Chapter Twenty-Six:
Ravenhill
We are silent as we make our way through the cold grey structure. The place seems deserted, long abandoned, though the thunder of the drums above us prove that we are far from alone. Thorin and Dwalin take the lead, ascending the tower with cautious steps; we form a close huddle as we clear each floor, free of adversaries along the way until a new sound adds to the drums, that of a war cry; from below, Bolg's scouting party has arrived. A horn blast from above us is used to summon them to the tower, and as they thunder in the entrance, our weapons are once more primed for a fight.
"Here we go again," I mumble, as the first few Orcs appear at the foot of the staircase. The higher ground gives us an advantage over the beasts, and we are able to cut them down as they swarm, one after another. I hang back near the top of the stairs, ready to fly in when I'm needed.
I realise then that I am not the only one hanging back. I give him a quizzical look. Thorin stays behind for a few moments more before turning and continuing up the stairwell, advancing up as the rest of us battle down. I clap Dwalin's shoulder as he smashes in an Orcish head and yell,
"Thorin's gone!"
Dwalin looks around, cursing under his breath and taking after his King. The others are too caught up in the battle to notice, Kíli at its forefront; more and more of Bolg's soldiers pour in, and more and more of them are cut down by axes and arrows and swords. I finally enter the fray once a break in the line forms, getting in the odd slash at am arm or a thigh before one of the Dwarves sweeps in to finish off the job. It's exhillersting, being caught up in this madness, almost in equal amount to how terrifying it is.
"We'll hold up here," Balin declares once we have a moment to breathe, "Kíli, go after your uncle. Taking down that monster will be no easy task."
I follow the young Dwarf nervously, sticking close by his side. He tries to dissuade me, but I'm too frightened to be apart from him. I tell him this, and he allows me along, but not without a scowl.
"You should have stayed in Dale," he says quietly as we take the next crumbling staircase.
"We've had this conversation," I mutter.
"I know," Kíli says sharply, "but you should have stayed."
I'm about to reply snappily before a flash of colour out of the closest window catches my eye. It's quickly accompanied by a feminine cry. I grab hold of Kíli's arm, stopping him.
"Kíli."
We near the window. My heart sticks in my chest as I see that the flash of colour was the sweep of a river of red hair; it is Tauriel, out in the ruins below, battling on a ledge with an Orc so huge and grotesque it can only be the son of Azog. She appears to be struggling, taking hit after hit, her short daggers incapable of penetrating the colossal beast's armour. Soon enough he has her by the throat, and though she struggles, there is little she can do to break free of his death grip.
"The Elves have come to help," Kíli says in disbelief.
No, I think. Elf. I grab his arm as we crouch on the platform.
"She saved my life."
He nods, though I needn't have said a word. By the way he springs to his feet, it is clear that he had already planned upon returning the favour.
Bolg throws the She-Elf against a stone column, and she cries out helplessly as she makes contact with the hard stone. Kíli slides through the window in an effortless motion, gaining his feet on the stone ledge before jumping from the platform and directly on top of the son of the Defiler. Bolg lets out a surprised roar and tries to shake him off, but Kíli's grip on him is tight as he swings his sword; the beast gains enough momentum to cast Kíli aside, throwing him against a column of stone steps, which he thunders down before staying his fall and rolling upright once more.
It's all happening so quickly that I'm barely on the window ledge before Kíli is back on the creature, their weapons colliding in a thrashing dance; that is until the great Orc reels back his fist and punches Kíli square in the face, knocking him senseless.
Something changes in the air. It is no longer a fair fight. Bolg casts aside Kíli's sword in a sharp movement, raising his own weapon as he holds the stunned Dwarf by the scruff of his neck in a firm hand. Tauriel is up on her feet once more, pouncing on the creature's back, but he throws her off in one clean move and almost sends her tumbling from the cliff face.
It's going to happen. I see the dire scene play out before it even has time to, the great monster plunging its weapon through Kíli's chest right there. Before it has a chance to become a reality I feel my feet fly from beneath me, scampering across the platform and launching myself atop the creature's shoulders. Before he can throw me off I raise my sword, and with one great, heaving thrust I drive the blade down through the back of his neck, screaming as I do so.
The beast spasms, then freezes, then falls to his knees with me still straddling his shoulders. There's no time to brace myself as we crash towards the floor, so I fall face-forward once the beast hits, rolling away and leaving my sword stuck in his vile form. As I pull it free, black blood splashes over my armour and into my hair. I stumble forwards and perhaps Tauriel, hunched at the edge of the cliff, perhaps thinks I'm coming to help her to her feet before I gesture her away as I scramble for the edge.
