Here's the next chapter! It's longer than I expected. Originally, it started right before Azog's death, but I decided it needed more, so I added another two thousand words yesterday, with Thorin's POV of the entire fight. I hope you like it! :)


A Merrier Place
Part One: Life and Death
Chapter Two: Hope Reborn


Thorin fought on, separated from Bilbo and Dwalin. His two friends were nowhere to be seen, but that was the last of his worries right now—he had lost his sword and was about to be pushed off Ravenhill by one of Azog's bodyguards.

As panic filled him and the orc approached, he glanced around him. Far off in the distance, he saw two elves approaching him, but they were too far away to be any help to him now.

The orc raised his weapon, his face twisted in a hideous expression of glee, and Thorin inched backwards, half his body hanging over the edge of the cliff. He was so afraid of dying here, now, before he had avenged Fíli's death by killing Azog, but there seemed to be no way out. He closed his eyes and prepared for death.

Before it came, he heard the whizz of an arrow shooting through the air, then the sharp plunk of it hitting its target. His eyes flew open in surprise as he saw the arrow in question sticking through the attacking orc's head. He looked up, then rolled over as the orc, now dead, fell to his knees, then off the cliff.

Gasping for air, he scrambled to his feet and looked around for his savior. It was the blond elf, Thranduil's son, with his another arrow set to the string of his bow and pointing straight at him. Behind him was the red-haired elfmaid, the captain of Thranduil's guard. Her quiver was empty, but she carried a bloodied blade.

"Oakenshield," the prince said shortly, lowering his bow. "So you have come to your senses."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, burning with a mixture of shame and anger and trying to seem dignified. "Yes. Now I fight."

"Where is your weapon?" the elf asked. Thorin glanced behind him to the red-haired captain. Her cheeks were tearstained, and she didn't meet his gaze.

"It fell," he answered hoarsely. "And I have no other, since you took Orcrist from me back in your forest."

The blond prince pursed his lips, then drew the sword in question in a flash. Spinning it around, he handed it hilt-first to Thorin.

In surprise, the dwarf king took the offered blade. He grunted in half-thanks, though he felt shame that he needed these elves help at all.

"You must still fight Azog," the elf said with a shrug. "He waits for you in the mist, I believe. Do you wish our assistance?"

"No," Thorin growled, looking over to the outline of his mortal foe. "I will kill him alone."

"Oakenshield!" the red-haired she-elf burst out. "Oakenshield...your nephew is dead." He looked up in shock to meet her gaze. Fresh tears ran from her eyes.

"I saw Fíli fall myself," he answered her, fear creeping back into his mind. Did she mean Fíli, or—? No, Kíli had to have survived.

"No," the elf said, shaking her head. "Kíli."

Thorin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to grieve. Fíli was dead, and now he knew Kíli was, too. He could scarcely believe it, and still half-believed they would spring out from behind a rock and help him attack Azog. His sister Dís, their mother, would mourn for the rest of her life. Kíli had fallen, the youngster with so much life in him...dead.

"How did this happen?" he asked. He needed to know.

"He fell fighting Bolg," the red-haired elf said, her voice shaking. "Saving—saving me."

Thorin gripped Orcrist's hilt tighter. "Where is this Bolg?"

"We slew him," the prince added.

"We avenged Kíli," the other elf said at the same time.

Thorin nodded, and looked up. "And I will avenge Fíli. Go, elves. Fight somewhere else. I have unfinished business with Azog."

He marched forward into the mist, lifting his blade. The pale orc's outline became clearer, until he could see every detail on his scarred, ugly face. Azog smiled, his face contorting, as a horn blew in the distance. The noises of the battle below raged on, but Thorin focused only on his enemy.

Suddenly, Azog rushed forward with a shout, dragging a large rock behind him attached to a chain. He lifted it up as he approached, swinging toward Thorin.

Thorin ducked as it swung over his head twice. He scrambled backward as Azog swung a third time, this time barely missing his stomach. Azog continued to approach, swinging his rock over Thorin's head again.

