A/N: Thank you, all you amazing readers, for sticking with us as we go through this epic. We're nearing the end! We're so close to the falling action, folks, I can practically TASTE IT. For all you reading heroes, get yourselves a sandwich. This chapter's another rough one. But the end is in sight!

Guest: The change was definitely one that we didn't realize we needed until a million voices cried out, and were suddenly silenced. (A moment of silence for Alderaan, the lost world. *bows head*)

Celestial Lelila: Thank you for staying with us! *participation ribbons for everyone!*

To the rest of you that commented on the first version of Kili's chapter, our deepest apologies. *bows* We meant no harm.

Thirty Six

Dain's focus was taxed, splintered and unsteady like a half-hewn tree limb, but he clung to it gamely. The movement of his axe, sweeping the head from a charging orc wasn't so much the lift and fall of a weight but like an extension of his arm.

Get to the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get to the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get to the hobbit.

It was an endless mantra in his head, while out loud he bellowed orders to the dwarves following him, keeping them close and tight as they cut a narrow swath through the chaos. Ahead, the gleam of white amid the sea of black and red inspired a spark of fear and searing hatred.

The Wizard.

Saruman.

He would kill the Wizard and avenge his shattered mind. He would purge the Mountain of his evil, and perhaps clear his name of the betrayal that stained Thorin's every look, every word.

The thought bolstered his resolve. The foe fell back before them, either directly through his efforts or pulled into other conflicts, and so the small force made good headway into the thickest part of the fray. The figure in white stood tall in the midst, ever visible even at the considerable distance.

Dain knew he wouldn't have much time. He could only hope to strike quickly enough that Saruman would be caught off guard. That would give them a window to grab the Hobbit and, Mahal willing, get her out.

As he clove asunder the last foe between himself and unimpeded access to the Wizard, he checked himself, his momentum grinding to a halt. White Wizard. Halfling. Wide berth. Possible magic in play.

But something wasn't right. The face. The face wasn't Saruman's.

In that delay of instants, the connection eluded him. But the guards at his back didn't falter. Dain raised a shout to stop them. It was ignored.

Axes flew, aim deadly and true. Axes pinged aside in flashes of flame, harmless as toys.

"Confounded dwarves!" roared the Wizard. "As if I didn't have enough trouble with these orcs without needing to defend myself against you as well." He was distracted, clearly, and his unexpected outburst opened the door for Dain to order his warriors back.

"It's not him," barked Dain. "This is a different Wizard." Pause. "Where's the hobbit?"

"You can't trust him, Gandalf," came a tiny but insistent voice, barely audible over the din. It seemed at the dwarves' advance, she'd ducked out of sight behind the Wizard's voluminous white robes. "It's his fault that Thorin's..." She didn't finish.

"Maybe so," said the Wizard, casting an evaluative eye upon Dain. "But at the moment, he's the least of my-."

"I've orders to get the Hobbit to safety," Dain interjected, collecting himself. "We don't have time to argue. Let me take her."

"Orders from who?" The Wizard's staff whipped out and smacked into an orc's chest as he passed, and the creature fell, gasping, at a dwarf's feet. As the dwarf beheaded the orc, Dain answered, scanning the chaos about them. The Wizard's robes were a magnet for their foes' attention.

"Thorin. He said to take the hobbit away and to safety."

"He's alive, then?" The Wizard frowned. "We haven't time just now. Explain later. Billa, go with him."

"He killed Thorin!" The hobbit's voice was shrill with fear and disbelief.

"Come," Dain barked, gesturing shortly. "We have little time." It wasn't that the dwarf didn't have an explanation, but he figured she'd simply claim he was lying, and that would delay them even more. "You have to trust me."

The hobbit's gaze was pain-filled and, Dain's mind suggested, deadly . She looked as likely to trust him as an orc.

"Gandalf, you can't mean it... Thorin's dead. I saw ."

"There is no lie in him," said the Wizard firmly, "and the further you are from this place, the better. I'll find you when I can." With one hand, he grabbed Billa by the back of her jacket and gave her a push. It was clear from the expression on her face that she thought this not only wrong, but dangerous. She resisted as much as she could, and for such a small creature she seemed to be doing a good job of it.

"Thorin charged me with taking you and your child to safety, madam. I intend to do so, whether you want me to or not." He grabbed her arms, and nearly got himself smacked in the process.

Get the hobbit. Move her to safety. Get the hobbit. Move her to safety.

