Thorin pursed his lips as he handled the mail shirt. He turned as he heard soft footsteps and scowled up at Brenen. "Snooping around my halls, elf?"

Brenen flung out his arms. "What is there to snoop? All I should find is dust!"

"None of your sauce!" Thorin snapped. "I was feeling generous, but the feeling is fading."

Brenen's blue eyes snapped. "Perhaps I am not Brenen."

"Hmm," Thorin said. "I know your fine spirit anywhere. Tell me, do you bother to don armor for battle?"

Brenen looked down at his chest. "I do not know. I suppose I must, but I cannot say I ever attach as much importance to it as ada does, with his fancy plate all emblazoned up."

"You will not live long with that attitude!" Thorin snorted. "Here, take this. As I fancy you will fuss like a lady at heavy, proper armor, this mithril will be more to your . . . liking."

"Why," said Brenen. "Anyone would think I walk around in a dress the way you carry on!"

"You are halfway there," Thorin told him.

Brenen slithered into the shirt, its tiny rings of mithril interlocking and interlocking to form a fine mesh. Thorin regarded it with approval. "A perfect fit."

"Your gift warms my heart," Brenen said, bowing. He smirked. "It appears you cannot stand to see me die."

"Oh no," Thorin said. He smirked. "I shall derive great pleasure, my lad, in seeing your father's face when he sees his son in a shirt we dwarves once offered to him for an unspeakable price."

"Well," said Brenen, "I suppose I cannot say you do not deserve it."

The elves stood gathered outside Erebor, the ranks of Mirkwood's army dull in the twilight. The square was perfect with every warrior in line with the next.

"An army of orcs moves with speed toward us," Gandalf said. "At any moment they could arrive. Think, Thranduil, you came to Dale within days of Laketown's destruction and Dol Guldor is not but days from your palace."

Flyfire shifted, hooves clattering on the stone, and Thranduil dipped his head. "Your words are not in vain, Mithrandir. I understand well the rising sun may shine upon our enemy."

"The rising sun need shine upon Dain first!" Thorin cried, his anxious eyes on the eastern horizon for any sign of his cousin. "He is not one to back out of a fight."

"Patience, Thorin," Brenen advised, looking down at the dwarf from the battlements, the butt of his spear beside his boots. "You will soon reap the pleasure of burning orcs in blue."

"It is easy to say," Thorin grumbled.

Clad in full battle armor, taken from the storerooms of Erebor, and polished to shine, the thirteen dwarves made a solid line behind the battlements with the early morning rays playing over the worked metal. Despite being shorter than Brenen, every dwarf stood with regal bearing, curved shields offset by the stark lines of swords.

Brenen and Realn stood at either end of the battlements, elevated above the catwalk by their stand on the merlons. Even Tauriel beside Kili seemed short in their shadow. All three elves wore shirts of fine mail under their tunics, vanguards and vambraces protecting calves and arms. Red cloaks purloined from Thranduil's store gave the Prince's a final touch of color.

The city of Dale rose beyond the Mirkwood army, smoke rising from cooking fires. The crumbling stone of front wall appeared shabby but were deceptive, as they still held much of their structure, while the levels of the buildings concealed those too small or frail to fight from the coming bloodshed.

Flyfire shifted again and Thranduil leaned forward to rub his neck, murmuring to the moose. Brenen gave him a glance and decided the King of Mirkwood made as fearsome a sight as the King Under the Mountain.

Bard looked anxious, he thought in amusement, mounted between Thranduil and Legolas. He was not without a coat of mail, peeking out from under the rich blue coat he wore, but the weight of his sword was obviously unnatural to him.

Thorin jerked upright as a black bird cawed and circled to land before him. The raven cocked a wicked eye and winked before flapping away as the thunder of hundreds of feet announced the arrival of Dain.

The long ranks of the Ironhill dwarves appeared like a blemish over the eastern rise. Numbering no more than the elves and no less than the humans, the stamp of iron shod feet stilled as the army clashed to a halt.

A black and pink mottled pig trotted forth, stopping at a rock outcrop. Its steps kicked up dust and left heavy imprints under the bulk of its rider.

The head and beard of Dain flamed from under an adornment of helmet and trinkets. He held the impressive weight of a double-headed war hammer in one hand, his corded muscles welded into the shape of his armor and red robe.

The Mirkwood elves turned to face him, the sound of their movement a whisper until Thranduil rode to their head.

"I see I am not a moment too soon," Dain said. He lifted his chin from his chest. "Out of my way, you ninny!"

"There is no need for insults," Thranduil said mildly. "I stand with Thorin. My sons—"

"Durin spits upon the sons of King Thrandoil!" Dain hissed.

