So this is The Chapter. Warning for gun violence, knife violence, zombie violence, arson and related injuries...this is gonna be a rough one. I highly recommend listening to Time's End by Theophany, it's an apocalyptic and emotional song that goes really well with this chapter. I'll see you guys on the other side.

Chapter 37

Thorin plunged his knife into his attacker's throat, feeling a hot splash of blood on the back of his hand. The man choked, arms twitching uselessly. Thorin spared another moment to stab him through the head, then dropped his body to the forest floor.

Azog's men were closing in, but he'd managed to pick off more than a dozen. Most of the men were untrained, nothing more than thugs wanting blood. His real focus was finding the bastard leading them.

Sheathing his knife, Thorin raised his rifle and made another short sprint down the mountainside. He was nearly back to their hiding place near the door, but he couldn't see anyone from his group. He hoped that meant they'd all made it to the cars, and that they'd be able to make it out before the walkers or Azog's men reached them.

They needed to get out of there while they still could. Thorin would have joined them, but…

He glanced at the hulking outline of the door in the fading light, and pain streaked across his chest. He couldn't leave without Bilbo.

Gunfire sounded from the lower slopes, and he cursed under his breath. Either the herd had reached the mountain, or his family was being attacked by the living—neither was ideal. And though it pained him immensely to do so, he turned away from the door and sprinted down the slope.

The forest was painted in shades of gray and dark blue. The sun had disappeared below the horizon, and every twitching shadow made him tense. Thorin rounded a sloping pile of boulders and froze.

The walkers had arrived in full force, standing thicker than the trees as they stumbled up the slope. As he looked around, he could see a dozen scattered about, moving faster than the rest of the horde.

Farther down the slope were the wavering, twisted remains of the chain link fence. The herd had bulldozed over it like it was paper. Between their shifting bodies, there was no sight of the cars, or his family. He'd veered away from the road a while back, and had lost track of that, too.

Biting back a curse, Thorin darted forward to drive his knife into the nearest walker's skull. There were too many of them. Between the dead and the remainder of Azog's men, the fact that he had no idea where any of his family was or if they were dead or alive… The grating edge of panic was beginning to bite into his consciousness.

Thorin took in a slow, unsteady breath and took down another walker. They were all survivors. He would have to trust in that until he found them.

Movement in the corner of his vision made him turn. Thorin wasn't sure if it was some deep-rooted instinct or the fact that he'd been fixated on Erebor for so long, but he managed to catch the exact moment that the door swung open. Hope spilled like light through his chest. He was far enough down the slope that the door was only barely in his line of sight, so he raised his rifle and looked through the scope to get a better look.

The man stepping through the door was not Bilbo. He was tall and muscular, and he had a pair of silver canisters strapped to his back, connected with a tube to a rifle-shaped tool in his hand.

Smaug.

Thorin lowered his rifle, ears ringing. If Smaug was the one stepping through the door, wearing that cold, triumphant smirk, armed and unhurt, then that meant Bilbo…

A walker lunged at him from the side. Thorin caught it at the last second, shoving it against the tree and crushing its skull with the butt of his rifle. Before the cold body had even hit the ground, he was running. The forest and the walkers around him blurred to nothing, no more than walls in the tunnel of space between him and Smaug.

He was going to kill him. With every breath he took, the vengeance that seared the insides of his lungs, he knew that he wasn't going to stop until Smaug was dead.

Unbidden, Bilbo's smile flashed in his mind's eye. For a brief moment, he could see it so clearly—Bilbo brushing a spot of dirt from his nose as he knelt in his garden, Bilbo rolling his eyes as one of Kíli's pranks, Bilbo leaning up to kiss him with that affectionate gleam in his eye.

I want this for you. Because I love you.

Tears welled up unexpectedly, and Thorin swiped them away with his free hand. He wouldn't allow himself to grieve—he didn't deserve to grieve—until all of this was over.

A walker stumbled forth from behind a tree, and Thorin rammed into it with his shoulder, forcing it back. But its fingers clamped around the strap of his rifle, making him stumble forward. With a growl of frustration, he jabbed his knife in between its eyes and yanked hard against its death-hardened grip.

