It was a known fact among the hobbits of the shire that the Baggins of Bag-End, despite their comfortable lifestyle, were particularly skilled at dodging things. Bilbo had always assumed that it was a necessary trait, developed after years of dodging pesky neighbors and distant kin. Combined with the natural speed that all hobbits possessed, Bilbo had never truly doubted his ability to run away from something if he really put his mind to it.
Of course, that was before he had gone and volunteered himself as a burglar for a company of thirteen daft dwarves on a suicidal mission to reclaim a thrice-damned mountain from a dragon.
A warg darted out of the shadows to Bilbo's right, its rider barely missing the exposed skin at Bilbo's neck as the hobbit instinctively rolled out of the way. Bilbo bit back the shriek that wanted to burst from his lips and forced himself to keep running, Sting flashing like blue lightning in the darkness cast by Mirkwood's cursed trees. A deep, aching pain had begun to form in the hobbit's lungs, reminding the small creature that he couldn't keep running forever. Eventually, he would have to stop.
At least his sister is safe, Bilbo reminded himself faintly, his thoughts barely audible to his own mind over the frantic pulse of blood in his ears. At least I spared him that pain…
Another warg darted out of the shadows, its rider following almost immediately from the opposite direction as Bilbo threw himself out of the beast's way. The hobbit barely managed to parry the orc's blade with Sting, his arms shaking infinitesimally with the effort of pushing the larger weapon away. The orc seemed to smile at his weakness and lashed out again, a savage roar of triumphant breaking through its nonexistent lips when the serrated edge sliced through Bilbo's ragged tunic. Bilbo staggered and stared at the small rose of scarlet that had begun to bloom across the stained blue fabric, his lungs heaving in a sudden, frantic effort to draw in oxygen. Before he could think, the hobbit was moving again, Sting slashing almost absently into the orc's shins. The dark creature howled in pain and reached out to grab the hobbit, its thick fingers closing around the bottom of Bilbo's tunic. The hobbit jerked backwards in shock and lashed out with Sting once more, barely even sparing a glance for the bloodstained piece of fabric that was cut free as he pushed forward. Bilbo's fingers fumbled for the cold metal ring that he had slipped into his pocket, his wide eyes frantically sweeping the surrounding trees for any sign of the orcs.
A high, screeching laugh reached the hobbit's ears barely a moment before he felt the ring press into the pads of his calloused fingers. Bilbo's eyes widened in horrified recognition as he frantically slipped the ring onto his middle finger, his silent feet propelling him into the nearest bush just as a loud, screaming army of goblins came into view.
"Where'd 'e go?" one of the creatures whined, its beady eyes sweeping the trees for any sign of the hobbit.
One of its fellows shrugged and shoved the other goblin forward with the edge of its sword, its lips curled into a savage grin beneath its rough, ugly armor.
"There'll be plenty more where 'e came from anyways," the goblin swore. "They'll soon regret what they did to our king!"
Loud, horrible screams greeted the goblin's statement and the army marched past, oblivious to the invisible hobbit that had collapsed in the shrubs barely a foot away from them. Bilbo gritted his teeth, barely daring to breathe for fear that someone would hear him.
Go to them…
Bilbo stiffened, his wide eyes flickering down to the ring that suddenly seemed to be burning on his finger.
GO. Let them see you… They will let you live. They will make you king when they see your power. You can make Thorin pay. You can make him regret what he did to you. You can have him as you've only dreamed of having him… Just go to the goblins. Let them take you to the orcs, and you will be rewarded.
Bilbo shuddered and wrapped his free hand around the nearest branch, his chest heaving with screams that the ring was ordering him to let loose. He rolled slightly to bury his face into the grass, his whimpers of pain at the sudden movement muffled by the decaying vegetation. The ring grew louder as the last goblins marched by, urging the hobbit to follow its orders and alert the creatures to his presence. Bilbo ignored the voice and forced himself to think of the dwarves, his dwarves, even as the burning ring of his finger started to fade into the dark, numbing haze of unconsciousness. He thought of Bofur's gentle, encouraging smile, of the identical gleams of mischief that appeared in Fíli and Kíli's eyes every time one of their plans succeeded, of Balin's quiet wisdom and Dwalin's gruff humor, of Bombur's glee at the sight of food and Bifur's excited, nonsensical babbling.