"Move-"
I barely manage the word before I'm vomiting everything I've eaten and more over the cliff face, my hands trembling with the effort to keep upright. Once the purging ends, I sit back on my knees and turn to face Tauriel, who is now working her way to her feet, rather ungracefully for an Elf, but I'll forgive her that seeing as she almost lost her life.
"We're square now," I say, offering her my hand. She shakes it with fine, long fingers, her face a little bemused. She does not even complain about the Orc blood painted there.
Suddenly Kíli's arms are around my back. He's kneeling behind me, his arms beneath mine, squeezing me tight.
"Don't squeeze, don't squeeze!" I warn, feeling as though I'm about to throw up again; he doesn't listen, and keeps on squeezing even as he pulls me upright and plants a kiss against my forehead. He doesn't seem to care too much about the blood, either. He's delirious still from the blow to the head, and he's laughing.
"Alice!" He says, "you did it! You did... something!"
"Yeah, yeah, whoop-dee-doo, I'm the big hero," I say, completely disorientated. The blood is warm on the bare parts of my skin. I point to the sword, which I threw away in disgust during the blood incident. "I knew that thing would come in handy eventually. Daddy's not going to be very happy when he finds out I put a twelve-inch blade through his little monster's head."
"Azog will not live long enough to discover the body," Kíli muses. "A shame that he shall not taste his own medicine; though perhaps if we hurry, we'll be able to tell him that his firstborn was slain by a girl with a short-sword."
"I'd like to keep my head attached to my shoulders, so maybe let's not do that," I say, straightening myself out. Tauriel's voice breaks through my own.
"We are not alone," she says, pulling a new set of daggers from her side and gesturing to the outreach; her eyes are much keener than mine, but Kíli is able to see what she has spotted.
"More of Bolg's men," he says, handing my sword back to me. I wipe it over the Orc's thick hide to remove as much as the blood as I can, struggling once more to hold back vomit. As the Orcs advance, I see them more clearly; there are a good number of them, and they are heading for us. We have no short-range weapons, and there is no use in hiding; we have already been spotted. Kíli runs to the ledge and calls out in Khuzdul to the lower levels, where the Dwarves are taking the last of Bolg's initial party, warning them of the coming onslaught; we head down to the ground level to join them, Tauriel included, and when the Orcs come, it is a fairer fight with us on hand that it would otherwise have been.
The fighting feels endless, wave upon wave of the monstrous creatures, to be slashed and hacked at and messily dispatched. Our intellect and deftness out-wins size and brute strength, and after a great push we have the upper hand over the Orcish monsters and their numbers are coming closer to matching our own, without a single casualty on our side of the conflict. Our victory is assured when, as only half a dozen of the creatures remain, the Elven prince appears equipped with his bow and arrows. He begins firing arrow after arrow into the Orcs, slaying each with surprising accuracy and ease, a welcomed break for the rest of us. We stand, exhausted and relieved, surrounded by a mound of large, pale corpses.
"Good riddance," Nori says, and spits on the ground. Exhaling hard, Kíli finds himself stood beside the Prince.
"Good choice," Kíli remarks, gesturing to the bow. Legolas nods in acknowledgement, ever reserved, and asks,
"Where is your King?"
We all look to one another in concern, and one by one make our way to the top of the tower. There is no sign of Thorin or Azog, but half a dozen Orcs lie dead. Half-buried beneath one of them is a body. Upon closer inspection we realise that it belongs to Dwalin. Nori and Gloin fight to free him, Oin sweeping in to asses the damage. He presses his good ear to the Dwarf's solid chest.
"He's alive!" he announces; the loud cries of relief among our party are enough to stir the huge Dwarf, and he bursts back to consciousness, sitting up quickly with a roar, ready to tear our heads off before realising that we are friends. There is a large cut on his head, gushing a red waterfall, the presumed cause of his unconsciousness.
"Thorin," he says, "where is Thorin?!"
No one has an answer, until Ori lets out a call, beckoning us to the edge of the snowy rooftop. Looking down, we see a frozen lake, and two figures battling at its centre; Thorin and the Orc, Azog, their weapons clashing. Kíli calls out his uncle's name, and the King turns from the battle, receiving a blow as penance so forceful that it sends him skating face-down across the ice.