By the time he managed to disentangle himself, a crowd of walkers had surrounded him.

There was no fear in him. Anything other than rage felt incredibly distant at the moment. Thorin gripped his knife, his handgun in his other hand, and let blood fly.


"Wait!" Fíli dug his heels into the dirt, and Víli's grip on his arm finally faltered.

His father turned back to him with a wide-eyed, exasperated expression. "Fíli, we have to go."

The gunshots behind them had grown more distant as they'd run, but the guilt and anxiety in Fíli's chest had only increased, until it felt like an animal trying to claw its way out through his ribcage. "We can't just leave them there," he said in between pants. "Thorin and Bilbo need our help."

"Thorin is one of the toughest men I know," Víli said. "And he's gonna find a way to get Bilbo out of there. My job is to keep you safe." He stepped forward, gripping both of his shoulders, eyes shining with a fierce light. "I'm not gonna let you get hurt again."

The pain in his voice was enough to deflate some of Fíli's resistance. He couldn't deny the fear racing through his veins, how it had nearly overwhelmed him as soon as he'd realized what was happening. The same men who had marked him with bruises and blood twice were flooding into the woods, and the thought had pushed him to the edge of an all-consuming panic.

I have to be brave. Fíli gripped his gun. The words were feeling more flimsy each time he repeated them to himself, and he felt a sudden spurt of shame. For all his brave words back at the motel, he couldn't keep it together when it actually counted.

"Let's regroup with the others," Víli said, bringing him back to the present. "There's strength in numbers. We'll find them, and then we'll come back for Thorin and Bilbo. We're not going to leave them behind."

"Okay," Fíli said, feeling slightly numb, and they broke into a run again.

The woods were growing dark now, and more than once they stumbled against a hidden branch or a dip in the ground covered by leaves. Víli's grip on his hand was slick with sweat but strong, and Fíli was grateful for it. At the moment, it felt like his dad was the only thing tethering him to reality.

When a figure appeared through a gap in the trees, Víli stopped and pulled him down so quickly he felt his arm jerk painfully in his socket.

"Sorry," Víli muttered, but both of them were more focused on the person moving downhill. After a moment of squinting, they realized it wasn't one of Azog's men, nor was it one of theirs. It was a walker, and as they watched, more stumbled into view.

In the fading light, Fíli's eyes found the barest glint of auburn, and he watched as Nori raised his gun to shoot at something out of sight, then grudgingly lean on Ori for support.

"It's Nori and Ori," he said, turning to his father.

"The walkers must have cut them off before they could reach the cars," Víli said, then grimaced. "God dammit."

"We have to tell them about Azog," Fíli said. He searched Víli's face, half-hoping for the rest of their plan. He wished Thorin was still with them—he had always been the tactician.

Víli only nodded grimly. "Let's go."

They started off down the slope. As they came up on a trio of walkers, Fíli raised his gun and shot one in the jaw, while Víli finished off the other two. The gunshots would attract more, but he didn't think there was any hope of sneaking past them.

They started running towards where they'd last seen Nori and Ori. Before he'd gone more than a couple feet, Fíli felt cold fingers wrap around his ankle. He cried out as he lost his balance, hitting the ground with enough force to send pain jarring up his elbow.

"Fíli!" Víli started back towards him, but he paused as another pair of walkers cut him off.

Fíli glanced over his shoulder. The walker he'd shot before was missing half its jaw, blood oozing in thick clots from its neck, but apparently he'd missed the brain. He sat up, fumbling for his knife, and sunk the blade into the walker's skull before it could bite his ankle.

Breathing hard, he pushed himself to his feet and turned around. "Dad?"

There were more walkers than before, nearly a dozen of them, and more filling the clearing. Desperately, he scanned the mass of gray skin and dead, roaming eyes, but he could see no sign of Víli.

"Dad!" he called again, and stepped back as the walkers turned on him. There were too many to take on by himself.

Panic lodged itself in his chest, each breath whistling past it as he turned to run. He needed to find a way to circle around the group of walkers, make it back down the slope to his family.

