We're going dress shopping tomorrow...

Lord help me

(All rights belong to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson. But Fheon is mine. MINE. MIIIIIINE-)

Fheon remained watchful for any signs of movement, and alert for the faintest sounds of danger. She tried to ignore how light her head felt physically, and, whenever she turned, there would be no length of hair—braided or not—that would follow around in her movements. She would not allow herself to become nostalgic. There was a better time for that when the danger had already passed.

Sometime during her waiting, she sensed Thorin switch his gaze to her, right before he said, "I like it." She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "It suits you better, I think, than the long braid. You look fiercer… as you are."

At the fondness that had crept into his voice, a blush threatened to spread across Fheon's face; without her long hair, it was difficult to hide. She tilted her head downwards and allowed her new cropped hair to slide onto the side of her face, only covering half her face, though it would have to do.

She could not bring herself to say something in reply to Thorin's words, so she grunted softly and hoped he did not look at her attitude as rudeness. He had just caught her by surprise. She waited a few moments for the heat to leave her face before standing up from the snow-covered steps and walking to the ramparts, scanning the horizon. As she did, a breathy rumbling came from somewhere in the watchtower across the river. It sounded vaguely like a troll's roar, bur very faint.

A scowl of distaste eased onto Fheon's face. "Where is that orc filth?" Then, her ears perked up, hearing approaching footsteps. But they were too light to be Azog, and there was not the low tinkling of scratching armor, so it was neither orc nor goblin.

She turned around just as Bilbo appeared on the tower with them, out of nowhere, with ring in hand. Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing of the golden band, afraid that Thorin would not approve of it—or worse, if he would.

Bilbo, breathing heavily, announced his presence and said in a weary voice, "Thorin."

Thorin whirled around and his eyes widened in surprise. "Bilbo," he said.

The utter relief and awe in his voice reassured Fheon that he definitely was better than he had been since the gold-sickness. But her respite was short-lived, for Bilbo sounded very serious when he, through his breaths, said "You have to leave here… now… Azog has another army attacking for the North… This watchtower will be completely surrounded—there'll be no way out."

"We are so close," Fheon argued fiercely. "That orc scum is in there." She stepped forward, almost threateningly, looking to go down the tower and follow after Fili and Kili, but Thorin stopped her.

He said, "No. That's what he wants. He wants to draw us in." The realization of the situation they had gotten themselves in dawned on him as quickly as it did Fheon, and he and she turned their gazes to Ravenhill, across the river. "This is a trap." Another rumbling sound echoed from within the watchtower, and Thorin said, "Find Fili and Kili. Call them back."

Without a word, Fheon sheathed her sword and replaced it with her bow. She rushed down the steps and was cautiously treading on the iced river in a minute. With an arrow nocked and holding two more in her left hand, she moved with careful but speedy steps, eyes flitting from side to side. Her heart thrummed painstakingly fast in her chest, and she welcomed the warmth that rushed through her body, the adrenaline.

All excitement died out from her system as soon as drums started beating from within the watchtower. It was only a few feet away now. She glanced up and found firelight reflecting from off the stone walls. She took off into a full sprint, thundering past the first archway and then up the flights of stairs; it was from the top level that she heard the feral grunts of orcs and the undoubtedly familiar voice of Azog.

At one of the lower levels, she caught sight of a dark-haired dwarf from the corner of her eye.

"Kili," she hissed in a quick manner. She knew he had heard her, and so continued before he had even turned his head. "Catch your brother. I'll deal with the orcs. Get him out of here." She resumed running up the stairs just as the dwarf whispered back his response, which was incoherent to her ears but was surely an affirmative—albeit a confused one.

She burst onto the top level just as a familiar, young voice reached her ears.

"Go," Fili croaked faintly.

She saw a small band of orcs in front of her, but they were yet to notice her presence. Azog was at their head, holding Fili off the ground by the scruff of his coat. The monster had his bladed hand raised. Fheon took note of all these things in the span of a second and quickly drew her bow.