He thought of Thorin, of the rare smiles that the dwarven king had allowed the hobbit to see during their travels and the warmth of his embrace on the Carrock.
I'm sorry, Thorin, Bilbo mused, his thoughts barely audible over the angry, insistent screams of the ring. I hope that you can forgive me someday…
*Bagginshield*Bagginshield*Bagginshield*
Fíli was the first to see the approaching army.
"Aule help us," he whispered, his hand reaching out to clasp his brother's shoulder in search of a familiar comfort.
"Fee?" Kíli murmured back, his dark eyes widening in silent alarm. "What is it? What do you see?"
Fíli merely shook his head, his muscles tensing when a strong hand touched his back.
"What do you see, Fíli?" Thorin asked, his voice deceptively calm as he struggled to follow his heir's gaze.
"Azog's army approaches," the young dwarf sighed. "And he is joined by legions of goblins."
Thorin nodded stiffly and strode back to his previous place at the center of the balcony, leaving his nephews alone in the middle of Dain's archers. Dain, Dwalin, Balin, and Dís looked up expectantly as he approached, their calloused hands curled tightly around the hilts of gleaming swords and battle axes. Beside them, Thranduil and Bard didn't bother to turn away from the horizon, their bows already notched with arrows.
"Fíli says that the orcs are near," Thorin reported flatly. "Their numbers have been boosted with goblins."
"Do ye think they're the same ones that we met in the Misty Mountains?" Dwalin grunted, his hazel eyes sweeping across the plains in search of the army.
Thorin shrugged, choosing to ignore the questioning glances that Dís and Dain were now sending his way.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "Are the archers ready?"
"They will wait until the enemy is close before they fire," Thranduil replied.
Thorin bit back a sharp comment and shot the elvenking a glare, his gaze softening slightly when he caught sight of Bard's apologetic half-smile.
"We'll be ready for them, your highness," the bowman assured him.
"Thorin," Thorin corrected him. "There are no kings in battle, only brothers fighting besides each other in the name of what we hold most dear."
The human blinked slowly in surprise and offered the dwarf king a silent bow. Thorin smiled thinly and bowed in return, his sharp blue eyes flickering back to the king of Mirkwood to see how Thranduil had taken the statement. The elf king offered him a brief glance half-filled with contempt, his thin lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
"They are coming closer, dwarf," Thranduil muttered. "Your men should be making their way out of the mountain now."
"And your men?" Balin called politely.
The elf smirked.
"They will follow your orders," he assured them silkily. "So long as your archers follow mine."
Thorin and Dain merely bowed. With a final huff and a firm slap to Thorin's shoulder, Dain turned to leave the balcony, with Dís and Balin close behind him. Dwalin remained by his king's side, his twin battle-axes strapped firmly onto his broad shoulders.
"So, how long are we goin' ta stay up here and share air with the elves?" he asked casually.
Thorin shrugged and glanced over his shoulder, his muscles tensing when he saw Dís wave her hand in a final farewell to her sons.
"Azog will be too focused on me to notice Dain's forces coming around from behind," he muttered. "I need to give him as much of a chance as I can, especially now that the numbers are against us."
Dwalin nodded slowly, his fists slowly clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Are the lads coming with us when we do go down?" he wondered.
Thorin smiled humorlessly. "I doubt that I could convince them to stay… Besides, Fíli isn't an archer. The only reason he isn't with Dís right now is because Kíli wouldn't be able to bear knowing that he was on the battlefield alone."
"Ori is going out there," Dwalin muttered gruffly. "With his brothers."
Thorin reached out to wordlessly clasp the warrior's wrist for a brief moment, his blue eyes moving to focus on the dim shadows of trees that were barely visible behind the throbbing, screaming mass of approaching orcs and goblins.
