A/N: This started out as a one-shot but it got a bit out of hand. There are going to be three distinct parts.

Among the Fallen – Part One

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.
The massive characters are seared with scars.

- Khalil Gibran

T.A. 2868, Fall - Rohan: West Emnet

The small caravan passed through the gap of Rohan around noon earlier the day before. The leaves on the trees were beginning to be tinged with gold that glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. Thorin groans and shifts his position on the hard wooden bench of the wagon. He had pressed them onwards rather than stopping for a midday meal. It was late in the season to be only this far south. This was their last trading party into Rohan before winter sets in and they had gotten a late start. With how the past few winters have been we'll be very lucky if we get home before the snows come. He had other reasons for pressing the company hard through the Dunland and the Gap of Rohan. His dealings with the Dunlendings in the past had been less than pleasant and he was sure that they would not have changed much since his people had lived in their lands. He always expects trouble when passing through their lands. They were poor and they had little love of dwarves.

Thorin shifts again. This time it is to twist his back that is stiff from the many hours spent seated on an uncomfortable bench. He had woken up with a stiff back - a side effect of subpar sleep - and he chosen to keep his job of driving when he could have easily passed it off on someone else. He could have chosen to sleep in the back on a pile of the furs they had brought south with them alone with weapons and all sorts of small metal trinkets. His companion snorts. Thorin turns to look at the man riding on his right. He scowls at the younger dwarf. "Anything you'd like to say?"

The heavily tattooed dwarf – Thorin has his own tattoos but they are all in places that can easily be covered by his clothing – looked back at his leader. "Uncomfortable?"

Thorin made an annoyed sound before turning back to the ponies whose reins he was holding. On a road like this they did not really need any real guidance, but it gave Thorin a good reason to avoid his friend's eyes. "We need to keep moving. I don't want to get stuck on the east bank of River Lhûn like last year." He flicked the reins. "It took us an extra three weeks to get home and Kafur's boy almost lost some of his fingers." He shakes his head, "I just want to get everyone home safe this time with no mishaps."

Thorin and Dwalin's eyes meet before Dwalin nods his head. Silence resumes between the two. There are three wagons among the six dwarves. There was Vrílí, Thorin's brother-in-law, Kafur, Kaïz, and Lörwid. There were others who were with the group as guards. Thorin recognized many of them, but did not know any of them personally. The guards accompanied the caravan to protect it against any threats that it might encounter. Hopefully it never comes to that. Over the many years that he had been making the trip down the Old South Road there had been little of concern beyond the fickle weather of the months preceding winter.

Thorin groans as he stretches again. The sun was hanging low in the pale autumn sky. He knows that they should stop soon. He can hear some grumbling among the guards. Probably something about not stopping for midday and continue later than normal. Thorin frowns. He does not want to company to stop yet. He wants to get a few more miles into Rohan before setting up camp for the night. "How vexed do you think they will be if we don't stop until its dark?" Thorin directs his question to his companion.

Dwalin leans over the edge of the seat to look at some of the guards and back to the two other covered wagons. "Very," he replies shortly. "They look upset as it is. If we had stopped to eat at the sun's highpoint you could press them further. But morale will be very low if you do and there will likely be much grumbling if you plan to press them hard tomorrow."

"Tell them we'll stop on the other side of this hill. There's a copse of trees that will offer some shelter and firewood," Thorin bites out. His irritation is showing. Something does not feel right. He has been scanning the horizon and his surroundings all day; he keeps expecting to see some of the Rohirrim. That would not be something unexpected, in fact, he would welcome them with open arms at this point. Normally they would have seen some of the men who lived in these lands by now. It has him on edge. He'd much rather ride through the night even though he knows that the ponies cannot handle it, much less his men.