She aimed for the back of Azog's right knee; it was armored and her shot would not injure him greatly, but any other attempt would pierce through him and might injure Fili as well. She was not willing to take such a chance.

"RUN!" said Fili, and the pure desperation made her heart clench. He was not desperate to save himself, but to see that his brother and uncle would live.

Azog brandished his bladed arm again and Fheon let her arrow fly. The tip of it pierced the armor on his leg and continued on into skin. He bellowed in pain and surprise, dropping Fili.

"KILI!" Fheon shouted just as Fili fell out of her line of sight. She was left to hope that the younger dwarf had heeded her words before, for she was left with six orcs to kill and a very angry Azog.

She killed four orcs in quick succession, deftly releasing her arrows and redrawing again and again. The two that were left advanced on her speedily. One swiped at her head and the other jabbed at her stomach. She ducked and rolled away, before releasing an arrow that killed one. Below, she heard a shout from Thorin, but she was not able to comprehend his words.

Only one orc was left now, but it was the largest, and it looked angry. It bellowed and stomped, making the floor shake. Fheon lost her footing and tried to regain her balance. To her right, Azog came towards her in two large strides and attempted to cut her head off with his bladed arm. He was too close. She wouldn't be able to dodge it.

Instinctively, she brought her arms up, dropping her bow in the process. Her bracers deflected the otherwise fatal blow. The force of it knocked her to the ground. She saw Azog raise his blade again, and rolled to the left. The deafening ring of metal hitting stone rang painfully loud in her ears.

The remaining large orc lumbered towards her, raising its mace. Fheon rolled again and the floor from where she had been cracked under the blow of the orc. She nimbly moved onto one knee and swiped her sword at the orc's bare stomach, drawing blood.

It growled and raised its mace again. Fheon spun to the left and swung. The orc's head fell to the ground with a gory, wet splatter.

To her right, the looming presence of Azog became known to her again, as a wicked snarl escaped his throat and he raised his arm. Fheon weakly parried his blow, still on one knee. As he was pulling his arm back, she hastily got to her feet and deflected another, and another.

He was stronger than her, and larger. It grew difficult to try and find ways to get out of the defensive; the space was small. Whenever she dodged, he would be onto her in a second.

Soon, her sword arm grew tired from constantly parrying his heavy blows, and her knees began to shake from the effort of having to stay on her feet as he swung at her.

She realized that it was a futile effort for a human to have to take on an orc as large as Azog single-handedly; though it would not be so for an elf… or a dwarf.

For all her quick thinking, Azog still had not grown tired of his attack on her. He continued relentlessly pounding at her sword, thinking that perhaps it would break. Fheon was starting to think the same as well, which was all the more reason for her to find a lapse in his attacks that would allow her to take advantage and escape.

At a certain point in time, he growled at her and then picked up the largest orc's mace. He began using that instead, and Fheon cursed out loud.

Azog bared his teeth in what must have been his excuse of a grin, and said something in Black Speech. She did not understand him, of course, but by the way his saunter turned smug and he had not started attacking her yet, it must have been an early victory speech of his.

Showing her teeth as well, she spat up at his face, earning her an angered bellow. He swung his mace; she felt the rushing of wind on her face as she leaned back and the weapon hurtled past her nose, missing it by an inch.

As soon as it was gone, she sliced at his arm. The end of her blade came away soaked in dark blood, and Azog roared again. He raised his mace over her head and she dove to the side.

The sound of cracking stone reached her ears; she did not turn back, instead hastily making her way to the stairs. She thundered down the steps, sword heavy in her hand, and nearly slipping out of her grip because of the sweat that had accumulated on her fingers. It occurred to her that she had left her bow at the top level.

She missed a step and was not able to catch herself. Her sword flew out of her hand. She stumbled down the remaining flight of stairs, which had already been the last one, and out onto the snowy courtyard below. The coldness of the snow bit into her cheeks and her fingers, seeping through the material of her pants.

