Time for another update I guess. I'm always surprised when I actually have nothing to write here beforehand besides thank you everyone for your faves and reviews!… So erm…
Enjoy the chapter!
When Thorin arrived at the hall, guided by the hobbit who secretly wished he never had to return to this place at all, he stopped so abruptly that Dáin crashed into him, nearly cutting him with his axe. For the sight that unfolded in front of them shocked the King of Thorin's Halls to the bones and a fear, unknown to him before, crept through his entire body.
By the abyss lay at least two dozen dead orcs, their bodies cut up badly and the black blood glimmering in the dim torchlight. In their midst stood Kíli, the dark hair plastered to his face, blood and sweat running down his temples and the sword in his hands trembled badly. Not of fear, but of exhaustion for he had been fighting off and killing any orc that tried to get near his brother.
Fíli had driven Bolg close to the bridge again, the pale orc already standing by the abyss, one foot close to the edge but he didn't seem concerned. His mace mercilessly crashed down onto the dwarf and Fíli ducked under each blow, slicing and cutting at the thick armour of the orc. Bolg's armour however was not as simple and thin as the ones of his kin and although Fíli managed to cut up the outer shell pretty badly, he couldn't land a single good stroke to Bolg's body.
His blades bounced off the white bones and got stuck in the thick leather and Bolg seemed to enjoy to pound the dwarf, never fully hitting him for he was too small and agile, but ripping his clothes and skin ever now and then, when the pins of his mace came too close.
Thorin watched in terror, fear freezing him to the spot before he was violently pushed onwards by Dáin.
"Move! Or do you want to watch while your nephew is battered to death?!", his cousin yelled at him.
Dáin came upon the orcs like a ruinous flood, the red axe flying through the air, mercilessly cutting and crushing. Close by his side were Bifur and Glóin, fierce and powerful as little hurricanes.
Thorin didn't even bother with the orcs nearby, he immediately rushed towards his nephews but getting to Fíli soon proved to be difficult. Orcs were blocking his way, drawing closer and closer to their fighting master and though Kíli tried his best, he couldn't fight fatigue and pain much longer. Relief flickered over his face, when suddenly Thorin appeared by his side.
Facing the orcs coming towards them however kept him from seeing what happened behind his back.
Bolg had begun to grow tired of the young dwarf, pounding and fighting to no avail and though he silently admitted to Fíli's bravery, he had enough of this, for it was no more than a game to him. His true opponent had appeared and for once it was not Thorin.
Ever since the company had invaded the hall, Bolg's blue eyes, whenever he could spare them, had been fixed on Dáin Ironfoot, the murderer of his father and the wish for vengeance, right here, right now, had grown stronger and stronger within him.
His mace thundered down upon Fíli, hitting him hard in his already maltreated and bitten side that had not quite healed yet. The dwarf felt the spikes digging deep into his flesh and he screamed in agony, the force of the blow causing him to lose his weapons.
Before he could seize his battle hammer however, Bolg had him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. Fíli found himself dangling in the air, his hands clawing on the pale arm of the warlord, leaving deep, bleeding scratches but Bolg seemed unfazed.
Kíli turned around in that same moment, seeing his brother choking and hanging above the abyss.
"FÍLI!"
He rushed towards Bolg and his brother, when suddenly a loud bang echoed through the cave and the ground began to shake violently. Dáin's gaze immediately fell on Gandalf, who had drilled his staff into the stony ground.
Bolg lost his foothold and began to stumble, the ground below his feet cracking dangerously. Rifts appeared in the stone, deep cracks and splinters sprung from the black ground, dust trickling down into the deep abyss below.
When the bridge broke, Bolg quickly took a couple of steps back but, whilst trying to balance on the trembling ground, dropped the dwarf and Fíli was swallowed the black chasm.
"NOOOOOO-", Kílis voice echoed through the hall and he rushed towards the edge of the plateau, closely followed by Thorin.
When the shaking ceased and the dust began to settle, Bolg stood on the edge of the broken bridge, a large gap separating him from the main hall, the plateau with his throne in his back. Many of his orcs had fallen into the abyss, many others lay dead on the other side of the chasm but he didn't seem to care much for his eyes were fixed on the dwarves of Durin's line.
Just in time, Kíli and Thorin had each grabbed Fíli, Kíli holding tight onto one of his hands, while Thorin had dug his hands into the fur of his coat and the strap of his scabbard. Together they pulled the youngster up with their last remaining strength and all three of them collapsed as soon as Fíli was on firm ground again.
Bolg bared his fangs, growling deep, his nemesis out of his reach and safely on the other side of the chasm.
"You're lucky, dwarf!", he yelled across the abyss. "But you just wait, for the day will come when we meet each other again!"
Fíli glanced over his shoulder, frustrated and still hateful.
"Fear that day, for it will be the end of you!", he replied before the pain in his side forbade him to say anymore.
The battle was won. The fighting was over.
Though they had not defeated their greatest enemy, they were relieved but beaten at the same time. Many dwarves of Thorin's company were injured, more of Dáin's army slain and dead on the ground. They slowly made it back through the tunnel, believing the worst to be over, their weapons hanging low, dragging their feet across the stony ground.