:::

The wagons were set up in a circle. Each of the wagons had two beds set up. The guards who were not on duty would sleep under the wagons where they would be safe from any rain or snow. They kept the fire low and the wind had turned cool as it whips in between the wagons. He sits shoulder to shoulder with Dwalin and Vrílí. "How are your little one doings?" Thorin asks Vrílí to break the silence. The family shares quarters at Ered Luin, but Thorin has spent much of the past year far from home. He had spent some of the year continuing searching for his father who had disappeared some eighteen years previously. He had spent much of the rest of the year visiting some of his kin who lived far away. Balin and Dís had been left in charge while he was away. Thorin is positive that that they have done well, from all that Dwalin has told him things have been kept under control.

Thorin was more than happy to be done with those negotiations. He had been all but begging on his knees for aid. He was not sure how his people would make it through the winter. This last trip into Rohan was important, they needed to sell their goods for as much as they could. They would need any supplies to just survive until the spring thaw. That's why he was here, maybe in Edoras he could speak to Folcwine. His father and grandfather had been friendly with the royalty of Rohan during the years that they had spent in and near the kingdom of men. He would not be asking for charity, just a fair price of good products.

"They've been good," Vrílí says with a smile. His long unbound hair falls forward over his shoulders when he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Kíli's such a little trouble maker. I thought that Fili was bad but the two of them together . . ." he laughs softly.

"I know what you mean. You should have seen Dís and Frerin when they were little. Frerin used to be pretty quiet. But once Dís could walk they got in so much trouble together. Our parents actively tried to keep them apart if only one of them would be around," Thorin chuckled, bumping shoulders with his brother-in-law.

"I feel a little bad that I left her alone with the little monsters. Fíli's getting too smart for his own good. He was trying to convince Dís that she should give him cookies for doing the homework that Balin and his other tutors give him," he laughs. "And it almost worked."

"Maybe I should have him visit the other dwarf families," Thorin says looking down at his hands and back at his brother-in-law – my only brother now – "Or, at least, have him convince Dís that I deserve sweets for getting all of my work done." A smile pulls at his lips. The smile feels almost unnatural on his face after so long without smiles. Since Azanulbizar Fíli and his little brother, Kíli, where the main things that made him smile on a day-to-day basis. He missed those two every day that he was away.

The two exchanged grins.

Dwalin sat silently next to Thorin. He was listening to the conversation, but he felt the same uneasiness that Thorin felt. Something just was not right. These lands were not heavily populated by any means, but he could not remember any other time where they had not passed any other wagons or riders on the Old South Road this close to Edoras. He kept one eye on the dwarves who were on guard duty and the other on his king. He listened to the conversation, but he had more than an ear for the sounds of the night. There are no sounds that are out of the ordinary. The fact that nothing is out of the ordinary sets him more on edge. The sounds are too ordinary and expected when other things are not as they should be.

Thorin was trying to relax and have a conversation with Vrílí but Dwalin's stiffness to his right kept part of him on edge. Mahal, man, could you be any more alert? But that was Dwalin's job. Thorin and the younger dwarf became close after Azanulbizar. Dwalin had helped pull Thorin from the dark place that he had descended to after his younger brother's death. They were friends but Dwalin always took his job as Thorin's protector seriously. His father, Fundin, had been Thrór's captain of the guard, and then Thráin's – if only for a short time. Balin was the elder son, but he was more inclined to diplomacy and books and Dwalin was a great deal more brutish than his scholarly brother. He may not bear an official title but he assigned himself the duty and he took it very seriously.

Thorin breaks from his conversation with Vrílí to lean over to whisper in Dwalin's ear, "Is there anything amiss?"

The large dwarf heaves a heavy sigh. "No. But that is what worries me."

"Oh really? What wouldn't worry you?" Thorin teases playfully. He can feel the tenseness in the air. No one in the camp is truly relaxed even if they are giving off the appearance of a normal evening in camp.

