Thanks, as always, go to the amazingly talented and patient ladies, Krystal_lazuli, Hazel-3017 and NephthysMoon, who help me polish this story - any shine it may have acquired is directly attributed to their skill.


Forge of Origins:

The Legacy of Our Fathers

11

'Tis Evil in the Wild Does Fare

-..-

~In which orcs are orcs, dwarves are dwarves, and Lady Sigrid wonders why her town always seems overrun with them. Though, at least this time nobody came in through the toilet.~

-..-

THEIR LINES WERE an absolute mess. Men scrabbled with goblins in ragged knots, while dwarven shield-walls tried to hold pockets of resistance to protect what remained of their formations. Their defensive earthworks had had to be abandoned when the wall of shrieking orcs had come loping in, not from the North as they had expected, but from the South. It was abandon the trenches, or be ground up against their own barricades by the army behind them. Frankly, they were barely avoiding being swarmed under as it was.

Fat lot of good Thranduil's scouts are, Fíli thought savagely, quickly reversing the arc of his light sword to bite deeply into the weapon-arm of his foe. Tendons and nerves were no match for dwarven steel; blood flowed thick and unctuous, and the creature's mace hit the ground with a flat thud. Moments later, its scarred and greyish head rolled to land beside the discarded weapon. The blood was quickly swallowed up into the parched ground, making the footing greasy and treacherous.

It seemed obvious in retrospect—things were always obvious in retrospect—that the main body of the orcish force must have splintered off into smaller groups and followed the lesser fork of the Forest River to the Mirkwood Mountains, leaving behind a severely diminished force to make an ostentatious march north for the elven scouts to see. The splinter groups would then have regrouped and crossed into Esgaroth from the south end of the lake.

The moon was staying low on the horizon tonight, lending very little in the way of useful light for the Men, though Fíli found it was easy enough to see. They needed those defensive works back up—something to regroup around and protect the wounded. As it was, too many were getting injured trying to shield fallen comrades. "Bofur!" he cried, trying to get the other dwarf's attention through the chaos surrounding them. "Bofur!"

With a short, ugly swing of his mattock, the miner staved in the neck of a reedy goblin and caught the thing's warg with the pointed bill end on the back swing, neatly dispatching both, before looking around. Catching sigh of him, Bofur nimbly wove his way through to Fíli's side, neatly sidestepping Glóin where he fought. The aggressive red-head had abandoned his weapon for the moment, and was wrestling an orc with every indication of enjoyment, shouting expletives and curses as he kicked it again and again for taking him away from his family, who had only arrived in the mountain the night before their march for Laketown. Fíli thought Bofur wise for not getting involved and taking away Glóin's fun.

Thorin appeared at his side as well, having heard his cry, and the three of them pulled back slightly to hold a war council. Effortlessly, the surrounding dwarves flowed around them, clearing a gap. "What is it, Nephew?" Thorin rasped, sounding out of breath.

"We need to get the Men under cover. Some kind of defensive measure, at least for the fallen. I hate to say it, but the Big Folk are getting in our way with their panic and blindness—if we could get some kind of breastworks in place, they could follow the original plan, manning engines and bows, and protect the wounded."

Thorin didn't do him the disservice of pointing out that they were currently in no position to discuss defensive works, granting his heir the belief that he must have an idea if he had bothered to broach it. Bylgja had waded over to their small group, blood and oil smeared across her forehead, her perfect braids askew for perhaps the first time Fíli had ever seen. She seemed to be in her element, and gave Fíli and Thorin a savage grin. "We have a bit of a mess on our hands, my prince," she said by way of greeting, having obviously caught some of what Fíli had said. "But we're going to have to make do with simple barricades. Breastworks will take too many dwarves off the field."

Fíli nodded. "Bofur, how badly are our defenses damaged? And how easily could we re-work them into something useful?"

Bofur looked to his guild Mistress when Fíli bypassed her, but she gave no indication of being offended, so he just shrugged. He pushed back his furry hat to scratch absently at his sweaty forehead, and stared out at their abandoned lines as he pondered. "Problem is," he said thoughtfully, "the walls we built are curved the wrong way now, being as they were meant to protect from a force coming from the North and all. Without rebuilding them, they'll never function as earthworks should. Right now, we're only barely managing not to get ground up against them."