Dain scanned the fight for the thinnest wall of foes between them and open space. The hills to his right were relatively clear, and there were only a handful of orc clusters between them and the hill. With a single order, he set his group in motion. Axe in one hand, hobbit trapped between his shield and his body, he moved swiftly along in the wake of his warriors. For a small thing, the hobbit was surprisingly heavy. He could feel her, rigidly tense under his arm, but no longer struggling as they moved away from the Wizard.

He wasn't sure what happened next. A blow to the head, maybe. Something like light flashing in his skull, pain such that his knees weakened, threatening to crumple beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he worked to fight the sensation.

It was familiar. All too familiar.

"Saruman," a small voice beside him whispered.

Dain forced his eyes open, struggling to make his legs keep moving him forward. It was a fight, simply to stay in control of his own body. The pain in his head was fantastic, like a forge fire inside his skull. The others had noticed something was wrong as their leader fell behind. Two doubled back for him. A third fell under an orc sword. The fourth avenged him.

A dwarf on either side grasped Dain by his arms and, without hesitation, propelled him forward. They didn't seem to have noticed the old man in a grey cloak and hood, watching them from further up the slope.

In ordinary circumstances, Dain would've found this arrangement embarrassing. Maybe even laughable. He'd never before been so weak, only just able to hold his own weight (and one small hobbit.) Now, it seemed, there was no indignity unworthy of him. He had, after all, killed his own love. He deserved no better.

The hill loomed before them, and none but the occasional scattering orc stood between them now and mission's end. That was more than Dain had hoped to achieve. He'd show Thorin his trust hadn't been misplaced.

"He's behind you, you fool dwarf!" the hobbit cried, and there was a strong, sharp pain in Dain's side, like a hefty kick.

Dain gasped and, in a moment that was an eternity of horror, dropped the hobbit. He heard Billa land fair on her sturdy feet, but he couldn't wrench free of his escort fast enough to grab her again before she was left behind. Then he was free, staggering on weakened legs, he turned, ignoring the protests of his warriors - and there he was. The hobbit was staring up into his face, where malice was written as clearly as the stars in Mirrormere.

The Wizard's gaze was hot with loathing as it slid from Billa to Dain himself. Useless, his eyes seemed to say, directly into Dain's heart. Worthless. Alone.

Dain's gaze held, but only just, barely able as he was to withstand these darts that felt so close to true. He'd kill the traitor if he could, but that would mean first wresting back control of his own body, his own will. It seemed all but impossible. Pain lanced through his skull again, but his guards caught him before he could crumple, their steady hands returning some measure of his strength.

Saruman's grey hood slid backward, and the Wizard's face, no longer shadowed or obscured, seemed somehow more fierce and terrible than before, the focused malice of a master reclaiming an escaped thrall. Or punishing him. It was difficult to say which.

"Leave him be!" Billa shouted, taking a wobbly step forward. "I may be a hobbit, and a poor one at that, but I'll kill you if you so much as lay a finger on him."

There was a measure of incredulity lurking in the Wizard's glower as he studied the hobbit, the full intensity of his wrath shifting.

"I see the little rat was not so easily disposed of. Or is it more serpent , that I must remove its head to kill it?" The Wizard's bearded mouth twitched into a cruel grin, and his arm moved beneath the cloak, dark cloth parting briefly to reveal the glint of steel.

Dís. Dís would never forgive him if he let this hobbit die in his place. Dain felt a surge of desperate strength - it wasn't enough to restore his balance, but his axe felt like an extension of his hand, effortless to lift, effortless to swing. He lunged forward, reeling like a drunk and bellowing war cries at the top of his lungs. The Wizard didn't stop, but he was distracted just enough that Dain could reach the hobbit before the falling blade did.

Metal rang against metal as Dain deflected the strike that would have killed Thorin's One. The sound was clear and cold and struck deep into the dwarf's consciousness. For a moment at least, his mind was clear.

Saruman's apparent surprise didn't last long; in a heartbeat, it had turned again to something like amusement.

"I might have spared you. You were of some use to me. But no longer."

The implications registered quickly. Dain's eyes were clear now, in more ways than the obvious. Perhaps it was the last of Saruman's hold falling away, or the Wizard revealing all he'd previously concealed, but the fog lifted, and he remembered. Everything beside seemed to fade, muted into irrelevance; the space around them charged still with the blur of battle, but somehow, silenced.

As the two stood, gazes locked, weapons poised, Dain's heart seized with sudden, devastating grief. He realized now the full extent of the disaster he'd wrought. His people faced their end - death and enslavement - and he'd made it possible. Done nothing to stop it. The grief kindled into rage, and Dain nearly trembled with the heat of it, eyes blazing forth with passion he had not felt since he was young.