Víli was probably waiting with them. He was probably worried about Fíli.

He ducked under a low-hanging branch and made for a ridge cluttered with pale stones. Hopefully this would take him to higher ground, where he could get a better sense of his surroundings.

And hopefully none of their attackers would catch him. Fíli shivered as fear bristled on the back of his neck. Between the shots from near the vent and the ones his family was firing down below, the noise had become little more than chaos, and it was hard to discern anything from that alone.

He pushed himself up, using a fragment of a root for balance, and too late felt the stone beneath his feet shift and come loose from the soil.

"Shit!" He flailed for a handhold, but there was nothing to hold onto. He tumbled down the side of the ridge, wincing as his arms scraped against the rock.

The impact against the ground was enough to knock the air from his lungs, then throw him onto his stomach. Fíli gasped for air, then stiffened as the smell of rot overpowered his senses. A growling weight pressed against the center of his back, while another pair of cold hands grasped as his legs.

"No," he choked out, scrambling to turn himself over. Both hands shot up to grasp the first walker's neck to push it away. He kicked out desperately, and the edge of his sneaker caught the second walker and forced it back. A sharp pain dug into the back of his arm, but he ignored it for the moment. Wincing as his fingers dug into the greasy, cold flesh of the walker, he fumbled for his knife and jabbed it into its eye. Shoving it to the side, he picked up his gun and shot the other walker before it could lunge at him again.

He swung his weapon to the side, eyes scanning the trees for other enemies, but for the moment he was safe. As his thundering adrenaline began to quiet, he realized blood was running down his arm, dripping off his elbow into the dead leaves. He was bleeding. The walker had—

Horror stole his breath a second time. Fíli let out a choked noise, staring at the dark droplets collecting on the ground. He reached over to feel the wound, then pulled back. He didn't want to feel it. He didn't want to know—

The memory of the RV flashed into his consciousness. He could see with nauseating detail the blood dripping from Ori's hand, how pale and shaken he'd been after…after…

They were going to have to cut into him like that, assuming it wasn't already too late.

He could breathe now, but the air was only coming in short gasps, thin and insubstantial, and dizziness swirled in between his temples.

Another walker lurched from the darkness, but before Fíli could react, a bullet tore through its brain from the side. A second later, Sigrid appeared, her gun raised and ready. When she caught sight of Fíli, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Hey. You okay?"

It still felt like he couldn't get any air. It was all he could do to say, numbly, "I-I think I'm—I'm bit."

Sigrid's eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder. "Dad?"

A second later, Bard came into sight, followed by Bain and Tilda. He took in Sigrid's wide-eyed expression, then turned to Fíli. He knelt down next to him and lifted his arm slightly to check the wound. "Just a piece of wood. You must have fallen on it, fighting off those roamers."

"What?" Fíli asked, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

Bard motioned to Sigrid, who pulled out a roll of bandages. He took it, then squeezed Fíli's shoulder. "You're not bit, son." His face was set in a grim mask, but there was a spark of reassurance there, too.

As carefully as he could, Bard pulled out the piece of wood, though Fíli still winced. Then he wrapped his upper arm, his movements swift and sure. As he worked, Fíli felt his racing heart begin to calm a little.

Bard sat back on his heels once he was done. "That'll have to do for now."

"I need to find my dad," Fíli said, reaching up to rub at the bandage. "We got separated, but—"

Bain tensed as something flashed in the woods below. "Dad, what the hell is that?"

Bard stood up to join Bain and Tilda, who were standing guard. Something about seeing the younger girl holding a gun, standing in the middle of all this death and chaos, made Fíli's stomach churn. He looked up as Sigrid offered a hand to him, and let her pull him to his feet.

He stiffened as the forest brightened. Stepping forward, he could see a bright orange cloud roar to life, painting the trees with flames. A man with a flamethrower was standing at the edge of it, standing calmly as if he were only watering flowers. A few walkers were caught in the blast, and they continued to stagger forth as if they hadn't even noticed, fire climbing their bodies. The light began to draw more of the dead, who stumbled towards the burning brush like rotting moths.