Kíli demands that the Elven prince shoot the Orc, and though he tries, the pair battling below are simply too far out of reach, barely specks on the horizon. Kíli roars in anguish and instantly begins making his way back through the tower, taking the dark steps two at a time in his haste as the rest of us tumble after him, crying out for him to wait, though I know there's no chance of that happening. Kíli drops from one of the windows and out on to the platforms below, rolling to his feet and darting through the network of platforms until he is at ground level once more. Some of the more agile Dwarves and the Elves manage to keep his pace, but by the time I cross the frozen lake and meet with the others, it is almost over.
The body of Azog lies motionless on the surface of the frozen lake, bleeding out onto the shining ice. The others are gathered around the edge of the frozen cliff face, surrounding something the summit.
"Thorin," I breathe on instinct.
"Oh, no," Bilbo says beside me, "oh, no, no."
We begin to dart across the lake, overtaking the remaining Dwarves and sliding left and right as we go. Somehow I manage to keep my feet, skating to a stop behind the others as I see the King lying there, surrounded by his brothers, exhausted of all he has left.
Kíli is in tears. He grips both of Thorin's hands in his own, as Bilbo supports him from behind. The Dwarven King is bloody, wheezing, suffering from a stab wound plunged just below his throat and several more minor injuries. There is blood everywhere, warm and red and melting with the snow. A blind person could see that this is not an injury even the great Thorin Oakenshield will be coming back from.
As the last of the Dwarves reach us and take in what they're seeing, the sobbing begins.
"I wish to part from you all in friendship," Thorin says. "I have not been the King you deserved."
Dwalin takes hold of Thorin's hand. "You are more than any of us deserve," he says tearfully.
Thorin smiles. "Nor am I worthy of your kindness. All I ask is that you forgive me, my friends."
"There's nothing to forgive."
Bilbo presses his fingers into a bundle of fabric against the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. "You're not going anywhere, Thorin. You're going to live... quickly, make a stretcher from something. We'll take him to the Elves-"
"He cannot be moved," Tauriel says gently, hanging back with the Elven Prince. "There would not be time."
There's a certain finality which comes with the observation of the Elf; Bilbo looks to Oin hopefully, who simply shakes his head.
Each of the Dwarves in turn take a long moment to kiss their King's hands, press their foreheads to his, making exchanges in Khuzdul and giving him their blessings into the next life. Balin professes that it is cruel of the powers that be to make him live on in a world where younger, better men are stolen away unjustly. Thorin resists the tears that threaten his eyes, and pulls Balin's hands up to his lips.
When my turn comes, I touch my hand to my heart and hold it out to him. He touches his own chest, and nods with a worn smile. A blessing, a forgiveness, an apology, from the both of us to one another. All is forgiven, or forgotten, or simply no longer holds any value, not here at the end of it all. I bend to kiss his hand, and remain where I kneel. Thorin turns back to Kíli.
"You're brother..."
"Fíli is fine," Kíli reassures him, "he's safe, in Dale. Uncle, I'm sorry, I should have listened to you-"
"No, no, you did the right thing. I am the one who must apologise, nephew. You saw what I could not see, and acted where I failed to. Tell your mother that I love her. My dear Dís... tell her I am sorry to have left her without saying goodbye. And you must tell Fíli that from my heart of hearts, I am sorry, and that I love him dearly." He smiles weakly. "He will make a fine King. A better King than I could ever have been."
Kíli bites down hard on his lip, trying but failing to hold back tears. "Uncle..."
"Hush now," Thorin says, reaching up a hand to touch his face. "I am so sorry that I have lead you into such peril."
"We are glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin," Bilbo implores, shaking. "Every one of them."
Thorin manages a laugh at that, a truly joyous laugh. "Master Burglar." He frees his hand from Dwalin's to reach behind him and find Bilbo's, who takes hold of it gratefully. Thorin is still smiling. "Farewell. Go back to your books, and to your armchair... If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place."
I smile at him through my tears, squeeze his arm. He looks to all of us then, that smile still glazed upon his weary face.
"To die among friends is to have lived. I would have it no other way, my friends." He breathes in deeply, struggling. "My brothers. Farwell."
He lets out another breath, a gurgling rattle, and begins to fade.
"No, Thorin, no, no, no..."
A sigh as the ghost of his final smile leaves his face. Blue eyes turn cold, distant. There is a screech from above.
"The Eagles are coming," Bilbo says hopefully, looking to the skies. "Thorin... the eagles..."
The great golden birds screech again, but it is too late.
Our King is gone.