"This is insane," Kili groused. "You know this is insane, right?"
Fili cracked an eye enough to glance at his brother. "Well, I didn't," he said dryly, "but now that you've said it a dozen or so times I'm beginning to consider the possibility."
Kili gave him a dark look and turned his back. He was standing in front of Lyth, who was sprawled out flat on the ground and looking away, pointedly ignoring him. She'd been informed she wasn't anywhere close to healthy enough to go with them, and wasn't taking it well.
Fili was several feet away, lounging back against Syrath and watching his brother alternately try to get his dragon to talk to him and complain about how insane their plan was. They'd been making final preparations for days, allowing the ground forces to get a head start so the dragons wouldn't leave them behind, all the while hoping desperately they weren't giving the enemy the upper hand while they tarried. Gandalf seemed confident Morgoth and Gothmog were both petty enough to wait for them to arrive, but if he was wrong...
It is pretty insane.
Don't you start. Fili muttered. He shifted, and frowned at the loud squawking that immediately came from the weight settled on his head. He had no idea when Quinlan's son had decided to attach himself to Syrath, or why Fili was apparently included as an annoyingly independent appendage, but he'd already been warned not to question it.
Apparently, the little dragon was quite the smartass.
His eyes drifted over to where his uncle was deep in conference with the other leaders of Middle Earth. He could be over there, if he wished, but had chosen to rest and spend time with Syrath while he could. Lyth wasn't the only one being left behind.
"You heard Gandalf," he said to his brother. "This won't be won by our ground forces."
"Doesn't change the fact it's completely insane," Kili shot back.
Fili shrugged. "What choice do we have?"
Kili muttered something under his breath, gave up on getting Lyth to acknowledge him, and spun on his brother. "Why are you so calm about this?"
"I"m going either way," Fili said simply. "Who cares how we get there?"
Behind Kili, Lyth relented and nudged him on the shoulder, hard enough to knock him forward a few feet. He turned back to her, but not before Fili heard him mutter, "It matters when the way is completely suicidal."
I wish I was going with you, Syrath's voice sounded in his head, forlorn.
It'll be all right. Fili returned. It would have to be. If they didn't succeed, nothing else would matter. Middle Earth would fall to darkness or, worse if the reports about the size of the army waiting for them was to be believed. No one needed an army that big just for subjugation.
No, the battle would most definitely not be won on land. Orcs bred like rabbits, and aged to adulthood almost as fast, able to produce mass numbers in a relatively short time. The kingdoms of Middle Earth were in almost near constant conflict with them in one form or fashion, trying to keep them in check before they overran everything. In the past, the creatures had never been patient enough, or able to control the bloodlust taught to them from birth enough, to plan any real offensives, or collaborations. It somewhat limited their threat and made them marginally easier to control.
It had also, Fili could now admit, made the rest of them complacent. While they had assumed everything was as it had always been, Gothmog had been reining in the orcs, hiding them in the deep tunnels and places of the worlds, building an army the likes of which the world had never seen.
And now, thanks to their blindness, he held a force that no one on Middle Earth could hope to match.
In a straightforward fight, orcs against human, dwarf and elf, the orcs would win. It was not a question of battle tactics, courage or strength. It would simply be attrition, basic arithmetic.
There was no hope down that path, but that did not mean there was no hope.
Middle Earth had one advantage over the orcs, one possible redeeming quality that, if used wisely, could end up being their salvation.
The orcs might rule the land, but the other three races more than ruled the sky.
Orc dragons were small, stubborn and mindless, and incredibly hard to breed or train. The orcs had lost many dragons over the past few months, and a huge amount during the battle for Erebor. While the reports spoke of a monstrous force of orcs in Mordor, there was no such report of an equivalent sized dragon force. There had never been that many to begin with and, even if there had been, they could never hope to truly match the combined forces of dwarven, human and elven dragons. Orc dragons were a fraction of the size, could not fly nearly as high and were generally far easier to kill than any other species. Most dragons refused to even classify the creatures as dragons, considering it a grave insult, and insisting the things were little more than giant insects.
Fili had no idea why Gothmog hadn't spent the same time growing an orc dragon force as he'd spent on the orcs themselves. The task may have been too difficult; powerful as Gothmog might be, Fili doubted he had the ability to increase the birthrate or force stubborn orc dragons into submission. If he had to guess, Fili would imagine Gothmog had simply not considered it worth his time. He had an army four times the size of any currently existing on Middle Earth, and the power of a fallen Valar. Who needed a bunch of orc dragons that couldn't even pose a serious threat?
He could well be right.
But still...there was a chance.
Slim, insane, and suicidal...but a chance.
And Fili planned to take it.