"Yes, but will they do in a pinch?" Fíli urged impatiently.

"Let him speak," Bylgja reproved.

Bofur squeaked, and flushed pink. "If we could find a way to keep the orcs back from the wall, it would give the munitions companies a chance to strafe the buggers and pick them off before they could swarm. The backwards curvature would actually function to corral them into a smaller area, which, given the difficulties the Men have in the dark, will only aid their archer's accuracy."

"But we need to find a way to keep them back, without extensively rebuilding the stakes and caltrops and glacis," Thorin summarized quietly.

Bofur nodded. "We can chuck a few more rocks onto the wall, give it more height to make up for the slope of the wrong side of it, build in a few defences while we're at it, but that won't solve the basic problem of keeping them back so they don't all simply climb over while we work."

Fíli pursed his lips and looked over towards the lake. "I might have an idea about that."

"It had better be a brilliant one, your highness," came a gruff voice. "Or this is going to be an extremely short battle."

"Lord Bard," Thorin acknowledged as they made room for him in their circle.

"What is it you're proposing?" Bard asked, staring intently around their small war council.

"The land slopes downwards from the lake on this side, doesn't it?" Fíli asked, though he could feel the answer himself through the soles of his boots.

"Aye," Bard agreed, clearly uncertain as to where Fíli's idea was leading him. "This side is all flood plains for a quarter mile."

"And the body of the dragon is damming things up, belly bloating in sun, full of trapped gas fit to burst..." Fíli said, trailing off as he looked around their circle expectantly.

Slowly, Bofur grinned back at him. "There's a certain amount of justice in using ol' Smaug to defend the town he once tried to ruin."

"I swear Balin can make a flash bomb from thin air if need be." Thorin's grin was wicked looking, indeed. Fíli felt like doing a silly jig as they all began grinning at each other, the excitement contagious.

"You give us that distraction, and Ásbergur and I will get the barricades back up," Bylgja promised.

"What is it you're planning?" Bard asked impatiently, the only one frowning. "What does the dragon have to do with aught?"

Fíli felt a giddy laugh welling up inside him—they would turn the tide yet. "Have you ever seen swamp gasses form candles of flame?"

"Aye, I've heard of such things, in the swamps far to the south of here," Bard acknowledged, obviously still not following.

"Ol' Smaug's insides have turned into a small stagnant swamp by now, my Lord. His hide is stretched taut over a kettledrum of highly combustible gasses, and we're going to light him up like a pyre candle."

Bard turned away, sightlessly surveying their abandoned trenches. He looked faintly revolted, but after a long moment a grim smile was slowly emerging.

There was a bit of arguing back and forth over who would actually do the deed, but in the end Fíli held firm that he was by far the most agile and least encumbered. Balin had indeed proved able to scrap together a flash charge with the scraps they had been able to turn out of their belt pouches, and Fíli was now scrambling his way towards the lake with his prize tucked securely beneath his armour plate. Behind him, the battle raged on as dwarves and men fought and died, distracting the enemy, while engineering teams struggled and scrambled to raise the barricades. The covering darkness would not do much to hide him from orcish eyes, and Fíli stayed crouched low to the ground as he scuttled over the dirt and rubble.

His progress was uneven at best; quick bursts of movement when he deemed the coast clear, followed by terse periods of waiting. The near-deafening shouts and cries of battle followed him until he managed to clear the centre of the ruined town, finally diminishing until it was naught but background noise, and Fíli could hear once again. Furtively, he crouched on the north side of a once-neat little shack, standing like the last patron at a bar fight in a room full of over-turned tables and spilled beer.

Sidling close, Fíli pressed against the weathered wall, closing his eyes tight against the burn in his throat. Stocky legs were not built for stealth or quick distances, and his breath hissed between his teeth as he tried not to wheeze. He strained to hear movement in the gloom of the abandoned neighbourhood; the breeze picked up, whistling faintly through the broken boards and shattered eaves, but Fíli could discern no sound of booted feet. This was the most dangerous part, with the greatest risk of being caught by patrols, or even looters. Beyond this building, there was a wide-open square lined with collapsed remnants of hovels, then nothing but wide-open grassland and ruined fields before he made the next cover; the rotted remains of a landing pier and guard houses of the original town.