Her couters bruised her elbows, and the poleyns did the same for her knees. A bellow from Azog reached her ears from behind, and she quickly rolled to the side. Yet a similar cry came from somewhere above her, and a dark figure came soaring past her head, with equally dark hair billowing behind him.

There was a loud clang when Thorin's blade deflected Azog's mace. Fheon shifted to rest her weight on her elbows, and watched as surprise flickered across Azog's face, before being replaced by conceit.

He said something to Thorin, but Thorin, obviously not understanding Black Speech, spat back in reply, "Do not speak to me, filth. Today, I will make sure you meet your death."

Panting, Fheon scrambled to her feet and retrieved her sword from across the courtyard, before crouching beside Thorin and steeling herself for a fight.

"No," gruffly said Thorin. "You cannot stay here."

She spared him a sideways glance but otherwise trained her concentration on Azog. "I hate him too, Thorin. Learn to share."

"No," he replied. "Return to Bilbo."

"Kili—"

"Kili left to bring his brother somewhere safe. Bilbo will need protection. So go there, now."

They had begun walking in circles, facing Azog, who did the same as them, seeming amused.

"Thorin—"

"That's an order, Fheon!" Thorin shouted.

Azog had sprung into action and she had to jump back in order to dodge his mace. Thorin swung his sword and was able to scratch the Pale Orc's elbow; it fazed him, but no more than that.

Fheon stared at Thorin pleadingly.

It occurred to her that, if his battle with Azog continued, then it would most likely be the last time she was going to see one of them; be it Azog or Thorin. She deeply hoped that she would see Thorin again, and swore to herself that, if there was nothing ailing her and Bilbo, they would come to Thorin's aid, even if it meant having to drag the hobbit across the frozen river.

She looked at Thorin one last time, unconsciously imprinting the sight of him into her memory, before whirling around and making for the guard-post across the ice. The sounds of clashing blades and grunts of exertion followed her, and with each meeting of the two blades, she flinched, dreading the time when the noise would come to an end and only one being was left standing.

As she carefully ran across the ice, Bilbo's small form slowly came into view atop the guard-post. Then a colony of giant, black bats—as large as Bilbo himself—swooped past him, screeching and crying. From the corner of her eye, she saw various signs of movements appear from the top level of the guard-post.

She ran up the steps and had to leap forward in order to intercept Bilbo's assailant. She swung her sword over her head, deflecting its weapon, and sliced its bare torso open. Another orc, considerably small, came running at her, and she cut its head off with ease.

One large orc—seemingly a commander—stood at the rampart of the guard-post and bellowed orders at his men, orders that no doubt held a single meaning: kill Fheon, and then Bilbo. She would not let either of that happen.

She slayed three more of the orcs with ease, and then behind her, Bilbo called her name. She turned and found him holding a large rock over his head. Reflexively, she ducked and the rock sailed over her head, hitting the head of the orc she had previously been battling with. It fell back and she pounced on it, stabbing its chest.

Half a dozen or so orcs streamed onto the guard-post from the lower levels, and still counting. Fheon killed each of them without question, sometimes watching as Bilbo's rocks hurtled right and left, confusing the orcs and making her work easier. But their enemies were many, and the fight was yet to be finished.

It was an inevitability that she and Bilbo would soon be run down, for the sheer amount of orcs that had surrounded them was frightening, but she fought on, and fought hard. The time came, however, when one orc's blade managed to slice past her faulds and sink into skin. The pain was immediate. She knew that the orcs were intelligent enough to notice that their blades would not be able to pierce her cuirass, and this was proof that they had found a way to weaken her.

She killed the orc that had injured her but another quickly took its place. Behind her, another orc managed to tear through the chainmail on her upper left arm, drawing blood. There was a slight tug as the blade was removed from the sleeve of the hauberk, and Fheon whirled around to strike down three orcs in quick succession. The whistling sound of splitting air reached her ears and she spun to the side, narrowly dodging a mace. Bilbo threw a stone at the owner's head and Fheon killed the orc quickly, before turning again and resuming the slaughter.

