35

WE'LL FIGHT AS LONG AS WE LIVE

History will know it as The Battle of the Five Armies, a naming both perfectly apt and woefully inadequate to convey a true sense of its magnitude and consequence. As the years pass, tales will be told and songs will be sung – and some will even contain more than a grain of truth.

The Elves are icy precision, grace in every movement. Their skills have been honed over centuries, no movement wasted. Every step flows seamlessly into the next, a deadly dance with blade or bow. Thranduil is a storm of death atop his great elk, the sneering courtier replaced by the warrior king that took up his fallen father's banner in the Battle of Dagorlad. He is relentless and awe-inspiring, and where he leads, his folk follow and Orcs die by the dozens. But so do Elves, pierced and hewn by cruel blades, and his crystalline eyes dim a little more with every lost immortal life.

The Men are grim anxiety, fighting a foe they never thought to face. They are not warriors, these Men of the Lake, but fishermen, craftsmen, and merchants. Those that wield actual weapons from Dale's ancient stores do so awkwardly. They reek of desperation, but they stand, and they fight, for of all the combatants, they have the most to lose. Their families are nearby and vulnerable, and they will fight to the last breath to protect their own. Bard is their reluctant leader, discomfited by the fact that they look to him and see only the Dragonslayer, descendent of Girion. He is both of these things, but above all, he is a father, and it is in this that he finds his strength. He will lead them for little Tilda, with her sweet smile and love of that silly pup. For Sigrid, with her mother's strength, who slew an Orc to safeguard her siblings. For Bain, all coltish limbs and bravado, who even now waits with weapon in hand in case the deeproom is breached. For them, he will lead the Lakemen against a cruel and terrible foe, and thereby cement their loyalty and love without even realizing how it happened.

The Dwarves are tireless determination, their smaller size more than balanced by the ferocity with which they fight. With this battle, they have been given the chance to right two wrongs done their race. They will defend Erebor, last of the great Dwarf kingdoms, as they could not against the dragon. And in doing so, they will finally be avenged on Azog the Defiler for the slaughter at Azanulbizar. Dáin's mighty war hammer is in constant motion as he plows through Orc ranks on his great boar. He has his own score to settle with the Azog, the sight of his father's sightless eyes burned into his mind. For Náin, for Thrór, for Thráin, for Frerin...for Thorin, his cousin and king, whom he has failed once already by not supporting this quest to retake the Mountain.

Within the Mountain itself, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield prepares to take the field. They are only eleven, but they have proved their loyalty over a thousand miles of obstacles and trials. They will fight for king and kingdom, for the past that was lost, and the future yet to come. And Thorin will lead them, his sword fueled not by rage or vengeance, but by sorrow and a fierce determination to ensure the future of those he has hurt so deeply. No matter the cost in his own blood, Bilbo will return to the Shire and his beloved home, with whatever rewards the Hobbit will accept from the grateful kingdom for his friendship and steadfast honor. Fíli will sit the throne, with Viska at his side and Kíli at his shoulder. Mahal willing, Thorin will be there to guide his heir, for the restoration of Erebor will be a long and grueling task. In the end, though, his heart is set on a single goal – their survival. He owes it to them, to his people, and to his sister, waiting in Khagal'abbad.

The battle will end, and fade into history. Time will pass, as She is wont to do, and those who survive will look back and remember the confrontation before the Gate of Erebor, when Elves, Men, and Dwarves (and one lone Hobbit), fought to stem the rising tide of darkness. But this is here, and real, and NOW, and the ending of the tale is yet to be written...who will live, and who will die, not yet decided.

* X *

Bilbo Baggins stared in horror at the sight before him. After the perils of the quest, he had thought himself prepared for what he would find on the battlefield. After all, he had faced Trolls, Goblins, and Orcs before – the battle before Erebor would simply be the confrontation near Beorn's writ large. And with allies. The Lord of the Iron Hills led five hundred soldiers, while the Lakemen had perhaps two hundred untrained fighters. He had not counted the Elves, but their force had looked larger than that of the Dwarves even before their king had sent for additional troops. Together, they might not have rivaled the legendary Last Alliance of the Second Age, but he had thought them magnificent, unbreakable. Surely Azog's rabble would turn tail and run when confronted with such a foe!