A flicker of irritation flashed over Thranduil's face. "I will thank you to say my name as it is meant to be said, else the dignity of your insults lies in ruin."

"Well," exclaimed Brenen. "He cares more about his name than noticing his own sons have been insulted! What an ada!"

"Dwarves know of the treachery of Mirkwood's King," Dain sneered. "It is famous among us. We know honor is nothing to you. Any sons of yours cannot help but be as wicked as their father."

Thranduil held up a hand to prevent an indignant Legolas from putting an end to Dain's insults. His son hissed but held still.

"Whoever stands between me and my kin will be crushed," Dain spat. "A fairy princess is nothing in the face of an avalanche."

"A fairy princess," said Thranduil, "To say the least, can stand up to a pig."

At that, Brenen laughed and Dain's eyes bulged in fury, but his verbal assault was cut short as Thorin decided he had had his chuckle and cried, "Hail, Dain! It is good to see you, as fit as ever, bless my beard. Do not concern yourself with the princess; his princes are not all bad."

"Bless you," said Brenen. "You care more for my honor than my ada."

Dain looked up and viewed Brenen and Realn with nothing more than suspicion. "Thorin, upon Durin's beard, if you do not look splendid, I do not know who does. Now, what is all this with the princess?"

Thorin glanced at Thranduil. "We do not cross friends, dear cousin, and the 'princess' is a friend."

"Friend?" Dain snorted. "Friends with elves? Who is this perforated snit?"

"I know I expressed strong opinions after my last encounter with him but I withdraw everything I said. There was a misunderstanding."

"You do not sound like the Thorin I know!" Dain roared. "Feeling quite well, cousin?"

The hollow notes of orc horns rang out, cutting off replies on both sides. All eyes turned east. On the highest peak of Ravenhill, a four-tailed flag opened behind Azog and the harsh syllables formed by his tongue tore the air.

The ground sighed as, at the far end of the valley, the crushing, chewing mouths of great wyrms broke forth, flinging rock into the air. From the fresh tunnels, the orcs marched out in ranks, like ink spreading over a white page.

Dain wheeled his pig and trotted it to the head of his ranks as the dwarves turned to face the enemy with a resounding clash of steel.

"I suppose the elves will not stay and fight?" Bilbo whispered to Gandalf.

The wizard shifted his staff to his free hand. "I cannot say. I thought I knew Thranduil, but he is like one reborn and a stranger to me."

"And Thorin," Bilbo added. "He turned out to be a bender . . . it was not pretty, you know, when he blew out his first lightning bolt."

"I understand he shot Legolas," Gandalf said drily, glancing at the third Thranduilion.

"He seems alright now," Bilbo said critically.

Thranduil's eyes were anxious as the tails of the red flag changed and the orcs clashed their shields. The dwarves yelled as Azog's army rolled down the hill, little bits of rock shaken up from the ground at the rumble of encroaching feet.

Brenen and Realn moved to join their people in the charge to meet the orcs but stopped as Raileen plummeted to land on the catwalk.

"Smaug comes," he said. "He rests across the lake, but it will not take him long to flap for the skies and come here."

With an exclamation, Thorin whirled and strode into the mountain. The dwarves hesitated, glancing at the fight below, before following in their King's beckoning shadow. Brenen and Realn dashed after him, exclaiming, "Thorin? Where are you going? Surely you do not flee from the fight!"

"I do not flee! Rather I save myself for the real battle," Thorin snapped. "I will not see that serpent make off with my family jewel! It is mine."

Brenen frowned. "You cannot cower behind these walls while dwarves, elves, and men fight your battle for you."

"I do not cower!" Thorin shouted. "I wait until the fight is worth fighting for."

"I will not stay here while our kin die," Kili said.

"Will you betray your loyalty to me without so much as a blink?" Thorin growled.

"You refuse to lead us," Kili answered. "In your stead, I lead those loyal to our kin to battle."

"Join us when you see fit, Thorin," Brenen called, the sarcasm and scorn echoing in the halls. "A bender draws strength from around him when he needs it. If you do not believe you can battle Smaug after dripping sweat and blood in the heat of battle, you are weak."

"Get out!" Thorin screamed, blue lighting up Brenen's face as he hurled the lightning bolt. Only stone shattered and crumbled as the dwarves left him alone in the halls of Erebor.

As I happen to be re-watching The Desolation of Smaug, I cannot help but think how similar and unfamiliar this Dragonfire rendition of the story is! I took all my pet peeves and made them loves.

Thanks so much for reading, people, and encouraging me along.

Next Chapter: Dain challenges Thranduil