He took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out and took another before shifting his weight to run. "All right, on three," he murmured into the soft breeze.

"One," he whispered, still straining to hear anything that would mean it was unsafe to break his cover.

"Two." He dug his left toe into the hard-packed dirt like a race runner he had once seen at a faire. Cautiously, he leaned forward slowly, to avoid his armour creaking.

"Three," and the word was a ghostly whisper over his lips, barely even heard by his own ears. He shifted his weight, the thick muscles in his thighs clenching to power his flight, but before he could push off a slender hand shot out of the gloom and covered his mouth, yanking him off balance. Instinctively, he swiveled his wrist in a practiced motion, feeling the pommel of his knife slide solidly into his palm. A quick twist had him out of his attacker's grasp; a half-spin on the balls of his feet, and he captured them tight to his body, back to chest. His right arm crossed controlling over their chest, with his palm enveloping their cheek, pushing the face sideways and exposing the neck to the knife held in his left. The entire altercation had been nearly silent, thankfully, and Fíli blew out a silent thanks as he caught his breath.

"Do you think you might let me go?" The soft whisper managed to be reproving, despite the faint tremors in her hands as they grasped at his constricting arm.

Her hands? Bloody hell.

"Lady Sigrid," Fíli managed. Until this moment, he hadn't been aware he could speak through clenched teeth.

"Please? You're hurting me," she said quietly, and Fíli suddenly realized how close he had been to injuring her, and how sensible it was for the girl to be frightened.

He dropped his hands as though burnt, feeling slightly ashamed, but mostly just frustrated. "What are you doing here?" he whispered furiously, trying not to scowl at her and upset her further. From the small twitch of her lips, he thought the effort was probably making him look cross-eyed or worse.

Placing one finger before her lips and motioning for him to follow, she darted inside the small building. Blowing out a breath in frustration at the delay, but knowing enough of the Lady of Laketown to know she was practical and serious, and not the type to be wasting his time with frivolities, Fíli followed.

Inside was dark and dry. Moonlight filtered in faintly through broken boards, giving enough of a glow for even a Man's weak eyes, Fíli thought. Sigrid darted nimbly over to the far wall and crouched under the window there, where no hint of their presence would be betrayed. Curbing his impatience, Fíli followed slowly, for he did not have her lithesome figure.

Crouched this close, he could almost taste her sweet breath as she exhaled, and realizing it made Fíli feel awkward. Dwarrows did not normally invade each other's space like this. This close, he could see the streaks of grime and gore in her hair. A short bow rested over one shoulder, and a scabbard at her side contained a slender blade.

"What are you doing here? I thought your father sent all the women and children away for safety."

She shrugged and made a small hand gesture, as if dismissing his concern. Men, Fíli had learned, communicated with their bodies even more than with their words, but unlike dwarven Iglishmêk, their communications had no solid values of meaning. The gestures appeared to be only vaguely agreed-upon and could range incredibly from person to person, instead seeming to rely on knowing the speaker well in order to decipher their meanings. Fíli wasn't as good at interpreting the communications of Men as Nori was, but Lady Sigrid was easy to read; her gestures were as straightforward as her thoughts. He had often watched her in his meetings with Lord Bard when he was uncertain as to what the tall man's body language was supposed to mean. Right now, she was focused on a goal, and not wanting to stop for incidental explanations. Fíli decided to press anyway. He raised an eyebrow at her in a way he had learned she would interpret as 'I'm waiting.'

She blew out a frustrated noise. "Tilda is with them, keeping order and ensuring everyone's safety. Bain and I are here." At Fíli's continued silence, she snapped defiantly, "This is our home, and this is the second time those creatures have tried to take it. I imagine you have some idea as to what that feels like."

Indeed. To what lengths had they gone to in order to reclaim their home? Of course Lady Sigrid was here. Frankly, Bard should thank his lucky stars Tilda wasn't on the field as well.

Fíli nodded his head slowly, acknowledging her point, and at once she settled, calm and focused once more, letting go her brief anger as if it never was. He found himself smiling, and not entirely sure why. Something to do with her strength, perhaps, that had nothing to do with her frail arms and her utterly sensible practicality. "Are you any good with that blade?" he asked suddenly.

"Enough to know that I'm not sufficiently skilled for pitched combat, so you can rest easy." She made another one of those dismissing gestures, and this time Fíli let her turn the conversation. Time was running through his fingers.