Never in his life had he been more wrong. He stood near Gandalf – the Wizard had not been best pleased to find the burglar at his heels, but it had been too late to send him elsewhere, and so a long-suffering sigh had been his only comment – and watched the enemy approach, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. The enemy army was like a nightmare. Rank upon rank of massive Orcs, crudely armed and armored, faces suffused with hate and bloodlust.. There were Warg-riders, their beasts snarling and slavering with anticipation, and Trolls of a different breed than those in the West, which did not turn to stone beneath the weak winter sun. Goblins, too, ran shrieking alongside the massive army. It was terrifying.

And then the forces met, with a crash that shook the very ground beneath his feet, and Sting was in his hand before he even knew he was reaching for the blade. The enemy was still far from his position, but he shifted his grip slightly, as Kíli had taught him so long ago, and gave mental thanks to his young friends for insisting that he accept basic training with the Elven blade. He was no warrior, but months of association with a Company of headstrong Dwarves had infected him with some of their stubborn determination.

The faint sound of distant explosions had him staring at Gandalf in confusion as a smile crept across the weathered face.

"That will be our friends in the Mountain, doing what they can to slow the army from Gundabad." The Wizard closed his eyes, heaving a great sigh of relief as Bilbo realized what he meant.

"Thorin?"

"Is himself once more." The silvery blue eyes opened and Gandalf pointed toward the Gate of Erebor. "Do you see? Beside the Gate?"

Turning, the Hobbit strained to see what he indicated, squinting fiercely. Finally, he was able to make out two small figures in an alcove next to the hastily-constructed barrier. He frowned, unable to see exactly what they were doing. A moment later, a shadow flew from the alcove. Bilbo's eyes followed it reflexively, only to see several Orcs stagger, pinned together by something unseen as they fell. He glanced up to see a fierce smile on Gandalf's face.

"It appears that one of the big crossbows is still in working order. Not black arrows, perhaps, but dangerous enough, I would say"

Bilbo glanced up at the figures once more, his brow furrowed.

"Is that...Óin and Glóin?"

Two more missiles flew before the Dwarves disappeared back inside, each massive arrow taking out several Orcs or Goblins. Bare moments after his two friends were out of sight, the sound of a massive rockfall cut through the confusion of the battle. A murmur of confusion went through the group of Elven archers nearby, but then another rumble from the front of the Gate seized their attention and held it as a section of the barricade crumbled. At the same time, the cry of a great battle horn rang out, echoing within the stone spurs of the Mountain. A small contingent of Dáin's army, cut off from their allies by a fierce group of Orcs, suddenly found themselves reinforced by a band of fresh, furious fighters. The Orcs slain, the Iron Hills Dwarves rejoined their fellows and a cry went up in Khuzdul and Westron.

"The king! The king is come! Rally to the king! Erebor stands!"

"Thorin! Gandalf, it's Thorin!"

"The king rides forth," the Wizard muttered, half to himself. "Dáin and his warriors rally to the king."

Bilbo's laugh was bordering on hysteria, but it cut off abruptly as he caught sight of a large pale figure climbing the slopes of Ravenhill. He stared, unsure what he was seeing.

"Is that Azog? Why would he be climbing up there?" His thoughts were sluggish and confused. Thorin had just revealed himself at the Gate – why would the pale Orc be moving in the other direction? Gandalf glanced over quickly, his eyes narrowing before they widened with realization.

"Not Azog." His tone was grim and Bilbo saw his hand tighten on the gnarled staff. "Bolg, his spawn. It seems he survived the attacks on the northern army."

"But where is he going?" Even as he asked, the burglar caught sight of a familiar golden head halfway up the hill. His heart lurched. "Fíli. Kíli."

"Thorin's heirs," the Wizard agreed heavily. "Sons of Durin."

* X *

It would, perhaps, have been wiser to creep quietly from the Mountain, joining their kin without alerting the enemy to their arrival. But that was not the Dwarven way, not when the king strode forth to lead his people against their hated enemy. The twin rumbles of rockfall and barricade had disoriented the Orcs and their allies, and the Horn of Thráin had announced his coming to friend and foe alike. No, the element of surprise was long since lost, and so Thorin chose to lead his Company out of the Mountain at a charge, reinforcing a group of Iron Hills warriors that had gotten cut off from the rest of Dáin's forces. No words were needed – the grizzled veteran leading the group simply offered a nod of thanks before turning to his soldiers and leading the cry as they moved back toward the main army.

