The howling of the wolf-like creatures drifted towards them. The elves around Thorin froze. The atmosphere changed, a panicking look appeared in many eyes. He put away his half-filled flask and headed to the front, where Kíli and Fíli were. Younglings were of great importance during the ritual: they were lifted on a stand and were going where their king went.

On this moment they were unprotected and even though wargs could attack from every direction, he was afraid they would head for the weakest ones. The children.

He put one foot before the other, faster and faster, until he was running. It wasn't wise to run, for his footsteps drowned out noises that could indicate the presence of the enemy, but he didn't care about his own safety. He had to go to his family. The little that was left of it.

The panic reigning around him called up memories and fears he'd pushed away for too long. He'd felt so comfortable around the elves he'd almost forgotten about the orc of Gundabad who was still hunting him down. Had he picked up their trail? Had a rumour reached the enemy that the Lord of Imladris had taken four dwarves under his wings?

A branch hit his face, but Thorin ignored the pain that followed. Around him more creatures were running. Only a few elves were armed, as if they'd thought Nienna's tears would protect them against a sudden attack.

The cries of the elves reminded him of the men who'd been around him when the army of his father was crushed and the bodies of friends and family were piling up. He heard their screams as if they'd come to life to die a second time. He even thought to see the rolling head of his grandfather somewhere left from him, but when he turned his head to the side there was nothing.

Panting he stood still while he tried to regain control of himself. The voices of the elves weren't as hopeless as he'd thought. In fact, their yelling sounded far away and he seemed the only one who was panicking. He pushed his hand against his chest because it stung. For a moment the fear flashed through his mind that he was having a heart attack, but he forced himself to calm down. It was nothing but a piercing grief that was called up by his memories. He was fine.

He pulled his sword. After his sister and he had been ambushed in the woods, more than a half year ago, he'd refused to go into the forest unarmed. You never knew what was hiding in the shadows.

The hilt slithered in his hand when he took up the weapon. It felt like ages ago he'd used it. He was unprepared and weak. He'd been satisfied with a peaceful life, without realizing he had to be vigilant when danger showed up.

To his left Thorin heard the sniffing of a warg. He did his best to keep his grip on the sword firm in his clammy hands.

Despite his alertness he was attacked from the other side without seeing it coming. He fell on the ground while the beast dug into his lower leg with its claws. A cry left his lips, even though the shock was the greatest contributor. He rolled on his side so that he could use his right arm. His sword cut off the ear of the warg, that recoiled howling.

There was no orc to be seen. Thorin wondered what that meant. Hadn't there been a rider or had he jumped off the animal on time? He however didn't dare to look around. The warg recovered quickly and had already bent its hind legs to jump.

He kept his sword ready, but his morale was knocked when the bushes behind him were rustling. A horrible stank almost killed him when a monster sniffed against the side of his head and roared. He lashed out backwards and jumped aside. He landed on his feet uneasily, carrying out a ridiculous dance when he tried to find back his balance. From the corner of his eyes he saw something move on the right. A bowstring tightened and an arrow zoomed by in front of his face, piercing the warg against a tree.

"Stay awake, Oakenshield!" Elrohir's voice sounded. "If they want to end this night with bloodshed, we'll grant their wish!"