"Mahal willing, I'll live just long enough to see your works undone."

The Wizard laughed softly. "Mahal," he said mockingly, and the sword flashed upward toward Dain's face. He jerked back and deflected the blow, pushing Billa back with his body. Saruman advanced, his mocking words sharp and clear. "What has Mahal ever done for you? He cares nothing for you or your kin. You are the dross of this Age, to be skimmed off the surface and discarded."

"You lie as ever you have," Dain snarled back, fending off a series of skillful strokes, returning a few, which the Wizard parried with relative ease, smirking all the while.

Maybe he was only toying with Dain, leading him to believe he had a chance, in a bid for greater satisfaction in the dwarf's inevitable defeat. But Ironfoot wouldn't back down, wouldn't concede.

He owed every last ounce of strength, of will, of soul, to righting the wrong he had done. Dís wouldn't forgive him for any less.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of impossible blue. A hairy foot flew forward, and the Wizard stumbled, cursing. Dain knew from recent experience that the hobbit's kick was a powerful weapon. She mustn't have had any other weapons at her disposal - she didn't seem like the sort to hold back when she was angry.

Dain lunged, his axe whistling through the air. The sword came up, but not quickly enough. The resistance of flesh and bone was hardly enough to slow the weapon as Saruman's sword-hand separated from the arm that supported it.

The Wizard reeled back, a howl of pain and fury tearing from his throat. Blood spurted from the stump of his right arm, while his left produced, seemingly from nowhere, a long, white staff. How, Dain couldn't have said, even if he'd had time to consider before a force like a wave hit him full on, sending him stumbling powerfully backward against the rocky terrain.

Ignoring the dwarf for the moment, Saruman sent a cauterizing blast of flame into his own mutilated limb. If Dain had ever wondered what a burning Maia might smell like, he would wonder no longer. Ancient rot evidently had its own indescribable stench.

With a low growl of hatred, the Wizard turned on Billa. The hobbit had scurried back a space after her attack, and looked practically winded, nearly doubled over her rounded belly. Her upturned face, though, showed no more than the barest hint of fear, her eyes clear and defiant between her curls of light brown fringe.

"Little rat!" the Wizard hissed, raising the head of the staff. "You'll burn for this. You, and your exiled king. He'll pay twice over for the trouble you've been!"

Dain sensed what was about to happen before he saw the first spark jump from the white orb at the staff's head. He knew with absolute certainty that if he let Saruman even attempt his attack, the hobbit would die. He couldn't let that happen. He would stop it. For Thorin. For Dís.

Still winded, Dain summoned his strength and heaved his axe forward, releasing at a run. He scooped the hobbit up and kept moving. Heavy for her size, but not actually heavy. A thought floated through his mind, detached from the fear and determination and adrenaline. Where were his warriors? He didn't have long to think about it.

The force that had knocked him back earlier was nothing compared to this. If fire could be heavy, that was what it would have felt like. Or maybe this was what it felt like to get hit from behind by a wave of molten iron. Burning, searing, blistering agony. Dain bellowed in pain, falling to his knees, holding the hobbit tight against his chest, shielding her. He wouldn't let Thorin's One die. Not if he could stop it.

She slipped from his arms. He saw the boulders ahead. "Go," he wheezed. "Hide." If she responded, he didn't hear it. Only saw her disappear up the hill, into the midst of the boulders that would hide her.

"Drop the knife," Stonehelm ordered, the ruby-studded blade of his axe poised to strike. "Else I'll not hesitate to take your other hand, Wizard."

Amidst the pain and disorientation, Dain felt a small swelling of pride in his chest. For all his own deeds of valor, he knew his son was the best legacy he would leave. Still panting from his run up the hill, Dain's son move forward slightly, shielding his father.

Saruman seemed to consider, but only for the briefest of moments. His glance strayed to the raw, scorched stump where his right hand had been, and then he sprang back. With more agility than one would have credited to a Man of his apparent age, the Wizard leapt up the hill, and at first, Thorin let him go. But Dain saw his intent and strove to master his body, struggling to his feet in spite of his weakness.

"No! The hobbit! Protect the hobbit!" Stonehelm seemed to take his meaning, his muscles tensing with new urgency as he broke into pursuit. But his way was suddenly barred. A group of swarthy men Dain hadn't noticed before had emerged from the chaotic mass of Saruman's force, easily dealing with the last of Dain's guards and moving quickly to surround the wounded dwarf and his son. Then Dain remembered. These Southrons had been paid for their services out of the Mountain's own supplies. For all the Wizard's silky talk of "allies," it hadn't occurred to him at the time he'd been buying his own doom. Dain's balance once more failed him and he sank back to the ground, strength stolen by grief.