"Holy shit," Fíli whispered. Thorin's notes had described the man in the Erebor to be a pyromaniac, an arsonist. That had to be Smaug.

But if Smaug was out here, than that meant Bilbo…

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, eyes filling with tears. He was too late. If he'd managed to reach the vent a few minutes earlier…

Bard swore under his breath. "That maniac is going to light the whole mountain on fire."

Fíli took in a shaky breath. His family was down there. "I-I have to find my dad."

Bard shook his head with a stern glance. "There's too many roamers, not to mention the fire. You'd never make it."

"But—"

Sigrid put a hand on his arm. "My dad's gonna take him out. We can find your family after."

"I'll need you all to cover me while I line up my shot." Bard glanced to the side as Tilda shot an approaching walker. He turned back to Fíli. "Can I count on you?"

Though it pained him to do so, Fíli nodded. None of them would be safe if the forest was on fire, and stopping that from happening would be a hell of a lot easier than taking out the herd or Azog's men. Already, smoke was beginning to filter through the air, making him cough.

"Let's go." Bard drew his gun and began moving. Bain and Tilda flanked him, while Sigrid took up the rear, and Fíli hurried to follow. The four of them moved in perfect synchronization, covering each other and taking out each walker that stepped too close.

They sprinted up the slopes, close to the ridge where Fíli had fallen. He found himself scanning the woods not only for walkers, but Víli, like he was going to step out from behind a tree any moment and sweep him into a hug. He would have given anything to see anyone from his family.

Bard motioned for them to halt on a relatively flat piece of ground. He unslung the sniper rifle from his shoulder, set it on the ground, then lay down on his stomach. Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid took up their positions around him, and Fíli awkwardly joined them.

"Hey," Bain said, and when Fíli looked at him, he continued, "We got split up from your people when the roamers showed up. But I'm sure they're still out there somewhere." He gave Fíli a small, reassuring smile.

"Yeah." He tried to return the gesture. At the very least, he was glad he wasn't alone anymore.

More walkers filtered through the trees, and each fell to one of their bullets. Fíli clenched his jaw and tried to keep his hand steady. Every walker he killed was one less that could put his family at risk. He had to hold onto that.

Bard was taking deep, controlled breaths, lying almost perfectly still as he took aim. Below, the fire was spreading, and Fíli could feel the heat lick at his skin. A haze of smoke was pouring into the sky, obscuring the stars and the autumn moon.

"Cover your ears," Bard said. The four of them complied, though Fíli still turned to look as Bard pulled the trigger.

His palms weren't enough to completely drown out the gunshot, but what came next nearly knocked him off his feet. Below, the clearing ignited, a white-hot blast tinged with orange flashing through the trees. A wave of force made him stagger, and he turned to see Bain bracing Tilda with his body.

As the explosion died down, smaller flames flickered in the radius, releasing a plume of gray-black smoke into the upper boughs. A few charred remains of walkers caught in the blast were scattered among the blackened undergrowth.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Bard stood up and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

"Dad…" Sigrid lowered her hands from her ears, looking slightly breathless. "That was really fucking cool."

Bard gave her a tired but affectionate smile and turned to Fíli. "Let's go find your family."


An explosion thundered through the forest, and Thorin instinctively ducked behind a tree. He was exhausted, more of him covered in blood and grime than not, but adrenaline was still thrumming beneath his skin.

After dispatching the group of walkers that had ambushed him earlier, he'd been hacking his way through more of the dead, trying to cut a path towards the trail of fiery destruction Smaug was leaving behind him. He'd had every intention of giving the man the most painful death possible, but it seemed someone had beat him to it.

Staring at the blackened epicenter of the explosion, Thorin leaned against the tree and took a moment to catch his breath. He'd lost his chance at revenge, but he still needed to find Bilbo—even if it was only his body left. His throat tightened at the thought, and he pushed himself into a run again.

The smoke was growing thick in the forest, making it hard to breathe, but Thorin kept his gaze fixed on the door. It was still partially open, and all he had to do was make it inside—

Something collided with him from the side with enough force to send him skidding across the dirt. Thorin winced as loose rocks and wood scraped against his arm, but the expression turned into a snarl as he took in Azog's glinting eyes above him.

