Oh wow! Thank you all so much for your reviews for the previous chapter! I really needed that one to be right, and I was very nervous when I hit the "update" button. I'm sorry for the late update, I just really wanted to finish at leats one more chapter befor posting a new one.

14: Within a mile of home

For the first time in hours, Dwalin calmed down.

Everything seemed to slow down around him as the warrior lowered his weapon, squinting against the first rays of the rising sun. He stared at the dead orc at his feet and at the blood on his hands, his hands that had wielded the axe for what seemed like forever, and in that moment he started to shake.

The battlefield had fallen strangely quiet, and he noticed that by some miracle only a few orcs were still standing. Wargs and orcs alike were lying dead, but so were dwarves and elves and men. Bodies littered the ground, and the earth was black with blood, making him choke as he scanned the area for familiar faces.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head to face his brother.

"It's over," Balin breathed. "It's over."

"It's not over. Not yet."

He didn't need to speak, for he knew his brother understood him without words. He needed to make sure that his friends were safe. The battle wouldn't be over until he knew they were alright. His heart clenched at the thought of Thorin fighting without him. He knew it was nonsense, that Thorin was a skilled warrior, perfectly capable of defending himself. He also knew that his nephews would not have left him. He was worrying for nothing.

His gut told him that something was wrong, and his instincts were usually right.

Silently the two dwarves marched in the direction where they had last seen their king. The ground was slick with mud and blood, and whenever Dwalin heard something crack beneath his boots he forbade himself to look down. They passed uncountable numbers of corpses, some so horribly mutilated that they didn't resemble a living being, others looking as if they were just sleeping, if it wasn't for the wide, dead eyes staring at the rising sun. From time to time the cries of wounded warriors could be heard, calling across the field, and then Dwalin and Balin would hesitate for a second, but never stopped.

Where are you, Thorin?

Dwalin became more and more frustrated, and he clenched his fists around the hilts of his axes. He ought to strap them on his back, because he would most likely not need them anytime soon, but he felt like he couldn't let go of them yet. They were a part of him, the only constant in that battle he had just miraculously survived, and the battle was not over anyway as long as his best friend was still missing.

Lost in thought, he bumped right into Balin.

"What –"

His words caught in his throat when he saw what his brother had spotted just seconds earlier. He recognised the huge, dark creature that came at them at full speed. He remembered the first time he had seen it, and how he had run for his life.

Now he simply stood where he was, and the enormous bear halted just inches before him. He looked even bigger than the last time, and blood and mud alike covered its flank and its massive paws. Dwalin hardly saw any of that.

All he really saw was the dark-haired, pale dwarf that the bear now laid gently onto the ground.

"Thorin," he whispered, kneeling down at his friend's side, almost scared to touch him.

"He is gravely injured, master dwarf," said Beorn with his deep voice. "I must not waste time."

Dwain stared at Thorin's still form, at the faint rise and fall of his chest and at the blood staining almost every part of his armour.

"Beorn," said Balin, "what about –"

But the skinchanger didn't answer. Instead he picked Thorin up again, and the way the king didn't even move a muscle made Dwalin's heart grow cold. He watched Beorn leave, vacant eyes following the figure, and he flinched when Balin once more laid his hand onto his arm.

"We cannot help him, brother," he spoke, his voice laden with grief. "We need to find the lads."

The tattooed dwarf nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that made his heart heavy. They would be fine. He had taught them well, and right now Kíli was probably boasting with his killings in front of three elf maids, and Fíli would be laughing to himself, and –

They wouldn't have left Thorin alone with Beorn if they were alright.

He tried desperately to shut out the voice in his head, and when his efforts proved to be in vain he shouted loudly for his friends, as if he could thus drown out the sneering voice that snickered at him and told him that he was lying to himself.

"Fíli! Kíli!"

His cries dissolved in the thin air above the battlefield. They were taken away by the carrionbirds and mingled with the groans of the dying.

"Dwalin."

Just one word. Only his name. And yet Dwalin felt his world falling to pieces beneath his feet at the sound of his brother's voice. It was hallow and empty, and at the same time filled with pain and despair. It was the kind of tone that made him go cold and numb, that made him want to close his eyes and escape to better times.