"You're making your way to the lake shore, aren't you?" she asked, unconsciously glancing over her shoulder as if to glance at it despite the wall blocking her sight.

Fíli nodded. "I need to make it to the north end—where the headwaters empty into the basin."

"You mean where Smaug is rotting and partially damming up our lake." Again, she looked toward the water, and Fíli wondered if it was some kind of ingrained superstition. He supposed it made sense, given how tied to these waters the Lake Men's lives where. "There's a better way, you know."

"What do you mean?" Fíli asked, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt.

Sigrid flushed pink, and Fíli watched, fascinated, as the colour bloomed over her fair skin, leaving rubies in her cheeks in its wake. He was completely unsure what he had said that may have embarrassed her so. "Dad, well, he did a fair bit of smuggling, before... Well before," she said, and her chin was tilted at a defiant angle, as though daring him to say anything. "People were starving, and the Master was no help. Dad and other smugglers had tunnels carved into the shore-side of the town, places to store goods until it was safe to move them into the town proper. There are tunnels that will lead you right to the river edge without being seen."

"Why wouldn't he have mentioned that?" Fíli grumbled, thinking back to their hurried planning.

Again, he got to watch that strange wave of pink suffuse her skin. "Dad thinks the tunnels at that end are all collapsed, after the battle with the dragon, and Smaug falling out of the sky and all." She twisted her fingers in her lap, looking guilty.

"But?" Fíli prodded.

"But the children have been clearing them, in secret, so they can go up and have a look at the dragon under the water. I haven't told him; it's been harmless enough, and it keeps them occupied. The adults all avoid it—say it's cursed, but the children all dare each other to go. There is enough of the tunnel system cleared to get there, though some of it may be rather small."

Elation blossomed up from his gut. Tunnels. Tunnels that completely avoided the open fields of the flood plains. Fíli grinned, wanting to leap with the light feeling suffusing him. "Sigrid, your dad was brilliant."

He pretended not to notice when she turned even pinker than before, and her stern countenance was softened by her hesitant grin.

True to her word, Sigrid led him to smuggling tunnels that were, thankfully for Fíli's nerves, concealed not too far distant. Sea-grass and bracken had been piled in an artful drift, blending in perfectly with the surroundings, and as they brushed aside the children's handiwork, he had to admire their ingenuity.

The tunnels did indeed prove to be child-sized in some places, where small hands had obviously moved only enough rubble to clear a path. Fíli had to remove his armour to wriggle through, pushing it ahead of him as he struggled, leaving scrapes of skin on rocky outcroppings as he went. Sigrid, of course, slipped through much easier, being so slender. The bones of the original earthworks were good—not up to his kin's standards, naturally, but well enough that they held their structure even now. His stone sense wasn't as good as his brother's, but it was developed sufficiently enough to feel the earth around him and the shape of the tunnel and know it to be stable enough for their purposes.

When this was over, he was going to recommend for Bard to either have the tunnels shorn, or completely filled in to keep the wee badgers from any more excavations.

The dragon-dam wasn't a great distance, and the collapsed sections he needed to wriggle through were relatively few, but by the time they reached the end and could see moonlight filtering down through a brush-covered exit, Fíli was sweating from his exertions and the close air of the tunnel, and feeling as if he'd lost the skin over all his bones from dozens of scrapes. Lady Sigrid, of course, appeared perfectly comfortable and hale, stepping lightly and easily.

Nettled, Fíli threw back his weary shoulders and tried to sound less winded than he felt. Sigrid shot him an amused glance, and he ducked his head sheepishly.

They halted a few yards from the small pool of moonlight. The tunnel was collapsed beyond this point, splintered timbers choked with sandy soil and grass, but this had obviously been close enough for the children's purpose, and therefore for his. Fíli placed an open palm against Sigrid's shoulder to get her attention in the darkness. His skin tingled faintly from the boldness of the gesture, and he was sure he was blushing, despite knowing she would take no unintended meaning from it.

"When I go out there, I want you to start heading back," he whispered. "Stay under cover until they sound that the barricades are back up."

"What is your plan?" Sigrid asked.