Thorin quickly scrambled to the pale orc's left, then darted around behind him. He swung Orcrist, going for Azog's arm, but the orc parried his blow with the blade embedded into the stump of his arm. He turned around and swung the rock at him again, and Thorin darted backward, breathing hard as he watched the impact of the rock crack the ice beneath their feet.

Thorin danced around, struggling to regain his balance. As he did, Azog swung at him again, hitting the ice once more. Further cracks appeared on its surface, and Thorin began to feel uneasy. What if the ice broke? What if he fell into the freezing water in the river and tumbled underneath the ice and over the waterfall?

As the ice continued to crack and creak, Thorin backed away to safer ground. Azog followed him, snarling. He lifted the rock once more and slammed it down at Thorin's feet.

The ice gave way. Now they were standing on a frozen chunk, separated from the rest of the frozen water. Azog swung the rock again, and Thorin ducked to avoid a blow. The Defiler swung his weapon again, this time so low to the ground that he had to fling himself down on his belly to avoid it. He groaned as he scrambled to his feet.

Azog swung it again, and Thorin stepped back to avoid it. This time, one of his feet slipped into the water, and he went down. He quickly pulled it out and pushed himself back up, only to be knocked backwards as Azog's rock swung his feet out from under him.

The pale orc swung it again, aiming for his face, and Thorin rolled to the side. As the rock made contact with the already frail ice, it continued to crack into smaller and smaller pieces. He rolled over and got to his knees, before rolling over again to avoid another attack—and again, and again.

At last he saw an opening, and he darted forward, cutting along Azog's legs with his blade. Azog stumbled and lurched forward, giving Thorin enough time to slide around him and get to his feet behind him. Azog whirled around and swung his weapon again, harder this time and more erratic, and Thorin stepped back. This time the rock was stuck, embedded in the ice, and as Azog tried in vain to yank it back out, an idea occurred to him.

Azog stepped forward, swinging at him with his blade arm, but Thorin dodged the blow. He stepped back, his balance a little unstable, and stood firm again.

Suddenly, Azog stopped, looking up, fear tinging his icy blue gaze. Thorin only stared at him in confusion, until he saw the giant eagles swoop down overhead, heading toward Bolg's second army behind Azog.

As Azog was distracted, Thorin cast Orcrist aside, then leaned down and lifted the rock from the ice. With all his might, he threw it at Azog, who grabbed it in his arms, looking back up at him in confused hate.

Thorin tilted his head and widened his eyes mockingly, then jumped backward, off the small plate of ice they had both been standing on.

Ever so slowly, the ice began to tilt in Azog's direction, the weight of both him and his weapon unbalancing the plate. Azog slid backward into the water, clawing in vain at the slick surface of the ice. He shouted in horror as he slid underwater, his voice becoming garbled.

The ice plate floated back upright, Azog now safely underwater. Thorin heaved a sigh of relief—surely not even he could survive that? The current of the river beneath the ice would push him forward, down the waterfall.

He knelt down, retrieving his weapon. As he did so, he saw Azog's body floating in the current beneath the ice, swiftly being pulled toward him. He watched as the carcass drew closer to him, a gray lump beneath the ice, until it passed under a sheer part of the frozen water, where Thorin could see it more clearly.

Azog's eyes were still open.

He let out a breath of air he had not until then realized he had been holding in and stepped aside as Azog's body floated beneath him. It seemed it be...looking at him. He stepped forward, following the body's path, until the ice grew cloudy and white again.

Azog's eyes closed, his mouth with it. Surely, surely he was dead...

The eyes opened again, not expressionless like before, but full of malice, and the pale orc's teeth clenched. Suddenly, his blade arm pierced through the ice—and through Thorin's own foot.

Thorin let out a cry of pain and fear. The blade slid out of his foot, and Azog burst through the ice. Thorin fell backward and Azog leaped over his shaking body.

The pale orc swung at him, and he weakly deflected the blow with Orcrist. The orc swung his sword back up, and Thorin lifted his own blade to stop it. His weapon caught on Azog's, in a poorly designed divet in the pale orc's blade arm.

Azog grinned, pushing his weapon down toward Thorin's heart with deadly force. Thorin stared up into the pale orc's cruel, glittering eyes. His arms were weak and shaking—he couldn't hold this position for much longer. But he had to. All his life culminated in this one event, taking revenge on all the family killed by this single orc, taking revenge for turning him into an outcast.