He raised his rifle, but Azog was faster. He wrenched the gun from his grasp, pinning him down with his weight, and threw it to the side. His right fist came down and cracked across Thorin's jaw, hard enough to send stars wheeling through his vision. Pain throbbed on the left side of his face, but Thorin ignored it in favor of blocking another punch. He wrapped his arm around Azog's, hooked a leg over his ankle, and rolled over, so their positions were reversed.

Thorin snatched the knife from his belt and brought it down with every intention of driving it right through Azog's heart, but Azog managed to divert the blow at the last second. The tip of the blade dragged across his chest, leaving a streak of blood that immediately began leaking through the fabric of his torn shirt. The sight of it, the red line in the smoke-darkened forest, put a spark to the viscous anger Thorin had been harboring ever since they'd lost the warehouse.

With a roar, he slammed his fist against Azog's face, and the pain that seared his knuckles was lost in the fiery anger consuming him. He drew back for another strike, but Azog's hand had darted towards Thorin's belt—towards his handgun.

He had to use both hands to divert the shot, which flashed inches from his side. But the movement was enough to send him off balance, and Azog punched him hard in the chest with his free hand. Thorin toppled to the side as the breath was knocked out of him. Azog pushed himself up, rising like a lurking forest predator, and kicked at Thorin's wrist. The knife skidded into the undergrowth.

Fighting the pain radiating from his arm, Thorin rolled over and began to push himself up. Azog's foot came from the side, driving into his ribs, and Thorin fell with a choked grunt. Exhaustion was making his movements sluggish.

Azog kicked him again, in the stomach, in the chest, in the back, until the air had been driven from his lungs. "How many of my people have you killed?" He sounded breathless too, but in a twisted way, like he was a second away from laughing. "More than I have yours. And I'm still winning."

Breathing hard, Thorin tried to push himself up again, but Azog pressed the heel of his boot to his shoulder and gave a hard shove, sending him rolling to the ground.

"I think I'll take this place too, once I'm finished with you. Still haven't decided what I'm going to do with the rest of your people, but I think the kid—"

Somehow, Thorin found his footing, and lunged upwards with a roar. Azog twisted, using his momentum to throw him against a tree. He stepped forward, pinning him there with one forearm against his neck.

He raised Thorin's gun and fired twice.

It felt like a blow to the stomach at first. Even as warm liquid began to trickle onto his skin, Thorin hadn't realized what had happened yet.

But there was still the anger.

He looked into Azog's eyes, seeing that same cold, vindictive victory that he'd worn dragging Fíli out of that car, shooting Dori in the head, spilling blood at the train station…and hatred seeped into his bones.

Thorin grasped the knife on Azog's belt, his skin molding against the unfamiliar, cold handle, and drove it into Azog's stomach.

Azog hissed through his teeth, shock eclipsing satisfaction, and his lips contorted into a choked scream as Thorin dragged the knife upwards as far as it would go, until it scraped against bone and Azog stumbled out of his reach.

He struggled for breath, hands grasping uselessly at the blood pouring from his abdomen, the glistening shapes of his intestines beneath. His wheezing lips stained with red, he collapsed.

As Thorin watched, his rage began to ebb. It felt as though the adrenaline was the only thing keeping him afloat, like he was chest deep in barely-contained panic. He turned to leave the clearing and make for the door to Erebor.

Bilbo. I need to find him.

He'd only made it a little ways before an all-consuming tearing sensation, like a bundle of lightning bolts, lanced through him. The pain was enough to make his ears ring. Blackened fingers crept to the edge of his vision.

When he came to, he was slumped against a tree, each breath renewing the agony that had settled like a ball of hot iron in his gut. Blood had soaked the bottom of his shirt, and was trickling past his belt. He could taste the metallic tang of it at the back of his throat.

Thorin reached behind him, fingers scraping against bark, and tried to stand. The boughs were filling with smoke, the red flicker of fire illuminating the sides of the trees. He needed to make it to his family.

