his staff as the eagle's giant wings, lifting his golden body upward, sent gusts of air hurling toward the wizard. After the briefest moment of watching Gwaihir go, Gandalf returned to his task. When he had heard the first calls of "The eagles!" he knew it was Bilbo's voice. Despite the recent unpleasant exchange between the dwarf king and hobbit, Gandalf thought that Bilbo would be the best choice to watch over Thorin until Lord Elrond arrived. The wizard knew him to be a kind soul and very forgiving; a few harsh words would not shake the hobbit's loyalty or concern for his friend. Regardless of that, Bilbo would not be terribly missed from battle. While previously he had accosted Azog and valiantly defended Thorin from certain death, it was not in his nature to be a fighter.
The wizard was a good judge of a great many things and he was certain that he heard the sound come from Ravenhill. Upon reaching the South spur, however, Gandalf found it quite unoccupied. He scoured the rocky slope and the lays around it, but yielded nothing in his search. As it happened, Bilbo was there, but by the grace of his magic ring he was not to be seen by anyone for a long while. He lay invisible and unconscious, having been knocked out by a hurled rock shortly after seeing the eagles. The Istar sighed in exasperation, but nothing could be done. Gandalf returned to fight amidst the grounds littered with scimitars, axes, and dead bodies.
….
Gwaihir let out a peal call and summoned Meneldor to him in the sky. Talons and beak stained black with the blood of the enemy and eyes all aglow Meneldor quickly flew to meet him. "Yes, my lord?"
"Gandalf the Grey has informed me that the dwarf king is gravely wounded and near death. He has asked that we bring Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, here to heal him," stated Gwaihir.
Without need for more words to understand, Meneldor said, "I am not wont to leave battle while it rages, but if that is your will I must comply. I will fly tirelessly and quickly as I can." The golden eagle opposite Gwaihir shook his head with displeasure of having to leave battle. Not only was he loyal to his friend, but he was forever grateful to the wizard who saved his lord. So, with a final glance down at the raging battle, Meneldor set off toward the westering sun.
Author's note: and thus begins my second multichapter fic! It is slow-build, but eventually it will be fluffy/angsty/adorable Thilbo.
Translation: Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen (Golden Sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart). Thanks to Tara's Sindarin Phrasebook for the translation.
Disclaimer: this is a work of fanfiction and all original characters, settings, etc. belong to Tolkien.