Despite this, Thorin felt his arms beginning to fail, the ice cold and unforgiving beneath him. Even if he survived this battle, he didn't know if he'd live to become King Under the Mountain—his wounds were already great. Azog's bodyguards had been no petty goblin mercenaries, but great warriors.

Azog's blade tore through the cloth of his shirt and grazed his skin. His stomach began to bleed with fiery pain, but he was not hurt too bad, he thought. His arms were weak, and soon the blade would run him through, and part of him wanted to give in, for it to all end, for him to be at peace...

But looking up into Azog's face, Thorin felt a rush of anger and energy. Fíli was dead, killed by this very orc, and there was no way he was going to let Azog take victory over two of the sons of Durin. He remembered all he had lost, all he had done to get to this one moment, both the good and the bad, and he took strength from those memories—that of Fíli and Kíli, his loyal, brave nephews, both now dead; his friends among the company; Balin and Dwalin, his faithful counselors and friends; Bilbo, the burglar who still cared for him despite his actions under the dragonsickness. He remembered Dís, the sister he left behind in Ered Luin; Frerin, the brother killed in the same battle his grandfather was slain by Azog; his father Thráin, lost and vanished; his people, who needed a home.

Thorin summoned all that remained of his strength and in the last second before Azog ran him through, pushed Orcrist up, sending Azog's blade flying and stabbing the pale orc right in the chest.

Thorin pushed him over, standing over his enemy and leaning with all his weight on the weapon impaling Azog. He heard the crunch of ice and bone as Orcrist broke through the ice on the other side. The cold malice in Azog's eyes died, leaving Thorin standing over his enemy's body.

He was lightheaded and dizzy. Thorin pulled his sword out of the orc's chest, limping over to the edge of the waterfall. He stared down at the battle still raging below—tiny dots fighting other tiny dots. Meaningless, all of it. Just like Thorin himself. He could feel his wounds biting at him, the exhaustion of what he had just done taking its toll on his body. Azog was slain, but so were his nephews—and he still did not have the Arkenstone.

His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell to the ground.


The world spun as Bilbo opened his eyes, and he frowned and groaned as he felt the bruise on his head throb. Otherwise he felt fine—the orcs must have thought he was dead and ignored him.

As he looked up into the sky, he saw birds flying overhead, huge and majestic. "The eagles are coming..." he murmured.

Suddenly, he sat straight upright, realizing in horror that he had no idea where any of the others were. Kíli, Dwalin, and Thorin were all gone, no where to be seen. He got to his feet unsteadily, shaking his head, and looked around. The battle seemed to be over now, at least in this area, and dying down everywhere else.

He stumbled around, eventually coming to the edge of a level of stairs. He clutched the fence surrounded the cliffside, sighting Thorin at the edge of a huge waterfall. He watched him stand there in concern, only a few feet away from the great carcass of Azog the Defiler. Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived.

Then his breath caught as he watched Thorin collapse on the icy ground. He raced down the steps, hurrying to the dwarf king's side.

As he approached, he saw Thorin's eyes lift open. The dwarf coughed, then gasped out, "Bilbo!"

Bilbo crouched down beside him and grabbed his hand, looking at him up and down, he saw various wounds on him, but none looked too serious. Still, there was a tiredness in Thorin's eyes that frightened him.

"Don't move, don't move!" Bilbo protested, pushing Thorin back down gently as the dwarf tried to rise. "Lie still!"

Thorin lay back down with a faint sigh of relief. As Bilbo looked at Thorin again, he saw a gash in his side. Disgusted and horrified, he stroked the wound, then pulled his hand back quickly as Thorin grunted in pain and he felt blood stain his finger.

"I'm glad you're here," Thorin rasped, his voice hoarse.

"Shh, shh, shh, shh!" Bilbo protested. His heart pounded—those were not the words of an injured king, but a dying one. He looked over Thorin's face, noting with fear that it was caked in blood. What had happened while he had been knocked out? Where were Kíli and Dwalin? Was Azog dead?