He needed to know they were safe.


Bilbo took another shaky, calming breath and wrapped his hand around the handle of the knife.

He'd been trying for the past several minutes to pull it out, but even the slightest movement of the blade caused a sharp pain to shoot through his hand and up his arm. He was stuck at an awkward angle, too, having to keep his forearm flat against the floor to avoid jostling the knife too much.

Though he wasn't sure, it seemed his hand had stopped bleeding, and most of it had collected in a small puddle on the floor, sticking to his palm and the pads of his fingers. It would probably start up again once he finally managed to pull the knife out.

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and took several more deep breaths as nausea threatened to rise again. He pressed one hand over his mouth, fingers brushing against the dried tear tracks on his skin. He couldn't be sick. He couldn't spend any more time panicking when his family was out there, when they needed his help.

He sent another panicked glance at the door, half-expecting to see Smaug standing there. More than anything, he needed to get out of here before that psychopath returned. Though if he did come back, that would mean…

No. They're going to be fine. Bilbo grit his teeth and grasped the knife handle again. He pressed down as hard as he could with his injured hand and pulled. The blade didn't budge. With a groan of frustration, he tried wiggling the knife a little, and pain shot through his hand.

"Come on. Come on, you can do this." Bilbo reversed his grip on the knife so his thumb was closest to the floor. He imagined Thorin was there with him, an encouraging hand on his shoulder, and pulled with all his strength.

The knife finally came loose, sending a streak of blood to splatter across the floor. Bilbo cried out and tossed the knife away, then cradled his hand to his chest as blood began to leak down his wrist. The knife had hurt coming out just as much as it had going in.

He allowed himself ten seconds to catch his breath, then stood on shaky legs. He paused a moment to grab his gun, more for a sense of security than anything, then stumbled through the door.

Passing through the storeroom beyond seemed to take both an eternity and no time at all. Everything seemed a little too sharp, a little too bright. Bilbo pushed open the door to the kitchen and paused. Broken ceramic covered the floor, leaving a trail like ocean foam from the shelf he'd knocked over. Gingerly, he stepped over the mess and took a moment to search the cabinets. He found a white cloth, probably used for cleaning, and tied it around his hand the best he could.

His breaths were coming in short, uneven gasps, but he pressed on and shouldered his way through the doors to the cafeteria. He was free now, and he needed to get as far as he could.

It took about the same sort of short eternity to make it down the hall and up the stairs. Bilbo made his way towards the entrance, and paused as he smelled smoke.

The door—a thick, square slab of metal—was open, revealing the darkened forest beyond. Bilbo stepped onto the threshold and swayed on his feet.

The forest was on fire. It was only a relatively small section, but it was enough to send a thick haze of smoke spurting into the sky, while a thinner haze of it hung just above the trees. A few scattered gunshots peppered the crackling of the flames.

Gunshots. It wasn't a good sign by any means, but it meant that someone was alive down there.

Bilbo raised his shirt to cover his mouth and nose, then descended into the forest. He first checked the place where they'd been hiding originally, but there was no one there.

He went on, searching the trees for any sign of life—or death. The distinct scent of rotting human flesh grew stronger as he walked, and he guessed the herd Dwalin had mentioned had finally arrived.

The realization struck him that he hadn't felt this alone since the beginning of the outbreak, when he'd been living by himself. And now, walking among the darkened trees with only fire to guide his path, he was beginning to feel like the last person on earth.

Bilbo stopped in the middle of a clearing, despair weighing on his shoulders. Everything that had happened since…since they'd left the farm was threatening to crash down on him. He was exhausted, alone, and his hand hurt like hell.

The fire was growing, snarling across the brush with a brightness that nearly hurt his eyes. He turned away, blinking against the stinging smoke, and his eyes fell on a body slumped against a tree a little ways away.

The breath left his lungs, the force of it nearly sending him to the ground.

"Thorin." The next thing he knew, he was running, his fatigue forgotten as he crashed to his knees next to him. "Thorin, oh—"

His stomach was soaked in blood. The parts of his face that weren't swollen with bruises were frighteningly pale, so much so that Bilbo would have thought he was dead if not for the labored, uneven breaths shaking his chest.