Thorin rises and rolls his shoulders. "I'm going to retire," he tells his companions. Dwalin follows him. The large dwarf insisted on sharing the wagon with his king. 'Better for your protection,' was what he told Thorin. The king had snorted but had allowed his friend to sleep where he wanted. Sometimes it was like having a second shadow at times, but Thorin does not mind. Being alone by this point in his life feels unnatural. Growing up he was always followed by his younger brother. The years between Frerin being his shadow and Dwalin being his shadow had been dark years for him, but they were years that he tried his best to forget. In the rare stretches of time that he was in Ered Luin for more than a few days Fíli and Kíli became his shadows. They would hang on the tails of his tunic no matter how much he tried to leave them with their mother.

The beds in the back of the wagons are narrow and less comfortable than the bed at home, but it was much better than the hard ground. The night before he had been unable to sleep due to nightmares. He had woke up before the moon set and had been unable to fall asleep again. The dreams were full shapeless fears, darkness, and loss. They woke him breathless, sweating, and gasping for air in the middle of the night. Thorin is asleep almost before his head rests on his balled up cloak. He toes off his heavy boots, but is asleep before he can remove any more of his clothing and armor.

:::

Thorin is jerked from sleep by a hand on his shoulder. Instinct has him grabbing for the dagger at his belt. "Thorin!" – a sharp, harsh whisper – stops his movement. He squints trying to see in darkness. The growl in the voice makes it hard for his sleep heavy brain to identify.

"Dwa-?"

A hand clamps over his mouth; a hand that smells like oil and smoke.

"Shh…"

'Definitely Dwalin,' Thorin thinks as he shoves himself upright.

"Quiet," Dwalin orders. Thorin has to surprise a snort, he is not used to being on the receiving end of orders anymore. "Dunlendings," Dwalin rumbles as he grabs his gears as quietly as he can.

All sleep is banished from Thorin's mind at that word. He shoves his feet into his heavy boots and grabs his sword.

"What's the plan?" Dwalin asks turning to face his king.

The curtain on the tail end of the wagon is ripped aside just as Thorin is opening his mouth to speak. "Out," orders a large man with a heavy accent. "Now."

The bright light from the built of fire blinds Thorin. He is the closest to the door. He turns to Dwalin to give the big dwarf a headshake to indicate that they were going to do as the man said.

"I said out," the man snarled in his heavy accent. He grabbed the back of Thorin's tunic and dragged him out of the wagon backwards. The distance from the floor of the wagon is only a few feet, but the impact of landing flat on one's back is painful. Thorin gasps when he lands. He groans as he tries to roll over onto his side, but the man's boot lands hard on his chest. He begins to swear.

Dwalin leaps out of the wagon and knocks the man over with a shout. There is a spray of red as Dwalin slices the man's throat. Thorin flinches when droplets of warm blood land on his face. He does not have a chance to see what was going on before the moment but everything becomes chaos quickly.

Thorin forces himself to his feet as his chest muscles protest his movements. He tries to force a deep breath only to bow over coughing as the muscles spasm. Shouting and the clashes of sword on sword surround him. For just a moment the men are not Dunlendings but orcs. Rather than a backdrop of wagons and firelight he sees mountains rising high into the sky. The smoke is not from a small campfire but from something far larger.

"Mahal," he swears as he tries to gauge what is happening in the camp. The men are dressed in little more than rags. 'Thieves.' He blocks a sword that is swung at his head – a sword that is rusted and full of dents – and shoves the man backwards knocking him to the ground. Before he can dispatch the man who is glaring up at him with burning eyes an arm wraps around his throat and jerks him backwards.

Thorin drops his stance – bending his knees – to shift so one of his feet is outside of the much taller mans. He jabs backwards into the man's stomach with his sword arm while grabbing the arm that is tight around his throat with his free hand. Thorin jerks forward dragging the man's arm down and bending him over. Thorin twists hard to his left; pulling the man over his right shoulder.

"Thorin!"

Thorin turns to see who called his name while retaining his hold on the Dunlending's arm. Vrílí's eyes are fixed behind Thorin. Thorin spins around – dropping his knee to pin the man to the ground – he turns just in time to see a very young man – 'He cannot be that much older than Fíli' – with a bow and arrow drawn and pointing directly at Thorin.