"The king! The king is come! Rally to the king! Erebor stands!"

Thorin followed them, flanked by Dwalin and Balin. The others were close behind, roaring with rage, whooping with excitement, or simply moving with silent deadly intent, each according to his temperament. It seemed only moments before a familiar red-bearded Dwarf came into view, his war hammer covered in black Orc blood. The great boar was gone, the Lord of the Iron Hills standing side by side with his infantry.

"Good to see you, cousin!" Dáin bellowed his greeting, dispatching an overly-ambitious Goblin with a vicious swipe. "Glad you could join us!" There was no rancor in his voice, but the uncrowned king felt his conscience twinge with guilt. Apologies, however, could wait. Instead, he clapped his cousin on the shoulder and offered him a tight smile.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun, cousin." He sobered as the warriors moved around them, isolating the two leaders for a few brief moments of peace. "Dáin, my sister-sons..." He trailed off, unsure how to finish, wondering how much the other Dwarf knew of what had happened within the Mountain. The affable expression hardened slightly, and a glint to the hazel eyes told him that the answer was "enough." A reply came quickly, though, and the tone of the voice was almost gentle.

"Aye, I saw them. Brave lads, and dangerous." He snorted. "Talked me into fighting with that arrogant leafy bastard Thranduil, as you can see, which testifies to young Fíli's golden tongue." The big bearded warrior pointed across the battlefield, toward the old watch tower. "They're on Ravenhill, the ledge halfway up. Both lads, and the lass your eldest is courting. Refused to be parted from him, she did, though she's faced her share of trials already, by the sound of it."

There it was – a thread of anger through his cousin's voice, and one that was not half what he deserved. Thorin sighed and nodded, meeting Dáin's gaze steadily. "They are more than I deserve, all three," he acknowledged with rare humility. "And I owe them all a great debt." With that he straightened and turned his attention back to the battle raging beyond the wall of Dwarven warriors as his rage at the Orcs began to rise up once more. "And I intend to begin paying it here and now. Shall we find Azog, cousin?"

Dáin's reply was a roar that parted the soldiers before them like a blade through flesh, and he hefted his war hammer as they charged together back into the confusion of the battle.

* X *

Nothing had prepared Kíli for this. Not Balin's tales, or Bofur's songs, or even the small conflicts of the journey had given him an adequate frame of reference for the sheer madness of the battle for Erebor. The confusion, the noise, the Mahal-forsaken smell...all plucked at his tightly-wound nerves until they sang with tension. Only Fíli's solid presence at his side kept him grounded until his body could take over, long years of training ensuring that he moved almost without thought, responding to the threats as they approached, taking absent note of those that that did not. Arrows spent and sword in hand, his world narrowed to the small patch of ground that he held with his brother and soon-to-be-sister. Dáin's half-dozen warriors were nearby, but he had little attention to spare for them. As a Dwarf, and as a Son of Durin, he was aware of their presence, their every move, at a deeply unconscious level. As a brother, and as a part of the fighting unit of Fíli-and-Kíli, he was most closely attuned to the golden swordsman to his right, and the chestnut-haired lass just beyond. Their cohesion was nearly flawless, months of practice allowing Viska to fit herself neatly into the rhythm that the brothers had developed.

His archer's eyes saw the Orc first, a large pale shape moving up the slope of Ravenhill. He blinked in confusion, unsure what he was seeing. Where Azog was massively muscled, built almost like an oversized Dwarf, the approaching figure was leaner and taller, more like a Man, or even an Elf. Rather than true armor, the Orc wore only spiked spaulders and boots, as well as a heavy belt with a leather loincloth. Sharp pieces of metal appeared to have been embedded directly into his flesh along his ribs, and one milky blind eye stared from between bands of iron similarly attached to his skull. Cracked teeth were visible behind torn lips as the beast caught his eye and offered what might have been a smile. Kíli shuddered and tore his eyes away, just in time to cut the legs out from under an Orc that was lunging for his brother. As Fíli finished the creature off with one falchion, Kíli hissed his name and nodded toward the new threat. The older prince's reply was grim.

"I see him. Azog's spawn, Bolg, from Gundabad."

"Du bekar!"

Kíli turned in surprise to find that their honor guard of Iron Hills warriors had moved to close ranks in front of the princes. The scarred leader cast them a stern look over his shoulder as he growled at them.

