Beorn enters the battle like a storm from the west. Orcs fly through the air, propelled from his might fangs, and fall slashed by his claws.
Somewhere in the fray he sees the girl wielding what looks like a double ended spear, spinning and jabbing, her face grim. The two young dwarves are not far.
The battle goes on. Suddenly he hears a stricken cry from one of the dwarf brothers. He bites off the head of an orc and turns.
Thorin Oakenshield has fallen.
He is badly wounded, and has sunken to his knees. Fíli and Kíli shield him with their bodies and drive the surrounding orcs away. And then arrows sprout from their chests, one after the other, and they too fall to their knees on the blood-soaked ground.
Beorn knows there is nothing he can do for the two brothers, but he picks Thorin up in his jaws and carries him away above the battle.
The dim tent is becoming blurred, once-sharp lines fading into the background. Footsteps are heard and then the door flap opens and a lanky figure stoops and enters.
"Lys."
Thorin's voice is cracked and barely audible.
She kneels down next to the cot. His vision focuses again for an instant and he can see a tear trickling down her cheek, tracing a clear line through a patch of dark blood.
He holds out his hand and she grasps it, a grimy, desperate enclasping.
"Fíli and Kíli," he utters, a numbness seeping through his bones which he wishes would be replaced with pain.
"I know," she replies. Her face is blurring, but he sees the gleam of another tear, and then Lys's body is shaking with silent sobs, and she lays her head on the edge of the cot.
"It's not right," she chokes.
A strangled sob and then she continues. "You and them… you don't deserve this. I deserved it. By all rights I shouldn't be here. But I am, and now you're not."
"No," he whispers. "Lys…" He grips her hand harder, pain lancing through his body.
"You deserve to live. Gandalf brought you here for a reason. Your time is not over." He pauses. "An early death is not your fate. Your fate is to live on. Help to protect your new world from the evil that has been placed in it. And… death is not a punishment. We will go to our Maker and be at peace… Every story has an ending, and death is not the worst ending."
The tent flap opens again, but this time there were no footsteps to be heard.
A sudden pain unrelated to his wounds sears in his chest.
"Bilbo."
Lys raises a blood- and tear-stained face and looks over her shoulder at the hobbit before turning back to Thorin. As she rises, she places a kiss on his forehead. Then she turns and leaves the tent.
When Bilbo exits the tent, tears streaming down his face, he finds Lys kneeling on the bloody earth, drawing in short gasping breaths. He stumbles over to her and gently places his arms around her. She slowly reciprocates the gesture, and they stay like that, each one's tears wetting the other one's shoulder, for a small eternity.
Epilogue:
"Dead orc."
"Another one here."
"And here."
"I hear a fire over there."
The two rangers head through the forest towards the sound, creeping from tree to tree, sword drawn and arrow notched.
"Good evening," says the figure by the fire lazily.
The rangers emerge and draw back their hoods.
"Greetings," says Bronwe. "What errand brings you to these parts?"
"Hunting orcs," replies the woman.
"A ranger, then? But not a familiar one. We have never seen you at the base," says Asgarduin.
"No, I have a different base."
"Ah. Well, you seem to have eliminated that party of orcs for us," continues Bronwe.
"There were more, though," adds Asgarduin.
"Were there?" asks the woman, standing up.
A grunting is heard nearby and soon two orcs emerge from the surrounding trees.
"Where is your weapon?" exclaims Asgarduin.
The stranger smiles.
An orc lunges at her, bringing his curved sword down over her head. She blocks it, and the blade slides down her left arm. Her right arm simultaneously shoots forward towards the orc's exposed neck. In one fluid motion, she grasps its throat and rips it out. The orc falls to the ground. The other one squeals and runs off into the forest, only to be brought down by an arrow from Asgarduin.
"Thank you," says the woman.
She drops the dripping throat into the fire, pulls out a rag and cleans her hand. Then she rummages around in a bag and tends to her bleeding left arm.
When she is done, she stokes the fire. "May I interest you gentlemen in a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" repeats Bronwe weakly.
"Finest Shire leaf," she replies, procuring a tin from her bag.
So they sit down and pass a mug of freshly brewed tea amongst themselves.
"What base are you at?" asks Asgarduin.
"I suppose you could say my base is in Hobbiton. I have a good friend there who I visit regularly."
"Friendship between a hobbit and a ranger? They do not normally trust us."
"There are exceptions."
"I see. And what is your lineage?"
"It's complicated."
"So you are not a true ranger."
"No."
Bronwe furrows his brow. "You have certainly shown your quality. I believe it would be possible to make of you an honorary ranger."
"That's not necessary," replies the woman. "I hunt to avenge the deaths of my comrades and to protect the Shire."
"Very well," says Bronwe. He hands the empty tea mug to the woman. "We must continue on our patrol. Would you like to help us?"
"I've no other engagements," replies the woman, stands up and gathers her things. "Lead the way."