Thorin quickly dispatches the man under his knee before turning his full attention to the boy. He takes a step towards the boy with sandy hair, "Why don't you put the bow down?"

The boy shakes his head and draws the string further back.

Thorin stops. The boys golden hair reminds him so much of his eldest nephew. He looks nothing like the other men in the party. He is not dark haired with swarthy skin. 'Rohirrim.' "Where are you from, lad?" Thorin reaches outward with his free hand, his right hand still holds his sword but the tip is low to the ground.

The boy tenses, his green eyes flick away from Thorin to fighting by the fire.

"Look at me," Thorin orders. "Just me," he adds softly. "Where are you from?"

"Edoras," the boy says or at least that is what Thorin thinks the young man says. The blonde boy did not speak loud enough to actually be heard over the din of the fight.

"If you put the bow down I can make sure you make it back," Thorin promises taking another step forward.

"Madwel!" the boy turns his head away from Thorin to look beyond the dwarf king. The boy's eyes go wide and he gives a nod. Thorin refuses to look back to see what the boy is looking at; he takes another step closer. In two steps he will be close enough to grab the bow. 'What then?' he demands of himself. He cannot answer that question. He has seen far too many boys die in his life. He does not want to see another die especially when his heart is not in what he is doing.

The boys green eyes are back and fixed on Thorin. "Madwel, let's put the arrows away," Thorin pleads softly.

Vrílí appears from behind the wagons. Thorin shakes his head and mouths 'no'. Vrílí frowns and keeps moving until he is standing right behind the boy.

The boy pulls the string further; his shoulders are trembling. Vrílí looks over the blonde boy's shoulder at his king. Thorin shakes his head. Vrílí shakes his head. He seizes the boy around the shoulders from behind. Madwel makes a squeaking noise in surprise, he kicks out with his feet as he is lifted from the ground. In his surprise Madwel releases the string of his bow.

Thorin grunts in pain as the arrow thuds into his thigh knocking him off balance. He stumbles back and falls down. 'Mahal,' Thorin swears looking at the careful fletching of the arrow that protrudes from his thigh. It hurts more than he remembered. He had been struck by arrows a few times during the War. Five years was a long time. Thorin and Frerin had sustained their fair share of injuries. The War left Thorin was many injuries, some never healed. 'Never,' he shakes his head vigorously to remove the images that were rising to the surface of his mind unbidden. 'Not today. There's no time for this right now!' He pushes down memories of orcs that crowd his mind.

The fallen dwarf jerks his hand away when someone seizes it.

"Thorin, it's me."

Thorin shakes his head again to clear his vision. Vrílí is standing over him. His blonde hair and beard have flecks of blood resting on the hairs. Thorin looks at the hand offered to him and the dagger that Vrílí holds in his other hand. He forces a swallow when he sees the bright blood on the blade and on his brother-in-law's hands. He jerks his head away when he sees blonde hair caught in the crimson blood. 'How does he not see it? How did he not see Fíli in that boy?' Thorin feels sick to his stomach. He lets the blonde dwarf help him to his feet and he pointedly ignores the crumpled heap with blonde hair that now lies on the edge of the firelight. Thorin looks back at the fire to see how everything was progressing.

A stout man with dark and greasy hair is staring directly at Thorin and Vrílí. Thorin meets the man eyes – eyes that are full of anger. Thorin feels a surge of rage that this man is angry about the outcome of something that he chose to do. The man's eyes flick away from Thorin's to look beyond the dwarf king and his brother; look beyond the two dwarves the body of the blonde boy.

"MADWEL!" The man charges at Vrílí and Thorin, his eyes are wide and wild with rage. He is joined by two other men who look similar enough to be his brothers.

Vrílí snaps his head in the direction of the shout. He instinctively pushes his king behind him. An instinct born from years of combat training. The blonde dwarf draws his double swords and drops into a crouch. Thorin draws his own sword, but he cannot crouch. The arrow in his thigh tears and rips his flesh as he tries to shift into a more defensive position.