"…Bilbo doesn't have anyone," he observed, his voice carefully-neutral.
Dwalin was silent.
"It's my fault," Thorin continued quietly. "I sent him out there, I… turned him away. Whatever happens to him, it will be on my head."
"On all of our heads," Dwalin corrected him quietly. "There were twelve of us in that throne room when you banished him, Thorin. None of us made a move to stop you. If anything happens to that hobbit, it will be a burden that we will all have to bear."
Thorin swallowed and nodded, not entirely convinced.
"Dwalin-," he began.
"Thorin," Dwalin interrupted with rough gentleness. "He's Bilbo. He will be fine."
The dwarf king bowed his head and moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Thranduil and Bard, his head held high as he gazed over the battlements at the approaching army. A white orc mounted on a gigantic white warg road at the front, its scarred face turned in Thorin's general direction. The orc slowly drew to a halt beneath the balcony, its beady eyes locked intently on the dwarf that stood at the center.
"Hail, Thorin, son of Thrain," it greeted in something that could barely be called the Common Tongue. "You still smell of fear."
Thorin refused to answer the orc and simply waited, his skin crawling slightly when he realized that his shoulders were brushing against Thranduil's armor.
Bilbo would be thrilled, he thought wryly, ignoring the sharp stab of fear and guilt that went through him at the thought of the gentle hobbit alone against Azog and his forces.
"I met your protector on the way here," Azog continued, not bothered by the dwarf's silence.
Thorin stiffened and leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he braced himself against the sun-warmed stone of the battlements. Dimly, the dwarf felt Dwalin reach out to pull him back and shrugged the larger warrior away, his ears roaring with the sharp, dismayed gasps of his nephews.
"Where is he?" he demanded, his voice carrying easily across the roars of Azog's forces.
The white orc seemed to smile at his reaction and raised its hand, a wad of crumpled blue cloth clenched between its fingers.
"Here," it roared. It gestured towards a nearby orc whose face was painted in streaks of blood. "There." Five more orcs raised gleaming, bloodstained weapons into the air with savage roars that sent chills down Thorin's spine. "There."
Thorin growled under his breath, his blood boiling in its veins even as a knot of icy despair formed in the pit of his stomach.
My fault… This is my fault… I killed him…
More orcs were raising bloodstained weapons into the air, their grey faces painted in red-brown blood. Azog was laughing and pointing, his arms waving as he conducted his own demented symphony of screams and battle cries.
"The protector," Azog screamed above its troops. "Is gone. Who will protect you now, Thorin, son of Thrain? Where is your shield?"
I killed him….
"Thorin," Dwalin hissed fiercely. "Thorin."
I could not save him… But I will avenge him.
"Kíli!" Thorin roared.
A single arrow flew with painful accuracy into the neck of Azog's warg, sending the white orc tumbling gracelessly onto the field. A deadly silence spread across the field as the white orc slowly pulled itself onto its feet, its eyes blazing with fury. The dwarves, elves, and men that lined Erebor's battlements shattered the silence with a roar of triumph as Thranduil and Bard raised their bows to mimic Kíli's, their muscles tensed and ready for battle.
Thorin pushed violently away from the balcony before the first arrows could hit their targets, his footsteps shadowed by Dwalin's lumbering strides and his nephew's quick, rapid steps. Legions of silent elves and thundering dwarves and men roared up at him from the depths of Erebor, desperate to break through the gates.
"Azog is mine," Thorin growled. "I want my sword dark with his blood."
"Get in line, Uncle," Fíli snarled, his twin blades gleaming silver in the shadows of Erebor's halls.
Yeah… definitely longer than a oneshot… whoops? Sorry for the long wait here, guys, my schedule is getting incredibly insane as graduation gets closer (btw, congrats to anyone else who is graduating this year! We made it, haha!) So~ Please let me know how I'm doing so far, okay? And feel free to yell at me if anyone is too OOC here, or if I'm getting something too incredibly wrong. And thank you all soooo much for reading/reviewing this, it means a lot to me!