For minutes on end, she continued fighting through her screaming muscles and burning skin. The cut above her eyebrow reopened some time during the fight, and blood kept pouring onto her eye and down her face, obscuring her vision. The orcs landed several blows, mostly on her face, legs and upper arms. She should have been thankful that the main of Gokukara's armor had not failed her yet, but everything else was not going very well.

An orc's blade caught the back of her knee and her legs finally gave way. She caught herself by her forearms, but the orcs were quick. They took advantage of her waning. There was a gruff bark—an order—and one of them strode forward.

Fear struck Fheon's heart, then. She thought she had been prepared to die, but her mission was not done. What would happen to Bilbo? To Thorin, who was battling Azog single-handedly? Her string of tasks was unending, it seemed, and this only brought her more grief.

She tried to stand again and blood poured out from the many slices that she had received on her legs. She dropped back down to the ground, vision hazy and head throbbing. Past the spots in her vision, she saw armored feet planted in front of her.

Then came the sound of whistling air again and she felt the cold edge of a blade cut the side of her throat—but not completely. Her gambeson (which was sticking out an inch from the collared neckline of Gokukara's armor) received a wide tear. The collar of the armor protected Fheon from the initial slice—the blunt side of the blade glanced off it—but there still came a ragged cut on the side of her neck that spurted blood as her heart continued beating at a rapid pace. She, however, still had her wits about her.

She slumped forward and made no move to stop her head from hitting the ground, like how a dead person would have done. The impact was painful and jarring and made her black out for a few seconds, but not, she thought, fatal. She made it so that her left cheek was on the ground, so the cut would not be very noticeable. It was shallow but wide, and blood gushed forth, staining the ground red.

Coldness bit into the skin of her cheek but she forced herself to remain as still as a statue, not rigid, but lifeless; staring straight ahead with her mouth slightly agape, as if unseeing and unthinking. There were grunts and gurgles, the rough language of foul creatures such as the orcs. They spoke to each other, but Fheon knew not if their conversing was about her. The sound of heavy footsteps walking away from her made her assume that her act was convincing enough.

The noises of a distant battle reached her ears—not the sounds of war between many enemies, but of only two. She had to force herself not to immediately get back onto her feet and rush to Thorin's aid.

After a few seconds, she heard a bark of order from somewhere far away, and the orcs took off running. From the sound of it, there had to have been at least a dozen more of them, but she allowed herself a little pride at having slain so many. Even as she stared ahead, unblinking, she could see the small sea of orc bodies in front of and surrounding her.

Her relief was short-lived when noticed that she was yet to see any sign of life from Bilbo. If she remembered correctly, he had been throwing stones from behind her.

After making sure that the orcs' footsteps were far enough away, and after subtly glancing about to see whether there were any more that had stayed behind, she carefully pulled herself up and placed her weight on her elbows. The injuries on her arms gushed blood, and the bruises pinched, but she paid them no heed for she knew that, if she put too much weight on her leg, it could prove fatal.

She was strengthened slightly by the distant clattering of metal against metal, the audible grunts of exertion that were no doubt from Thorin, and, unexpectedly, the cries of a woman.

She craned her neck and looked to where Bilbo had been, and found him lying on top of two dead orcs, eyes closed. Her eyebrows scrunched together and the cold claw of fear gripped her heart. Huffing from the effort needed, she dragged herself towards him and came to lean against the stone rampart. There was a large patch of dried blood on his right forehead, and an obvious purple hump. Lines of red trailed down from the wound.

Fheon warily heaved herself on top of him and placed her ear on his chest. His heart was still beating, and she sighed in relief. But she then realized that she would not be able to go to Thorin, not without leaving Bilbo behind. The Company goes first… They were both as core a part of the Company as any of the dwarves. The decision of who she would prioritize first tore at her, and she racked her brain for any alternative.