"Thorin." Bilbo put both hands on his face, careful of his bruises, and lifted it. "Talk to me, please. Say something."

His eyes were glazed with pain, but after a moment, they flickered with recognition. "Bilbo." Even through the weak murmur, the relief in his voice was palpable. "Y-You're alive."

"Yes. I'm fine." And he meant it, because it was really all relative at this point. "I'm okay. We need to get you…" He looked down at the wound, and his stomach turned as he realized the severity of it. "Oh. Oh, shit."

There's too much blood. He's lost too much blood. Bilbo pressed his hands against the wound anyway, and Thorin let out a pained grunt. The sound nearly made him flinch and pull away.

"I'm sorry," Thorin ground out, like every word he spoke took some astronomical effort.

"Shh, it's okay." Bilbo pressed down harder, and horror welled in his throat as blood continued to run along his palm.

"I…I shouldn't have led you all here. It…It was selfish. I never wanted to put you in danger like that."

"I know." An idea struck him, and he fumbled to undo Thorin's belt. He wrapped it around his stomach, right over the wound, and fastened it as tight as could.

Thorin let out another strained noise, this one weaker than the last, and pulled in a ragged breath. "Please, just—"

"Can we talk about this when you're not bleeding out?" Bilbo scanned the trees, as if Óin was going to magically step into sight. "We need to get you help."

"Bilbo." Thorin lifted a hand and placed it on Bilbo's shoulder, like that was the highest place he had the strength to reach. "Please don't let me turn."

"No." His voice finally cracked, and he held Thorin's hand in both of his. He pressed Thorin's fingers to his lips, uncaring of the blood on his skin, or the tears trailing down his own cheeks. "Don't say that. You're going to be alright."

Thorin leaned forward, and Bilbo rested their foreheads together, willing every ounce of strength he had left to be given to him. His next words were nearly inaudible.

"I love you."

Bilbo opened his mouth, but Thorin's eyes had slid closed.

"No, no, no, Thorin, stay with me." Bilbo grasped his shoulders, shaking them slightly, but there was no response. "Please, I can't—"

He sat back on his heels, the smoke-filled clearing whirling around him. A rattling sob choked him, driving the air from his lungs. When he breathed in, something more built in his chest.

Bilbo turned to the empty, flaming forest and screamed. "Help!"

The walkers would hear. Whoever had hurt Thorin would probably hear. But he didn't care, as long as there was a chance it would reach his people.

A wild desperation drove him to his feet, and he screamed for help again. His blood-slick hand fumbled for the knife at his belt, nearly forgotten in the chaos. He would cut down anyone, dead or alive, who tried to hurt them.

He nearly lunged forward when two figures appeared from the gloom, but he froze when he realized it was Dwalin and Bombur.

Bombur's eyes widened when he caught sight of him. "Bilbo! What the hell happened in there?" His eyes fell to the bloodied cloth wrapped around his hand.

"I—" Bilbo blinked. His run-in with Smaug and the hole in his palm suddenly seemed very distant compared to Thorin's peril. "I-It doesn't matter. Thorin needs help. He's injured."

The two of them finally ascended the slope and laid eyes on Thorin. Dwalin swore violently and knelt down next to him, checking his pulse.

"We need a doctor," Bilbo said, nearly tripping over his words. "We need to find Óin. Where is he?"

"We need to get him to an infirmary," Dwalin said. "We'll take him into Erebor. Bombur, get his legs."

Bilbo's fingers twitched, desperate to do something as Dwalin hooked his hands under Thorin's arms. Seeing him so pale and lifeless, blood glistening on his hands and stomach, made a cold sensation wash over him. "W-What about Smaug?"

"He's in about forty pieces right now. Just find Óin." Dwalin shot a searching glance at Bilbo, as if affirming that he was up for the task. "We'll be waiting inside."

He watched for a moment as they began carrying Thorin's body up the slope, then turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, towards the fire.