But in reality there was no escaping the sight before him.

At first he could only see the still form of the large, pale orc, and that of his son lying not far from him. Azog and Bolg, united in death, defeated at last – it was a sight that should have filled him with happiness. But no joy filled his heart this time.

"Mahal, no," he whispered, his own voice broken and so unlike his usual tone that he could as well have been a stranger in this place of horror. Mechanically his feet found their way to where they were lying, and he sensed Balin walking right behind him. He didn't dare to turn around. Facing his brother and seeing the expression in his eyes would make it true. And Durin knew it couldn't be true.

His knees hit the soft ground, and carefully he laid a shaking hand onto the bloodied chainmail covering his prince's shoulder. It was here that the arrow had struck, back when he had first felt the iron grip of fear tearing at his heart. Gently he put a finger onto the side of the young dwarf's neck.

Nothing.

He choked as he took in the numerous wounds covering the dwarf's body, and he felt hot tears prickling his eyes when he noticed the position in which he was kneeling.

"Not even in death," he mumbled, and to his horror Dwalin felt his lower lip beginning to tremble. "Never separated, not even in death. Oh, Fíli."

He gazed down at the blonde prince, and his eyes fell onto Fíli's hand that was entangled with his brother's.

A sigh made him look up, and only then he noticed that his Balin had gotten to his knees beside Thorin's nephews, too. A single tear was running down his face, leaving a pale trail in the dirt on his cheek before it got lost in his singed beard.

"Kíli, my lad. My brave, brave lad."

Dwalin tried his best to not look at the dark pool of blood that had dried underneath the archer's body, nor at the grisly wound that his hand couldn't cover completely. Instead he focused on Kíli's young face, on his closed eyes and on his lips curled to a subliminal smile.

One smile in this nightmare of broken cries and soundless screams.

Everything seemed to slow down around him, the noises were suddenly muted as if a cloud of mist was hanging only around him, his brother, and the two young warriors whom he had guided through all their lives. He knew he ought to say something, do something, anything, but he remained in his rigid state of shock, with one hand on Fíli's cold shoulder and the other clenched tightly around the hilt of his axe. Fury rose inside of him, making him start to shake, only slightly at first, until his whole body shook with unrepressed anger. He was vaguely aware of his brother calling him softly by his name, but it didn't matter. All that mattered now were the young dead dwarves whom he had sworn to protect, and their uncle who could be just as dead for all he knew, and the fact that he had failed miserably at performing the only duty he'd ever known.

He looked up, and in the distance he could see the shape of the Lonely Mountain illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. The mountain stood huge against the grey sky, and it its shadow the hundreds of dead were barely visible, tiny against the overwhelming size of the mountain. And as Dwalin's gaze wandered his eyes came to rest once more on the lifeless forms of Azog and Bolg. He remembered everything – Azog killing Thrór, Azog nearly defeating Thorin, Bolg shooting Kíli and thus sending both of Dís' sons into a nightmare. Everything flashed before his eyes, and part of him wanted nothing more than to bury his axes in the orcs' bodies. He wanted to punish them for all the pain they had brought to the line of Durin, avenge everything that had happened to those he loved – but despite the fury raging inside, he remained where he was, with one hand on Fíli's shoulder and one on his axe.

Because no matter what he did, it wouldn't change the fact that he had been too late. So close to their new home he had failed them when they had needed him the most, and here he was, alive and almost unscathed but for the deep cut that rendered his heart in two. How it was still beating he had no idea. It surely felt like it was held together by a thread, barely strong enough to keep him alive, and he wondered how long it would take until it would break for good.

"Dwalin?" His head shot up, and his eyes finally met his brother's. Balin's kind eyes were dark with grief, and the bald dwarf noticed suddenly just how old the white-bearded dwarf looked. They had both become old, had probably aged more during the last hours than during all their years in Ered Luin. There was an unspoken question in Balin's eyes, and Dwalin took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, only to find his throat restricted for a moment.

"Aye," he whispered in a raspy voice. "Let's bring them home."

So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed
Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind?

(Within Temptation, "Hand of Sorrow")

A/N 1: "Within a mile of home" is a great song by Flogging Molly.

A/N 2: Next one will be about Bofur and Glóin.