"Lord Dáin sent us to stand with you, and stand we shall!"

* X *

Bilbo was alone on the battlefield, the golden ring hiding him from the combatants as he crept toward the door at the base of Ravenhill. Gandalf had forbidden him from going, pointing out that Bolg would likely reach the young Dwarves long before he could. He had also dwelt heavily on the fact that a single Hobbit didn't stand a chance against the host of Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, and Trolls between him and his goal. The burglar had simply smiled at his old friend and shaken his head.

"I wasn't asking, Gandalf. They might not even be up there if not for me. I must help them, if I can. Be safe."

The Wizard might have said more, but an Orc had lunged through the gathered Elven warriors and he had turned to face it, sword in hand. As soon as his back was turned, Bilbo had settled the ring on his finger and slipped away.

He was starting to regret it. The ring's magic kept him from the eyes of the enemy, but it did nothing to protect him from being stepped on, knocked aside, and accidentally stabbed, so he kept his head low and moved as quickly and quietly as he could (which was, as Gandalf had told the Dwarves long ago in Bag End, almost a kind of magic itself). He did his best not to look at the bodies that he passed, praying absently to any Valar that might be listening that none of them belonged to anyone that he knew. He caught a distant war cry that sounded like Dwalin, and the Elven king's elk thundered by at one point, making him dodge quickly out of the way to avoid being trampled, but once he reached the foot of Ravenhill, all of his attention was focused on the distinctive golden hair halfway up the side. Fíli was back to back with his brother and Viska, the three moving as a single unit as they covered one another. Bolg had not yet reached them, held back by two fierce, unfamiliar Dwarven warriors. Even as the Hobbit watched, one of them fell, joining several other unmoving figures on the ground near the Orc's feet. The last soldier gave a cry of fury and renewed his attack, and Bilbo was moving again, darting up the interior stairs on silent feet.

* X *

"We have to get to Fíli and Kíli!" Thorin's order brooked no argument, and he could tell that Dwalin would not have offered one. The big warrior simply glanced at his brother and nodded, then, turned to his king.

"Are they still on Ravenhill? I cannot see from here."

Dwalin stooped to clean his axes on a fallen Orc's tattered clothing and Thorin reached out until his hand met stone. For a bare moment, a blinding second, he was seeing with other eyes, hearing with other ears – the connection forged through the Mountain on a bolt of desperate fear.

...he is on one knee, hand braced on stone as he struggles to rise. He would already be dead, felled by a blow from the pale Orc's sword, but for the intervention of his brother. Kíli lives, but he cannot see him, for his eyes are fixed on the sight before him.

Viska struggles in Bolg's grip, held tightly by the throat as she tries to reach one of her hidden knives. The Orc's eyes meet his and he realizes that the bastard knows. He knows what she is to the prince, and he is enjoying himself, restraining her effortlessly with one powerful hand. A roar of defiance breaks from Fíli's chest and he surges to his feet, losing contact with the skin of the Mountain...

Thorin gasped as the connection was severed, the scene burned into his mind's eye. Then he was moving, barely hearing Dwalin's shout of surprise behind him.

"Ravenhill! Bolg!"

* X *

It only took a moment. A second's distraction – a Goblin dropping from a ledge above – and everything changed. The Goblin was dead in the space of a heartbeat, Fíli running him through with a falchion. The prince's blood thundered in his ears as he turned back. He had taken his eyes off of Bolg for that one breath, and the big Gundabad Orc seized his chance. Taller than a Man, the beast had a long reach, and he was on Fíli before the Dwarf could move.

Or he would have been, had Kíli not charged in with a yell, sword flashing in the gloomy winter sunlight. Bolg snarled and spun on the dark-haired archer, his hand clenching into a powerful fist the size of Kíli's head. It met the young Dwarf's face and the golden-haired swordsman heard his brother's nose break. Kíli dropped, sword falling from nerveless fingers, dark eyes wide and stunned. Fíli's heart froze as the Orc raised his jagged scimitar, a sneer on the disfigured face.

"No!"

Fíli was moving, but Viska was faster. She was just suddenly there, standing in front of his defenseless brother as Kíli scrambled for his weapon. Her eyes sparked with fury and she hacked at Bolg's sword arm, slicing deep into the flesh and drawing black blood. The Orc howled and yanked his arm away, sending both swords flying as he lashed out with his other hand and caught her by the neck. When he straightened to his full height, she hung suspended, boots kicking furiously as her fingers scrabbled at his hand, trying to pry herself loose.