"Óin!" he shouted, pushing himself to go faster even as the smoke began to sear his lungs. Despair began to trickle in again. How was he supposed to find one man in a burning forest filled with walkers? What if, by the time they both made it back to Erebor, Thorin was already dead? What if Óin was dead?

His footsteps faltered. Bilbo leaned his palms against his knees, wincing at the stab of pain in his left hand. He swallowed, though his throat felt suddenly dry.

He would have to try and make for the cars. Perhaps some of his family had taken shelter there. It was, at the very least, a starting point.

He began to run again. It was getting harder to see and breathe with the fire, and he tried his best to skirt around it.

"Bilbo!"

He turned to see Fíli sprinting towards him, eyes wide. Behind him were Bard and his children—but that was it, Bilbo noted with some disappointment.

He scrambled up the slope to meet them. Sweat was running down the back of his neck, despite the cool weather.

Fíli barreled straight into him, nearly knocking him over. "I-I thought you were dead."

"I'm alright." Bilbo held him tightly for a moment, then pulled back. "Have you seen Óin at all?"

"No." His face fell slightly. "I-I haven't seen anyone. Why? What happened to your hand?"

"Thorin is hurt." Just the trio of words made something shudder deep in his chest. "He needs a doctor."

"Well, let's go look for him." Fíli glanced at Bard, as if he was looking for permission or assurance.

"We'll go with them," Bain said. "You need to get Tilda inside. The smoke's getting bad out here."

Tilda was leaning against her sister with her scarf over her mouth, her features pinched with discomfort.

Bard looked between his two eldest children for a long moment, then glanced at Fíli and Bilbo. "Is it safe inside the mountain?"

"Safer than out here," Bilbo said, impatience thundering along with his pulse. He cast an anxious glance down the side of the mountain.

"Let's go," Fíli said.

"Be safe." Bard took Tilda's hand and started with her up the mountainside.

Bilbo made sure Fíli, Bain, and Sigrid were ready, then led the way down the mountainside. A different worry tumbled into his mind with each step. His thoughts were consumed by Thorin, but his concern for the others was beginning to trickle in. And then came the fear that he was leading these three children into an even more dangerous situation.

Sigrid swung her gun to the right, searching the trees. "I saw something."

They all turned to follow her gaze. Bilbo put a hand on his knife, fearing it was a walker (or worse, a group of them), but it was only Víli staggering through the trees.

"Dad!" Fíli called, running towards him.

Bilbo was right on his heels. "Víli, have you seen—"

Víli turned towards them with a snarl, and Bilbo reached out to pull Fíli to a stop. The rest of his sentence caught in his throat, thick and heavy with shock.

The skin between his neck and shoulder had been torn away, and a waterfall of blood soaked the front of his shirt. There was blood around his mouth, too, a dark, terrible red beneath his clouded irises.

"Dad," Fíli said again, his voice cracking.

Bilbo couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He could only stare as Víli stumbled towards them. There was no anger, no violence in his expression. There was none of his humor or steely, compassionate determination. The muscles in his face were slack, expressionless, because he was dead, Víli was dead, and he was—

"Dad, please," Fíli rasped. Víli was only a few feet away, now.

Numbly, Bilbo tried to pull Fíli back. They needed to get out of here. But his limbs wouldn't respond. It felt like he'd been buried alive.

Víli reached them and paused, just for a moment. Bilbo wondered distantly if there was still a part of him behind those blank eyes that knew them, that didn't want to kill them.

Or perhaps he was just deciding which one of them to eat first.

Fíli was crying in erratic, wheezing sobs, fumbling for the gun on his belt. He stared at Víli as he approached.

It was only when Víli laid his hands on Fíli's shoulders that Bilbo was able to move. He grabbed Víli's arm, nearly recoiling at the stiff chill of his skin, and tried to pull him away.

"I-I'm sorry," Fíli sobbed. And before either of them could do anything, he pressed the barrel of the gun beneath Víli's chin and pulled the trigger.

Had a lot of commentary for this chapter, but I don't want to fucking type any of it. All I'll say is that I cried writing that last scene. I'm...sorry.