"I wish to part from you in friendship," Thorin rasped, looking him in the eyes. His look was so open and sincere, very different from the last time Bilbo had been this close to him.

"No, you aren't going anywhere, Thorin!" Bilbo protested. He tried to cover up the sluggishly bleeding wound on Thorin's side with the dwarf's clothes, glancing back and forth up to his face as he did so. "You're going to live!"

"I would take back...my words and my deeds at the gate," Thorin said, obviously struggling to breathe. Bilbo wanted to shush him, to tell him to save it for when he was healed, but he could tell this was very important to him. And he wanted to hear this, too, Thorin's personal apology to him. He looked up and met his gaze.

"You did what only a true friend would do," Thorin whispered. He stopped, breathing hard. "Forgive me," he rasped, his voice full of his scarce, hard-won breath.

Bilbo nodded, about to reply, when Thorin continued, "I was too blind to see." He could see the guilt in the dwarf's face as he shook his head. Bilbo forgave him—he already had. Thorin hadn't been himself when he said those things back at the gate, and it was not in Bilbo's nature to hold a grudge, especially to a friend so dear.

"I am so sorry...that I have led you into such...peril," Thorin said, with much effort. He breathed hard, coughing, and Bilbo grabbed his hand again, looking at him earnestly.

"No, I...I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin, each and every one of them," Bilbo said, trying to comfort him. And he was: it had been dangerous and he was not the same hobbit who left the Shire, but he was changed for the better, and he knew that this adventure was the best thing that had happened to him in his life.

Thorin's breathing slowed, and he rolled his head to better look at Bilbo. There was relief in his eyes, relief that he was forgiven.

"It is far more than any Baggins deserves," Bilbo continued, meaning every word.

Thorin smiled gently, seeming kinder in that moment than Bilbo could remember him every being before. "Farewell, Master Burglar," he whispered. Bilbo wanted to cry out, to protest, but he could see the toll this was taking on Thorin's mind and his body. Instead, he merely slumped, beginning to realize that, perhaps...perhaps Thorin wasn't going to make it out of this.

"Go back to your books...and your armchair..." Thorin whispered, smiling with every muscle in his face. Bilbo was reminded of his own speech back in the Misty Mountains, his words echoing in Thorin's own.

"Plant your trees...watch them grow..." Thorin continued. Bilbo felt tears welling up in his eyes. The acorn would be planted, and he would remember this moment every time he glanced up at it with grief and with pride, pride that Thorin had overcome his sickness, that even though he had...died...he had done so in his right mind, defending his kingdom.

"If more people...valued home...above gold...this world...would be a merrier place."

With those whispered words, Bilbo saw Thorin's eyes gently droop closed, his bloodstained lips letting loose a final sigh. Panic and denial filled the hobbit's mind, and he stammered out, "No—no, no no—no, Thorin! Thorin, don't you dare!"

Thorin took a shuddering breath, then faded away. Bilbo stared into the dead eyes of his friend, unable to accept what had just happened.

"Thorin?" he said through his tears, faintly pointing up into the sky. "Look, Thorin. Thorin, hold on. You hold on. You see, the eagles...the eagles, the eagles are here. Thorin...the eag..."

A tear escaped his eyes and splashed onto the ground. Bilbo cried then, for a long while. At last he got ahold of himself and placed a hand on Thorin's still bloodied chest. He could hear the sound of others approaching—the other dwarves. Kíli would have to be told, and crowned king...if Kíli had survived. Blind with grief, Bilbo wiped his eyes with his free hand.

And then...the hand place down Thorin's chest moved upward with a faint breath.

Hope blossomed. Quickly, Bilbo checked Thorin's pulse. His heart was still beating. Thorin was not dead—he was alive! Unconscious and gravely wounded, but alive!

Bilbo leapt to his feet, and raced toward the approaching dwarves, their faces long with sorrow. What a sight he must have been, wild and hopeful as he was.

"Balin—Dwalin!" he exclaimed, speaking to the first two dwarves he saw. "He's...Thorin's alive! He's not dead yet, but he will be soon, we've got to save him, we've got to—"

Dwalin pushed past Bilbo, breaking into a run. Before Bilbo knew what was happening, the dwarves had lifted Thorin and were carrying him swiftly but carefully down to the medic camps that had been put up in Dale.