Fíli thought she had shown marvelous restraint in not asking before now, and the trust implied in that one fact was both surprising and humbling. "We need to get the barricades functioning before our forces are completely overrun," he told her, making no effort to gloss over the tenuousness of their position.

She swallowed hard, and clenched her jaw for a moment against her fear before pushing it aside. "And what does the lake have to do with that goal?" she asked.

"I'm going to use a flash charge to remove your dragon-dam. His body will be full of gasses by now that will explode when ignited." Mindful of Bard's earlier confusion with their plan, Fíli frowned, and tried to explain more fully the bits that had been obvious to his kinsmen. He spoke slowly, concentrating carefully on his words. "The force of the water being held back will wash down the channel a ways, until it hits the flood plains—down where the fighting is. There, the land drops away, so the water will come rushing out. There's not enough of it to really flood the town, but there should be one big wave as the force of our explosion dissipates.

"The trenches that we built—which are now uselessly in front of our barricades—will flood, and hold the water, preventing the orcs from simply climbing over the wall. When that happens, our forces behind the barricade will be strafing a confused and panicked enemy. It will be like spearing fish in a barrel."

She digested this, her lips curling slightly as she appreciated the anticipation of hope. "And why is it you want me to stay here?" she asked shrewdly.

Fíli winced, but answered honestly. "Because when I light him up, Smaug's going to spray what's left of his armoured hide as glittering shards of gemstone shrapnel. Anyone left in the area is going to be shredded."

She stared at him in horror. "But what about you?" she hissed, aghast, thumping his shoulder just under his pauldron with one balled fist.

"I'll be fine," he hummed soothingly, trying to make placating gestures and having no idea if he was succeeding; he just knew he wasn't comfortable with her distress. "I've got good Ereborian-forged steel for armour. I'll hit the ground behind what cover I can find, and tuck up tight, I promise."

"I'm waiting right here until you come back," she said. Her chin was slightly pointed and perfect for jutting out rebelliously, Fíli was exasperated to note. "Despite your dwarven belief in your own invincibility, you may not come out of this completely unscathed, and at least someone sensible will be here to put the pieces back together."

"Fine!" he threw up his hands, not wanting to waste any more time. Bard might kill him later, but perhaps he was already familiar with the impossibility of arguing with his stubborn daughter.

He hoped.

"Good luck," she murmured as he pushed his way out of the tunnel.

He shot her a grin and a jaunty wink; all cocky bravado to bolster her courage, and the soft sounds of her muffled laughter followed him into the gloom.

The fighting was further south, so there was not much risk of running into patrols, but there was still the danger of looters and deserters. Fíli paused for a long moment once he was in open air again, listening tensely for any hint that he was not alone. Fifty yards distant, he could see the great hulk of the dragon, rising up out of the lake. The angry sounds of the dammed River Running were loud in the stillness.

He kept low to the ground, scuttling crab-like over rocks and sand until he reached the skeletons of a few wreaked fishing boats overturned on the lakeshore. Dimly, he could also make out the outlines of the small fleet of Ereborian craft that had carried their arsenal. From this vantage point, Fíli could see one of Smaug's great, clouded eyes staring sightlessly down at him. Faint pinpricks gleaming in the moonlight showed that he had been right in assuming the dragon's purloined armour was still largely intact.

His position was good; from here, he had an easy shot to hurl his bomb, and while weathered, the dinghies were made of stout beams, which, while not stopping the shrapnel, should at least deprive it of enough force to not be able to pierce his armour. Carefully, he unwrapped the oiled cloth that held a flint and tinder, a coil of waxed wick, and Balin's charge. Fíli judged the distance with a practiced eye. The charge was designed to splash oil and naphtha upon impact, which would spread over the dragon's leathery skin and burn long enough for the gasses to ignite. It would give him a few seconds to duck and cover as best he could.

He took a deep breath; held it. Carefully, he took aim, sighting along his forearm until satisfied with his target.

He released his breath, and the charge, at the same time in an easy, controlled motion. For a long second, the flaming pouch seemed suspended in the sky, fiery destruction hurtling towards the lake. Fíli could see the ruddy hue of Smaug's hide, only somewhat muted in death—could see the sharp spines of his wings, and the grotesquely curled talons of one enormous hoary foot splayed over the rocky lip of the river channel, and the almost snot-like consistency of the great baleful eye that would soon dribble out of the snarling skull from rot. For one eternal second, the world seemed frozen, perfectly preserved before utter disaster or spectacular success.