He glanced toward his uncle, and noticed a new figure had joined the group. Tall, thin and dressed in heavy brown robes, the man looked like a slightly younger version of Gandalf, albeit with a brown and white streaked beard and robe. The staff he held was similar to Gandalf's as well, but the crystal on top was unique, as had been the one on Saruman's staff from what Fili recalled. Radagast, the elusive wizard Gothmog hadn't been able to find, had shown up on his own shortly after the battle ended. He'd spoken quietly to Gandalf, the two of them shooting glances off in the direction of Mordor.
"Did you feel it?" Fili, who'd been nearby, had heard Radagst ask.
"I did," Gandalf had answered. There'd been sorrow in his voice, that had apparently surprised Radagast.
"You mourn? Truly?"
"I mourn for the man he once was," Gandalf's reply had been. Talk had turned after that to other topics, mainly something to do with Gandalf's wardrobe change and how no one told Radagast anything. Fili had moved off before they realized he was eavesdropping though, if he had to guess, he probably wasn't as surreptitious as he would like to believe.
"Time to go," Kili said suddenly, eyes also fixed in that direction, toward their uncle who was looking back their way.
Fili nodded. "Yeah."
Reaching up, he gently pulled the baby dragon off his head and set the small being on the ground. The baby promptly turned and bounded away to where his father was resting near Inilth. She and Fingalon and the others left behind in the mountains had made it back earlier that morning. The baby had spent time with both his parents before quietly returning to Syrath to allow his mother to rest. Her injuries were healing well, but she was still tired and it'd be some time before she was back to full health.
Kili reached a hand out and Fili grabbed it and let his brother pull him to his feet. Turning, Fili wrapped both arms around Syrath's neck. You take care while I'm gone. Make sure Lyth doesn't try to follow us.
I'll sit on her if I have to, Syrath said, voice forlorn. You'll come back, right? And Bilba too?
Fili sighed and pulled back to look the young dragon in the eyes. "I'll do my best."
He turned, waited for Kili to say goodbye to Lyth, and then followed him over to the main group. They'd barely arrived before their mother appeared, grabbing both to drag into a rough hug. She would not be going. They could not, in good conscience, simply abandon their people while they went off to fight Morgoth. Especially now. A lot of work would have to happen to restore Erebor, bury the dead, and comfort the suffering. His mother would rule in Thorin's stead and, in the event none of them returned, she would rule in truth as Queen. Legolas had already placed Fingalon in charge behind him, while Elrond had his sons in charge in his stead. Aragorn was the only one who didn't have to worry about succession as his father ruled in Gondor, and would continue to do so in the event of his son's loss.
Middle Earth would continue, even if they did not.
Assuming they succeeded.
If not, then at least their kingdoms would have solid leadership as they faced the end.
Dis released them. "I'd ask you to stay," she whispered, "but what would it look like if I kept my sons home while so many others went?"
She patted them both on the chest, not expecting an answer, and then strode away to say goodbye to her brother and husband before she lost her nerve, or broke down entirely.
Fili looked up and tried to pretend his eyes weren't burning. When he looked at Kili a moment later, he saw his brother's eyes were glassy with moisture, but he fixed his gaze forward, jaw set.
"All right," Fili said, setting himself as well. "What do you say we get this over with?"
"Yeah." Kili sent him a shaky smile. "Sooner we leave, the sooner we get back."
Fili nodded and reached to clasp his brother's shoulder. "Right."
The smile faded and Kili gave him a troubled look. "You realize a lot of this plan relies on things entirely out of our control, right?"
Kili's gaze had moved, fixing on where the baby dragon was touching noses with Quinlan. The massive, battle-scarred dragon pressing into the ground to try, unsuccessfully, to get on his tiny son's level might have been comical had it not been for the utter love and adoration radiating off him toward the tiny dragon.
Past them, Fili saw others, of every race and species saying what could be, and for some would be, their final farewells. Many were crying, some clinging to one another so hard it was a challenge to decipher where one ended and the other began.
In his mind, Fili heard again the words Gandalf had spoken, after laying out his plan and hearing a multitude of loud, and passionate, objections.
"There is but one path to Morgoth, and the cost to travel it will be high."
"What choice do we have?" he repeated, voice a near whisper.
Kili's eyes darkened and Fili knew he was thinking along the same lines. His only response, however, was a simple nod of his head.
Fili watched as the mountains of Mordor came steadily closer.
He rode on the back of Sardin, with Kili seated behind him. The slender dragon had approached him before they left and requested a link. Fili had been startled but had finally shrugged and accepted. They were facing the end of the world after all, who cared about tradition anymore?
Sardin had explained what he and Syrath had decided. Apparently the two were treating Fili like a piece of baggage to be bandied about, but anyone who spent much time with dragons had to learn to expect a small amount of imperiousness, particularly amongst the younger set.