As she did so, the faint sound of heavy, approaching footsteps did not register to her until a goblin had appeared atop the far wall. It regarded Fheon, tilting its head fiendishly, and then looked over its shoulder. Two more jumped up to stand beside it, and Fheon's heart dropped. She spared a glance to where she had fallen before and found her sword there, close yet too far for her to retrieve without being killed by the goblins, what with her bad leg.

Cautiously, she reached to her right and pulled a sword out from beneath one of the dead orcs. It felt odd in her hands, heavy and most imperfectly shaped for her fingers, but it would have to do. She forced a deadly expression onto her face as she got to her feet, gritting her teeth through the pain. Her wounded knee buckled and she let her weight onto the other one, very subtly, hoping that the goblins would not notice.

There were four of them, now—scouts, it seemed. They did not wear any of the heavy armor of the orcs, but they were armored enough for Fheon to discern that it would be rather difficult to kill them while favoring one leg. But she was determined.

Glaring at them, she leaned down slightly and peeled a rock out of Bilbo's limp hand. Then she threw it at one of the goblins, hitting it right at the face. He recoiled, but did not fall back down the rampart. They hissed and growled, and Fheon bared her teeth, brandishing her sword.

The goblins advanced on her quickly. She easily parried the first blow that came to her, sliding to the side slightly with her good leg and then cutting into the side of one goblin. While it fell to the ground, two attacked her from her front and back.

She blocked the blow to her front first and twisted the sword behind her. There was a loud clang that told her she had succeeded in hindering the other goblin's sword. She pushed it back with all her might and the sword nearly fell out of her grasp.

When the weight coming from behind her disappeared, she dodged right and evaded the blow of the goblin in front of her. Pain flared from her knee and blood surged forth from the wound. She was able to behead her two opponents with a deft spin and two flicks of her wrist, before her knee finally buckled and she fell to the ground.

She made sure not to let go of the orc sword in her hand this time. However, she broke her fall by bringing her hands in front of her. There were sure to be bruises on the knuckles and her fingers, despite the gloves. A gasp escaped her throat at the extreme burning sensation in her right leg.

She brought her sword up and blocked the blow of the single remaining goblin. But the screaming of her muscles finally took effect, and the sword flew out of her hand. The goblin brought its blade down again and she let it slip off her left bracer as she rolled to the right. Her mistake.

Her right knee stretched against the firm ground, and when she was lying on her hip again, the back of it hit the corner of a piece of rubble. Tears sprung into her eyes and a choked cry tore through her throat. Her mind throbbed harder and became heavy.

A grimace appeared on her face as she seemed to lose all feeling in her leg, before the pain returned after a second or two. Through bleary eyes, she looked up and saw the goblin raising its sword over its head. This one was sure to kill her. Even then, she could feel the slice on her neck oozing blood. Perhaps that was why she was starting to lose consciousness… or rather, why some part of her wanted to lose consciousness. The blood loss.

For all she had fought for, she was going to die at the hands of a goblin. It was shameful, but not once did she look away from its dreadful face. She did not even blink. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited for the blow that would end her life. Yet as the goblin was beginning to bring down its sword, there was a flurry of light footsteps from behind Fheon, and then a fierce battle cry. A woman's cry.

Fheon flattened her head against the ground just as an elf came soaring over her, dual blades in her hands. She landed in front of the goblin, barely missing Fheon's legs, and blocked the goblin's blow by crossing her swords. She pushed its blade away and hacked at its bare navel, before slicing its head off.

Fheon swiped at her eyes to clear her vision and blinked several times, though she already knew who it was by the familiar long, auburn hair.

Tauriel turned her head and regarded her with what seemed to be a look of both surprise and reverence. Fheon never thought that seeing an elf would make her happy, but she had only felt such relief very few times in her life, and she decided that it should not be a grudging relief.

Tauriel saves the day!

I wonder what happens next... ;)