Without daring to blink, Fíli anxiously watched the curving trajectory of the pouch until it struck upon Smaug's hide. It burst. Without waiting further, he dove behind his makeshift shelter, inhaling a mouthful of sand as he crouched face down with hands and feet tucked as tightly under his body as he could manage.

He waited.

Faintly, he fancied he could hear the sizzle of oil-fueled flames on damp leather.

The air, which had been completely still, stirred faintly before giving up once more. The muffled quality of the stillness made Fíli feel as if he had his fingers stuffed in his ears. He couldn't hear the sound of sizzling anymore, real or imagined, and his heart dropped.

So it was a complete surprise when the world suddenly erupted around him.

The explosion left him feeling like a rag doll in a tempest, and the sky lit with flames. He could see the glow even behind tightly closed eyelids. An almost physical wave of sound whooshed over his head, deafening him to the tiny pings of priceless shrapnel. It was an eternity, it was a blink of an eye, and all Fíli could do was burrow down tighter and try not to be tossed or flipped with the force of it, where gem fragments would quickly grind off his exposed face.

He was almost grateful for the gouts of water that came after, despite nearly drowning in it, for when he finally managed to make his unsteady way back to where Sigrid waited, at least he was no longer covered in the stink of dragon guts.

She laughed in relief when she saw him, and with a silly flourish, he presented her with a ruby shard as a trophy.

He would blush when he remembered it later, for rubies are a stone of passion and not something he would normally gift in jest, but for now it felt good to simply be alive and marveling at a night now full of possibilities.

The water roared down the tight confines of the channel, and the noise of the distant battle rose to a screeching cacophony that Fíli hoped meant death and confusion for their enemies. It was a good day to be a dwarf, he felt smugly.

-..-

"Thorin!" Dwalin's voice managed to cut through the chaos remarkably well, Thorin reflected sourly, swinging Fíli's heavy sword in a tight arc, taking the ear off his opponent and smoothly skewering him when he shrieked his pain and rage. This new sword had a different temperament than Orcrist, subtle differences that forced him to adjust his normal force-based fighting style to one involving a little more finesse. He absolutely ignored the little voice inside his head that pointed out he had gotten lazy in his old age.

"Thorin!" Dwalin rumbled again, ducking under the reach of a towering orc, only to savagely drive the pointed end of his war hammer into its hamstring, then nonchalantly reversing the swing to completely shatter its shin before moving on to another.

Thorin stepped back to impale the howling orc as it fell. He watched a small dirk fall from its spasming fingers. He hoped Dwalin's shoulder blades itched for a month. "You should know by now not to leave live enemies behind you," he grunted.

"Why? That's what I got a shield brother for, now, isn't it?" The tattooed warrior dismissed his fuming king with a pragmatic shrug. Casually, he cocked one meaty fist and let fly over Thorin's shoulder to nail a snarling goblin dead on. Beater left a long black smear in its wake where the creature's nose now spread across one cheek. With a hard shove behind him, Thorin drove his sword through its stomach. "You really never did grow up, did you?" he asked, resigned, kicking the now-limp body off his blade.

"One of us has to have a sense of humour."

The air smelt of blood and fermented body odour, so much so that Thorin couldn't smell anything at all anymore, and couldn't be certain if his eyes were watering from the smoke and ash in the air, or the stink. His shoulder was starting to ache from the near constant strain of the brutal dance of the battlefield. Unwillingly, he was beginning to come to terms with the fact that war wasn't nearly as much fun once you're old enough to see how stupid it was. Except, perhaps, for Dwalin. Something in the burly Guard Captain would always resist growing up, should he live to be the age of Durin the Deathless himself. "I would have more time for humour if it weren't for your antics," Thorin told him, sourly.

"Dáin's more fun than you, you know that?" Dwalin shot back. It was a low blow, Thorin felt.

They had managed to clear their immediate surroundings, and for the moment, the fighting was moving beyond their position. Dwalin planted his war hammer at his feet, and leaned on the handle, catching his breath, pulling up the hem of his padded tunic to wipe his dripping face. Thorin did the same with his own weapon, and pulled out a sturdy linen cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow. He felt guilty, knowing the embroidered handkerchief was likely picking up all manner of vile fluids from his skin, but also knowing that Bilbo had given it to him expecting it to see use. Dwalin quirked an eyebrow at the fancy cloth, but chose not to make an issue of it. Thorin wasn't sure if he simply knew he'd get a solid thumping for his troubles, or if it was further evidence of his friend's carefully hidden romantic nature.

