This could not be.
They could not have made it this far only to be attacked by orcs when they could practically see Erebor.
His blood running cold Kíli fired one arrow after the other into the orc ranks, until his quiver was emptied and the creatures were far too close for arrows. He unsheathed his sword and time stood still; everything turning into unconnected flashes around him.
He saw Brúv, never straying far from the door into the wagon, hacking and slashing at every orc who dared go near.
He saw Gamíl, relentlessly battling the orcs that kept swarming over him.
He saw Ori, wielding his older brother's sword with a battle proves completely unfamiliar for the otherwise so shy scribe.
He saw Glóin and Gimli, fighting back-to-back; the younger like a miniature version of the older, father and son fighting in perfect sync.
He saw all that, and much more, never knowing in which order the things occurred, or how much time passed between each.
Everyone had formed a tight formation around the wagon; the strongest warriors at the outer part of the circle, the weaker further in. The wagon held a treasure far more precious than gold or gems, a treasure to which another piece was being added at that very moment and they would all gladly give their lives to protect the children.
Suddenly Kíli felt the scene change around him; he was no longer somewhere in the Ered Mithrin, desperately fighting to protect five children and a woman giving birth. He was at the slopes of Erebor, standing next to his brother, desperately fighting to protect their fallen uncle. In his mind he was in the battle where he could have died, where he should have died.
He had not died in that battle, but he could die in this. It would be so easy; he could make it so that nobody would ever suspect that he had deliberately sought his own death, they would all think that their too-young king had died valiantly, fighting for his people, and then Dáin would become king like he should have been ever since the Battle of Five Armies. Despite everything he had been told ever since becoming king, despite what he might have slowly come to believe himself, Kíli no longer felt he had ever been worthy of being king; it was as if he had slowly been leading his people into a death-trap the entire time.
If he died in this battle then he would be with his brother and uncle again, and everything would be okay. Sure; he was certain that everyone would grieve for him; they would wonder why their king had fallen so early, but then they would realise that he had always been meant to die young, that he had been living on borrowed time ever since the battle that had claimed his brother and uncle. They would put him to rest beneath Erebor, next to Fíli and Thorin, and continue with their lives under a much more suited king.
He was about ready to put his desperate plan into motion when his mother's face suddenly appeared in his memory; to his horror he realised that he had completely forgotten about her. No, he couldn't. He couldn't leave her. She had already lost almost her entire family; her parents, her brothers, her husband, her oldest son. He could not let her go through the grief of losing her youngest son as well, for in his heart he knew that, despite everything he told himself, she would never be able to continue with her life if he was to die.
He could not leave her; he could not leave any of them. They all believed in him, even if he did not believe in himself; to them he was the most suited king of Erebor, King beneath the Mountain. There was nothing honourable – nothing glorious – about dying in battle if it was only done to escape responsibility.
He had finally truly decided to live; not merely surviving, as he had in a way been doing ever since losing his brother and uncle, but truly live. However, in order to live he had to first make it through this desperate battle, a battle that felt like it would never end. Turning so he was looking towards the wagon Kíli saw a sight that made the blood all but freeze to ice in his veins:
Hadúr was fighting a desperate battle against an orc which had somehow managed to get past their defences and snatch little Mín out from underneath the wagon. The sweet sensible boy, ever the quiet one of Bombur's and Hnór's children, was no fighter yet he fought bravely to protect his little sister. Pressed against the wagon Nadúr was fighting as well; clearly struggling between his desire to run forward and help, and his – equally strong – desire to remain where he was and protect his remaining siblings; the decision was made for him by Radúr and Thadúr, they stormed forwards into the battlefield in a desperate attempt to get to Hadúr and Mín.
No, Kíli thought. Not them; not the children. He couldn't move, could only stare in horror as the five children were completely swarmed by orcs.
"Kíli!"
The shout violently shock Kíli free of his frozen state and he turned just in time to see Lóni lunge forward and get skewered by a huge spear which had clearly been meant for Kíli himself. The warrior, who had fast become one of Kíli's best friends amongst the people Dáin had sent along on the journey, gasped with pain and fell to his knees. Realising to his horror that there was nothing more he could do to help his friend Kíli once again turned and raced to get to the aid of the children but he couldn't reach them. A huge grotesque orc loomed over little Mín with an evil grin on its hideous face; it was about to strike the girl when Hadúr, bereft of a proper weapon, slammed a huge rock into its skull. They boy kept bashing it over and over until the vile creature lay motionless on the ground, then he quickly turned and gathered his crying sister in his arms; he held her close while shaking from the horrors he had just witnessed, the horrors he had just participated in.
It felt like an eternity had passed when the first light of dawn finally begun to appear in the sky. Getting renewed strength from the knowledge that this meant that the battle would soon be every those of them who were still standing managed to drive the orcs away and into Mirkwood. Kíli suspected that king Thranduil would not be too pleased if he learned that the orcs entering his kingdom had been chased in there by the dwarfs of Erebor, but at that moment he could not worry about diplomacy; he too was a king and his own people were more important.
The battle against the orcs had been won, but then a new feeling of desperation descended upon Kíli; they needed to move on, they needed to get as far away from this place as possible before nightfall, they couldn't. They could not go anywhere, not while there were still wounded who needed to be taken care of, not while Síra was still fighting to bring her child into the world.