He'd come so close to succeeding. But Thorin's One would die. And his son - his last pride in this life - would defend him to the last, and fall in the attempt.

"Drop your weapon, dwarf." The speaker was a bit taller than his fellows, and clad beneath his leather armor all in red. "The Wizard's thralls retreat, but we remain true."

"True to what, exactly? True to a man who uses orcs to force his will? True to a Wizard that destroys a kingdom for its gold?" The young dwarf's beard bristled with outrage.

"True to one who promised us revenge." The Southron glanced over his shoulder at the Wizard, who was halfway to the nearest cluster of boulders. Just as Stonehelm's fingers tightened defiantly around his axe haft, a voice rose above the din and another old man in white broke free from the last desperate stragglers below.

"Saruman!" The voice was strong and clear, and the Wizard paused on the slope above them, turning to face the newcomer with something like trepidation. His orcs were fleeing, and now Dain's allies were making their way to him. The battle had turned into a rout, and now a new foe had come to face the Wizard himself.

Dain found he could no longer keep to his knees, and allowed himself, evenly as he could, to fall onto his side. His vision of the battle, his son, and the mercenaries faded, darkening about the edges, but he would not allow himself the relief of unconsciousness. He needed to know how it would play out. He needed to know if his son might yet survive.

Gandalf skirted the group, moving with unnatural speed for one of his apparent age, muddy white robes billowing out behind him as he quickly closed the gap between himself and Saruman. The Southrons seemed distracted for the moment, perhaps confused by this new figure who'd appeared, nearly a twin to their patron. Maybe they'd not been aware of the existence of another Wizard. Or whatever Saruman might have claimed to be.

"Stay where you are, Saruman." Gandalf's voice cut again through the clamor, authoritative and clear. "You are a disgrace to your Order, and a traitor to your friends. Your powers and armies have fled you, and still you persist in this madness!"

"Madness?" Saruman's resonant voice cracked, becoming harsh and ugly against Dain's ears. "If you've come to make an end of me, Gandalf the Grey , you can do what you please. You and those stagnant elves had been plotting my downfall for years. But you're too late. You've always been too late. I hope it haunts you."

Two white blurs, that's all they were. One moved back, but Gandalf's voice rang out again, clear and strong.

"Stop, Saruman."

The moving blur stopped. Whether he would or not, Saruman obeyed, and Dain felt his son beside him.

"Adad," he murmured. There was the tone of resigned defeat again. He knew as well as Dain himself that the burns were fatal.

The older dwarf coughed, aware suddenly that the taste in his mouth was blood, and probably had been for some time. His teeth were rattling, which bothered him only because it made it difficult to speak.

"I did... what I could," he rasped, reaching for his son. Stonehelm removed his blood-encrusted gauntlet, squeezing his father's hand firmly.

Dain struggled on, determined. He could have wished for no greater blessing than his son's presence here. Gratitude warmed him even as his limbs seemed to stiffen and grow cold. "Seems hardly penance. For what I made."

"You did what you could," echoed Thorin, and Dain thought he could hear a sort of thickness to the words. "It's enough in my eyes."

It was enough. Over the labored beating of his own heart, Dain could hear the clear voice of Gandalf from what seemed like a far distance. "... and don't turn your eyes on the Mountain again."

Had so little time really passed?

"Cousin!" Finally. The familiar voice of Thorin Oakenshield drew closer. "Dain... no."

The older dwarf tried to clear his mouth enough to speak, pulling in another rattling breath as his son turned to regard the exhausted and bloodied newcomer. "See to your hobbit, Cousin." He smiled weakly, pleased to find it didn't feel unnatural to him. Maybe that was peace. "I... got her out. For you."

The blurred shape of Thorin, stained red by battle, hesitated over him. "I believe you," he said quietly. "You said you tried to protect her. I believe you."

It wasn't forgiveness for Dís' death, thought Dain vaguely, closing his eyes, but he didn't deserve forgiveness. Belief was more than he could have asked for. As darkness embraced him, Dain sighed heavily, relaxing into the numbness that offered relief. He'd done all he could, and his offering, however meager, would have to be enough. He could feel more than see the presence of his son, sense more than hear the khuzdul spoken over him to bless his parting.

A son of Durin finds his way home, and no shame shall touch his name. Welcome him, Mahal, to wait with his kin.