Probably both.

"We can't keep this up, Thorin. We're going to lose the town at this rate."

Thorin just snarled, slamming his fist into the broken doorframe of a house that had either fallen down, or been pulled down by one of Dwalin's teams. His knuckles stung, and he resisted the urge to suck on them like a sulking cub.

"Feel better?" Dwalin asked, sympathetically.

Thorin's shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, slow breath, attempting to release his tension and frustration. "You're right," he said. "Unless they get those barricades back up soon, this is going to turn into a rout."

"I'm always right." Dwalin shrugged. "I followed you, didn't I? Right into the belly of a dragon."

"That you did, my friend." Thorin smiled, tiredly. "One of us clearly needs their head checked."

"You first," Dwalin grunted. "Óin's apothecary always gives me hives." He hefted his war hammer once more, giving it a few loosening swings. He looked over the damp ruins of the human town, with its squalid huts and body-littered streets, and then toward the distant peeks of Erebor. "You ready for this?" he asked.

"I can go at least as long as you," Thorin assured him. He pulled his sword from the mud that had nothing to do with rain. It made an unpleasant squelching sound as it came free, and Thorin flicked it to drive the slop from the blade. "Let's take a few of those bastards with us on our way to the Halls of our Fathers." He tucked Bilbo's handkerchief into his vambrace once more, close to his pulse-point. They would survive the day.

He wanted to believe that. He would see Bilbo again. Even if he had to drive every orc from Rhovanion's lands himself with only his bare hands. But he wasn't fool enough to count on it, and wished there were some way to send his beloved one last message; some kind of permanent record of his deepest feelings for Bilbo to keep until the day they were reunited again. Surely, The Green Lady would grant her precious child entrance to Mandos' Halls—and if not, Thorin would beg her himself to join Bilbo in whatever awaited him after his time in Arda was past.

Dwalin was right; they were getting tired, and the town would soon be overrun with goblin filth. The dwarves had taken the bulk of the heavy fighting, as they were not nearly as susceptible to heatstroke under their iron armour as the Men were, and could see much better in the half-light besides, but even his sturdy forces couldn't last forever. They would give them one hell of a fight, though. With one last flourish of his blade to loosen his aching shoulder, Thorin nodded to Dwalin his readiness. He had the best of his people by his side, and if this town could be defended, they would see it done.

Off in the distance, a ruddy glow lit the north sky like a thousand candle flames. Thorin gripped his pommel tight as he watched the dancing fire flare bright as the sun, and fall back to a ghostly glow. He counted breaths; one, tw—

The ground beneath his boots rumbled, and a distant sound, like thunder over gravel beds, grew in size until it deafened them with its angry roar.

"The badger prince did it," Dwalin rumbled with gruff pride, once the explosive noise had receded.

"Of course he did," Thorin answered, thumping Dwalin's shoulder with his fist. "That should buy us—"

But he was interrupted by the deep, buzzing call of the large battle horn over the din. "That'll be young Lýthur!" Dwalin cried, a disbelieving grin splitting his face ridiculously. "Ásbergur must have the barricades back up!"

Thorin grinned back, feeling fresh strength at this turning of the tide. "Then we had better defend them," he said, breaking into a low-gaited, ground-eating jog, Dwalin close on his heels.

THE SCENE THAT greeted them upon rejoining the main engagement was heartening, to say the least. The barricades were indeed up, the trenches now acting as a moat, forcing the orcish army back from the low walls and making the task of scaling them far more difficult. Arrows flew, filling the night air with their high-pitched song. Wading into battle felt good—the burning of tired muscled faded, and he felt revitalized as he lay about him with Fíli's sword. It had more than earned a name, this day.

"Bain!"