"Mahal, I forgot how much arrows hurt," Thorin laughs to his brother-in-law.

"Nah, they don't hurt that much. You're just a dwarfling," Vrílí teases over his shoulder with a chuckle.

Neither has time to say anything else before the men are upon them. "I'll take the blonde one. You lot take care of the other bastard," the man snarled. His dark, rage filled eyes were locked on Vrílí.

Thorin had a moment to see the flash of Vrílí's swords before he had to turn and defend himself. Thorin blocks the first blow that is aimed at his head. He stumbles back at the force of it as he leg gives out from under his weight as he tries to brace himself to reinforce his block. Before he can commit to a counterstrike he is forced to respond to the second man's swing. He struggles as his leg keeps giving out and refusing to move as quickly as he needs it to.

A shout laden with surprise and pain draws his attention away from the men attacking him. He manages to maneuver so that he can see Vrili. Only Vrili is not there.

Then Dwalin was there with a roar, a shout, and his sword. Thorin turns his attention back to the men who are intent on him. He sees the sword swinging down and his block is far too late. His sword is up but he is blocking with the tip and the man pushes past the block. Thorin grunts when the sword thuds deep into his shoulder. His arm goes numb from the impact and his nerveless fingers drop his sword. He swears as he makes to grab for the dropped sword. His blood pounds in his ears and he hears Dwalin say something, but it's as if he's hearing it through a great distance.

Dwalin shoved his king behind him so that Thorin was wedged between the wagon and his captain of arms. The large dwarf stands between the men and his king. Dwalin makes quick work of the men who are left. Blood sprays off the tattooed dwarf's sword. Thorin recoils when some of the blood lands on him. Thorin slides to the ground panting heavily. Flashes of another day cover his vision. Orcs instead of men, snow rather than colored leaves, Frerin rather than Vrílí. 'Shit, Vrílí . . .'

The fighting is all but over now. The man that is left is on his knees in front of Dwalin and sobbing. Thorin can tell by the expression on his face that he is begging for his life even if he cannot hear the specific words. He had barely felt the sword wound except for the numbness and shock, but now it feels like it and the arrow wound are fire. They burn. 'Vrílí.' None of the other dwarves were paying much attention to their leader, they were checking on the wounded and he seems to have escaped their attention for the moment.

Thorin drags himself over to his brother-in-law's side. "Vrílí?" He grabs the blonde dwarf's shoulder to roll him onto his back. Thorin winces and groans audibly when he sees the wounds. "Vrílí?" he says louder. He presses his fingers to the pulse point under Vrílí's beard. Nothing. Thorin hangs his head and presses the palm of his hand onto Vrílí's chest. His fingers dig into the brown tunic that Dís spent hours embroidering. The white stitching around the collar is stained red now.

"Oh, my brother," he exhales softly. He closes his eyes and rubs his thumb over Vrili's chest. He feels his vision flickering and fading. 'No. You CANNOT pass out, not now,' he orders himself. 'You're a king now. Not a child. They're going to think you're weak if you cannot do this.' He shoves himself back so he rocks on his heels and to his feet only to be caught by someone.

"My lord," Dwalin's voice is in his ear. "What would you like us to do with the dead?"

"Bury our own," he whispers, "but burn those bastards." The pain from his shoulder has been steadily increasing but now it is too much. The darkness that had been lingering on the edges of his vision consumes him now. He falls back into Dwalin's arms.

:-:-:

Dwalin catches his king. "You heard him. Get to it!" he growls.

"Thorin. Thorin. Thorin," he murmurs as he lowers his friend to the ground and wiping the hair out of his eyes. He grimaces when he peels away the king's armor and clothing to see the shoulder wound. It was deep and already red around the edges. 'Fever, already?' Dwalin frowns. This cannot be good. Dwarves rarely sicken from disease, but wounds could become infected and bring them to their knees because the wounded often ignored cleanliness because they trusted far too much in their immunity.

He rises to his feet and looks around the ruins of their camp. "When we're done with this we move on. We go to Edoras."