A red haze washed across the elder prince's vision and he attacked heedlessly, his mind empty save for the knowledge that his One, his beloved, was dying in front of him, and he must not allow it to happen. A careless swipe of Bolg's bloodied arm sent him staggering backward, balance lost as he fell heavily to one knee, vaguely aware that his head was ringing and he had dropped one of his swords. He shook his head, trying to clear his blurry vision, and braced himself with one hand on a stone outcropping, all of his attention locked on the scene before him.

Bolg ignored him at first, staring at his captive for a long moment. Then, clawed fingers tightened and trickles of red began to soak her collar. Fíli knew he was bellowing, could feel it shredding his throat, but the world seemed to have gone quiet. Bolg turned to grin at him, the expression blood-curdling on the Orc's twisted features, and the muscles in the thick forearm rippled as he began to bear down. Fíli lunged to his feet and the air around them erupted in furious screeching as a flock of ravens descended, beaks and claws ripping at the pale Orc's eyes and face. The birds were enraged, a thick black cloud around his enemy's head, and then they were gone. Fíli blinked as an expression of almost comical surprise crossed the beast's horrific visage, now torn and bloodied. Bolg stared down at himself, drawing the prince's attention to a deep gash that had suddenly appeared in the Orc's side, far too large to have been the work of a raven. They both gaped, not even noticing when Viska abandoned her grip on Bolg's wrist to contort herself enough to pull a knife from her boot. The awkward movement finally caught the young Dwarf's eye and he glanced up just as she buried it to the hilt as close to the elbow as she could reach. She used both hands to twist it cruelly, severing muscles and sinew until his grip loosened and she tumbled to the stone. Bolg roared with rage and lunged forward, one heavy, booted foot coming down on the Dwarrowmaid's leg as she struggled to move out of the way. She screamed and Fíli sprang forward, his brother at his side. As Bolg stepped toward Fíli, Kíli's longsword cut deep into the back of his thigh. The Orc dropped abruptly to one knee as his hamstring was severed, a flicker of pain finally showing on the scarred face. A moment later, Fíli's falchion sliced cleanly across the pale throat, nearly cleaving through the spinal column. Black blood poured forth as Bolg reached up to staunch his wound, and the fell light was fading from his eyes even as he toppled to the stone.

* X *

Icy terror stole through Dwalin's gut as he bent low over the neck of the battle ram, urging the beast to greater speed. He was an adequate rider at best, preferring ponies to rams and his own feet to ponies, but time was too short to argue when Dáin commandeered the animals from his troops. Instead, the Arms Master had simply nodded his thanks and mounted only a moment behind Thorin. The uncrowned king led, followed closely by Dwalin and Dáin as Balin and Bifur helped some of the Iron Hills soldiers to clear a path out of the thick mass of combatants. Once free of the immediate press of bodies, they were able to make good use of their mounts' climbing ability as they moved up to race along the steep side of the Mountain spur. They rode silently, with single-minded purpose, dispatching the occasional foolhardy Goblin with fierce efficiency.

Thorin's gaze was locked on their goal, the deep cliff that banded Ravenhill roughly halfway up (much like the Eyrie of the Eagles, though not so high or quite so deep). Dwalin, however, kept his eyes moving, watching for any threat approaching from the battle below as Dáin did the same on the other side. It was a battle reflex, but it was also self-preservation of a different sort. He did not want to see their destination as they drew nearer, for deep in his heart, he feared what he would see. Rams or no, they had taken too long. A deep foreboding had seized the big warrior, and he knew with a terrible certainty that tragedy lay ahead for the Line of Durin.

And so, he did not look – he would not accept the death of any of his kin until he must. Instead, he scanned the lower slope of Ravenhill, and thus was the first to see the new threat moving up from the battlefield.

Azog.

Translations and Notes:

Battle of Dagorlad – Battle fought between the Army of the Last Alliance and Sauron's forces just outside of Mordor. Oropher was one of the commanders in the battle, leading his Silvan Elves in alliance with the Noldor Elves of the West, but refusing to place themselves under the command of Gil-Galad and Elrond. Thranduil's father died in the first attack.

Khagal'abbad – The Blue Mountains (Khuzdul)

Du bekar! - To arms!