When they emerged from the stairs and entered the upper hall, shock and terror returned once more however.
A few yards away, sitting by the painted wall, was Dwalin. His axes were buried in the back of a large orc, his head leaning against the dark wall and his eyes closed. Balin dropped everything on the spot and rushed over to his brother. Only then did he see that red dwarven blood had mixed with the black blood of the orcs and realised, that Dwalin's previous injuries had taken their toll on him.
"Brother?", Balin's voice was shaking badly as he clutched Dwalin's bloody hands. The great warrior opened his eyes, his breathing shallow and rattling.
Thorin was soon by his other side, kneeling down.
"I'm so sorry", he whispered. "This is all my fault."
"Don't fuss over it", Dwalin muttered, sounding as bad tempered as usual. "The lads alright?"
"We're fine", Kíli said quietly, holding Fíli up, who showed a crooked smile while clutching his bleeding side.
"That's good then", the old warrior smiled behind his thick beard. "Can't move very well anymore. Maybe in an hour or two."
"You'll come with us now, even if it means we have to carry you", Thorin declared.
Dwalin snorted.
"As if a shiny little king could carry me."
"To the end of the world if I must", Thorin smiled. "Hey, Dwalin? Want to hear a tale?"
"Not one of yours. They suck."
Everyone grew very quiet, watching the great king and his commander.
"About 170 years ago, there were two boys that grew up together in Erebor. One was the son of a warrior, a kid way too big for his age and often called a thug. The other one was the son of a king, dressed in velvet and made fun of by the other kid, for he found him pampered and small. Though they were so different from one another, they quickly became close friends. They laughed together, they fought together and together they dreamed of great deeds and battles. One day, those boys snuck out into the catacombs of the great Kingdom to practise sword fighting, for they were not allowed to fight with real blades yet and had to do it in hiding. During their practice, the boy of velvet broke his hand and he sat down on the ground and cried.
"He said he wasn't able to fight anymore, because his hand hurt badly and he feared the anger of his father, ready to abandon his dreams of being a great warrior. The thug kid crouched down before him, but instead of soothing him, he hit him hard in the face. 'As long as Durin breathed, he fought. And only when there was no breath left in his lungs anymore, did he close his eyes and vanished. And the same goes for everyone who has the blood of Durin in him'. And the boy of velvet stopped crying, for he had learned the most valuable lesson of his life that day. Now, is there still a breath in your lungs?"
"Plenty", Dwalin smiled.
"Then get up old man and come home with us."
Thorin rose from his spot, reaching out for his oldest friend and Dwalin's paw-like hand clasped Thorin's and he got up, leaning heavily on the king. Tears of relief rolled down poor Balin's cheeks and even Dáin, the tough and great warrior, sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, for Dwalin was one of the few whom Dáin was close to.
When they left the Halls of Durin, the sun already began to set beyond the mountains but they were in no hurry. The orcs wouldn't raid the slopes of Mount Gundabad that night and they could travel back to the fortress unharmed to see to their wounded and pack up their belongings.
Dwalin walked beside Thorin, leaning on his battle hammer to one side and Thorin to the other, while Balin walked beside him. Kíli was still holding onto his brother, who hadn't said a word and refused to speak to anyone. Even after night had fallen upon them and the fortress appeared in the distance, did Fíli not talk but his brother for once did not nag him about it.
The youngster was disappointed. Not only had he not beaten the warlord and defended his kin with the pride of Durin, like he should have. He also had failed to reclaim the key, for he still did not know that Bilbo had it in his pocket and the hobbit had already forgotten all about it.
He walked quietly a few yards behind the boys, watching them and Fílis painful accusation still rang in his ears like a gong.
'Traitor!'
The hobbit swallowed hard, plucking up his courage and carefully hurried to Fíli's side. He didn't even receive as much as a side glance from the youngster, anger and frustration gnawing at the scratched and bruised features.
"Fíli, I-", he began but was cut off by Fíli's unnaturally cold voice, cutting through the air like an icy knife.
"I have nothing to say to you, hobbit."
Bilbo's hopeful gaze fell, for he had never imagined to one day be the victim of Durin's pride. Kíli looked from his brother to Bilbo and back again, worry and pain drawn on his face. When Bilbo opened his mouth again, Kíli just gently shook his head.
"Don't try now, Master Baggins. Maybe in a little while."
The hobbit fell behind, slouching his shoulders. He suddenly felt terribly alone. The few dwarves that had really accepted him into this company were busy amongst themselves, Thorin and Balin worried for Dwalin and the boys, whom he thought were his friends, did not even speak to him anymore. He wished badly to go back to Bag End, he even wished he had never joined this adventure in the first place.
He thus flinched a little, when someone suddenly wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and when he looked up, he recognised the friendly faces of Ori and Bofur.
"Don't worry, lad", Bofur smiled. "He will come around. Boy's just lost his first battle, that's worse than a kick in the balls."
"He likes you", Ori reassured the hobbit. "He's just frustrated right now. Maybe tomorrow, huh? You'll be friends again tomorrow, I'm sure."
And Bilbo smiled a little, wrapping himself in the cloak and walked the rest of the way between Ori and Bofur, who tried to cheer him up with stories and poems and horrible jokes.