He heard Bard's frightened cry, and looked around hurriedly. The frantic bowman was helplessly committed in combat, a knot of foes between him and his beset son. To his left, Thorin spotted a shock of bright auburn hair, clearly identifying the Lord's son in the thick of battle. The lad was growing, with broad shoulders and a good height on him, but he was still underdeveloped by his race's standards, obviously expecting another year or two of development and filling out before he would have his full growth. While determined, the boy's muscles were tiring, and he was clearly in trouble, and the frightened look on his face showed that he knew it, too. A second strike from a leering opponent, and the lad was down, lost beneath the crush of bodies.

"Bain!" Bard howled in anguish, still hopelessly mired beyond help.

The thought of a young Fíli or Kíli being forced into such a situation had Thorin's heart clenching painfully in his chest and drove him to action. With a curse, and before he could think more about it, he dove, striking up at his opponent from between its legs, cleaving deep into the vulnerable juncture of thigh and groin. Black blood rained down on him as he rolled, uncurling just in time to catch the second strike against his gauntlet shield.

It was an undignified way to travel across a battlefield, but it paid off. Bain's unprotected body now lay behind him. He could see the lad breathing, but there was a purpling bruise covering the left side of his face, and his sword arm was a mess of blood. Thorin hoped not all of it was the boy's. His acrobatics had cost him—he had been conserving his strength, both mental and physical, and the move had left him sadly spent in both. Grimly, he tried to pull his thoughts back as his world threatened to grey out, his fingers trembling on the haft of his sword; he would not fail in this. He would not watch Bard loose his only son, unable to reach him. It would break a man who should not be broken, a man Thorin had grudgingly come to respect.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to centre his strength, to push back against the weight of the blade still driving against the gauntlet shield, bearing him down. He had no leverage from flat on his back with which to push and give himself room for his blade to maneuver. He could practically smell the orc's fetid breath blowing against his cheeks. Spittle flew, getting in his eyes, and he forced himself not to flinch. The whole situation was eerily reminiscent of his final battle with Azog, of being pinned on the ice and feeling that blade slide home, of feeling he had looked his last at those he loved.

Thorin forcibly shoved those memories aside. This was not Raven Hill, and this orc was definitely not Azog. Kicking out suddenly with one iron-shod heel, he drove the nailed edge into the back of the orc's calves with as much force as he could muster. The creature's black eyes opened wide in pain and surprise, and that little bit of distraction finally allowed Thorin to get out from under its sword and push himself to his feet.

Bain still hadn't moved. At this rate, Thorin was worried the lad would be trampled in the confusion. Unfortunately, the orc's shriek had attracted the attention of one of its compatriots. Three goblins had now moved to circle him and the boy, all grinning horribly, canting their heads sideways in a strange, sinuous movement as they regarded their opponent curiously from eyes that seemed completely black. "You've got to be joking," Thorin muttered in disgust.

Two of them charged, showing that eventually, even mindless beasts learn. Thorin parried the first curved blade before dancing to the left and barely blocking the second blow in time. Cautiously, they circled again, still grinning their hideous grins of blood-blackened teeth. Thorin tried to keep them both in his line of vision, blinking sweat from his eyes and moving as little as possible so as not to leave the boy exposed.

Their strike was lightning fast, though a flick of Thorin's wrist drove the point of his sword into the first creatures arm, just above the elbow. It shrieked in anguish, its now-useless arm hanging awkwardly, but Thorin was already twisting, trying to anticipate the second, near simultaneous blow to his knees. He moved just in time, and sliced the weapon hand from the second creature with a grunt of effort. He made a mistake.

He had forgotten the third.

Everything was greying out. He had run through his reserves already, his body and mind exhausted as the fire erupted from his back. Stabbed from behind, he noted to himself savagely as the needle sharp dirk withdrew, presumably to make another strike. He pushed himself to stagger a few steps, collapsing over the prone body of Bain, knowing the creatures were unlikely to bother turning his body over to make sure of the boy beneath him. The creatures would finish him as he lay in the muck of the battlefield, and the ingloriousness of that passing rankled. Still, the boy would have a chance.

As blackness took him, he thought he could hear a distant shout calling him, to the halls of his fathers, perhaps.

"The King! The King has fallen!"


Note:

A huge thank you to each and every one of you who is reading, or will read this in future. You guys are amazing, and if not for your support and kind words, this story would never have grown so prolifically.

I have developed a new love affair for Dwalin. He is such a fun combination of softie and bastard that just makes his friendship with Thorin work so perfectly :)