Confused and hoping beyond hope, Bilbo ran after them. Maybe they could survive this after all.


Tears streamed down Tauriel's face as she knelt by Kíli's body. She could feel Thranduil's presence close by.

"They want to bury him," she told him. A few dwarves had found her after the battle. Oakenshield had survived, so she heard, but Kíli and his brother were dead and to be buried.

"Yes," Thranduil said softly.

Tauriel tried to hold back the full extent of her grief. "If this is love, I do not want it," she cried. She clutched Kíli's hand, her senses numb from the cold and looked up into Thranduil's face, pleading with wide green eyes. If love hurt this much, if it reached into her soul and destroyed it with the pain of loss, then it was not worth it. She wished she was still at home in the Greenwood, alive and free, never having known the pain of loving Kíli. She wished she was whole, and at peace. She wished she had never defied Thranduil's orders.

"Take it from me," she begged him. "Please."

Her king said nothing, looking beyond her. The woes of centuries weighed on his shoulders, she knew, including the death of his wife.

"No grave...no memory..." Legolas's words spoken at Gundabad echoed in her mind. Thranduil felt her pain, she could tell.

Tauriel looked down at Kíli, knowing they would never kiss, never love, never live together, never...anything. She looked back up at Thranduil.

"Why does it hurt so much?" she sobbed, her voice cracking. Tears streamed down her face. She should have followed Kíli to Erebor, not gone with Legoas to Gundabad. She could have stopped this...saved him.

Thranduil was calm, composed in his body language, but his eyes betrayed a raw pain. She turned away from him, her eyes closed. He would not comfort her—at worst he could only say "I told you so."

"Because it was real," Thranduil answered softly. She jerked her head back up and stared at him, shocked. Acceptance. Tauriel had not known he was capable of that.

But it was real, she knew. It was true, just like Thranduil's long-lost love for his wife. Tauriel loved Kíli deeply, despite everything that had happened, and more had happened for her in just these few days than in the rest of her long life, and it was realer than countless years in the Greenwood were or ever could be.

Tauriel saw now that she had been wrong to accuse Thranduil of being loveless. He could not love in the same way she could, for he was a king. But he also had been wrong to say that Tauriel's love for Kíli was false.

They understood each other now. Tauriel took a deep breath, then leaned down over Kíli's dead body, clutching his hand, her lips meeting his cold, dead ones in a kiss that could never truly be.

Kíli's lips twitched. Surprised, Tauriel drew back. His eyes flickered open, and she let out a soft cry of "Oh!" In that single gasp, she expressed shock and delight and hope beyond description in any tongue of elf, dwarf, or man.

"Tauriel," he whispered. "Kiss me again...please..."

Behind her, she heard Thranduil gasp and shuffle backward. Tauriel let out a sob of relief, then leaned down again and complied.

This time he answered the kiss, their lips meeting earnestly. Kíli struggled to shuffle up into a sitting position, grabbing a fistful of her hair to support himself. Tauriel shifted so he held him, all the while kissing his bloodstained lips.

They broke apart and Tauriel began to cry again, this time with relief. Kíli was crying too, a broken child brought back from the brink of death. She clutched her dwarf in her arms protectively, never wanting to let him go.

"Tauriel..." Thranduil said, sounding very uncomfortable. "Should I leave...?"

Kíli groaned as she hugged him. "Tauriel, not so tight," he grunted. "Oh, Mahal..." He coughed. "I'm injured still...just not...dead."

Tauriel loosened her grip, turning to look up at her king. "Send some help!" she begged him. "He needs medical attention! And let his family know, they think he's dead!"

Thranduil scowled, obviously unhappy of her rude orders, but he nodded nonetheless and stepped away. "I will be back shortly," he said evenly, concealing his true thoughts.

Tauriel wiped the tears from her face, staring down at Kíli. He smiled up at her, his eyelids drooping.

"Don't go, Kíli," she whispered into his ear. "I won't lose you. Not again...amrâlimê."