They had set out quickly after that. The drakes had flown highest, with the human dragons the layer below and the elven dragons beneath that. Fili imagined they must make an impressive sight from the ground, a heavy shadow, blocking the sun.
He hoped it would be enough.
They traveled fast and light, with barely any supplies. The ground forces carried more, but even they were only geared for a short battle. Fili doubted they would be able to hold out long, even if everything went perfectly.
The mountains were coming up fast now, looming out of the desert landscape like a great wall of darkness. Below them, through the layers of dragons, Fili caught glimpses of the ground forces, horsemen of Rohan along with dwarves, and humans from Dale, Lake-town and even Gondor. A number of dragons had been sent with them to protect them from aerial attacks as they'd traveled but none had come.
Gothmog was very convinced of his own victory. Such arrogance would either be his undoing, or theirs.
A low rumbling echoed across the landscape and, in the distance, Fili caught sight of the massive gates of Mordor starting to move. They were black, made from solid iron and wide enough to easily fit the trolls on top working the wheels to open them. The screech of improperly maintained metal echoed across the landscape and the slowly moving slabs were so enormous it was more like a building parting down the middle than a set of gates.
If Gandalf were right, Fili thought grimly, a force stood behind those gates that would surpass any army on Middle Earth, or all of them combined.
Twin roars rang out and then a space was opening in the middle of the dragon formation, around Quinlan and Xalanth, who'd dropped into position. They were the largest dragons in existence, or at least the largest anyone knew about, and the ones most capable of the task ahead.
A swarm of orc dragons rose over the edges of the gate and, in unison, the front layers of dragons unleashed fountains of fire at them. Xalanth and Quinlan, both riderless as dwarven skin did not hold up to fire the way scales did, dove through the dead center of the flames and quickly vanished from sight.
An instant later the flames had receded, leaving clouds of ash in their wake. Maybe the dragons were right, Fili thought with dark amusement. Maybe orc dragons didn't deserve the name, not if they couldn't even resist a little fire from their betters.
Xalanth and Quinlan reappeared, suddenly dropping fast, legs up and talons extended. They slammed into the trolls on top of the gate with all the force of a mine collapse, hard enough that a boom resounded. Then the trolls were gone, knocked over the edge of the gates and out of sight.
The two dragons landed, claws scrabbling against the metal for a hold. They turned toward the giant wheels and gear systems that allowed the gates to open, and let loose an ocean of fire. The flames rippled along the metal, incinerating the wooden wheels and melting the gears into an unrecognizable mass of twisted metal.
As Sardin shot over top of the gate, Quinlan and Xalanth turned and sent out new rivers of flame, over the edges of the gate, incinerating those below and giving the armies a chance to get in position. The gate was now permanently locked in a position that would allow only a small, steady stream of orcs to pass. It would still be a numbers game, still a game they were destined to lose, but at least it would make it a little fairer in the long run. Having a land with only one entrance or exit was fantastic for a siege situation where the enemy surrounded you, not so much when you were trying to march your own forces out to meet them.
Behind him, he felt Kili twist around to let out a whoop of joy. First phase successful. Fili looked over his shoulder as well, in time to see Quinlan and Xalanth lean forward and take off from the gates, swooping low over the landscape before lifting to a better height. Xalanth rose through the ranks to be nearer to where Dwalin rode with Thorin, while Quinlan stayed below. At intervals, the dragons on the lowest level sent out new gouts of flame to thin the orc army, and keep down archers. There were also trebuchets, he noted grimly, but none appeared to be currently ready to use. Thorin would have had the trebuchets ready days ago, long before any sign of the enemy. Thank Aule that the orc commanders did not share his uncle's foresight.
As the dragons cleared the gate, he got his first look at the army, and felt his blood run cold.
Gandalf hadn't been exaggerating. If anything, he'd understated the numbers. Orcs covered the ground like a living carpet, a writhing, seething mass of hatred ready to be unleashed upon Middle Earth. If they weren't dealt with, it wouldn't matter if they defeated Morgoth and Gothmog. The orcs alone would be more than enough to wipe out all life entirely on their own.
Fili lifted his eyes to see Mount Doom rapidly dominating his vision. Behind him, he could feel the solid weight of his brother. He didn't know where his father or uncle were. The leaders of Middle Earth, along with Gandalf and Radagast, had been split throughout the layers and spread out as much as possible in the hopes some would survive.
They were fighting to save Middle Earth, and the price for that would be higher than any yet paid.
Fili swallowed, a heavy weight settling in his gut. He was at peace with the possibility of paying that price himself, but he couldn't it being asked of anyone in his family.
The cost would be high, he thought, but, please Aule, not that high.
Bilba and Frerin stood on the ledge outside the entrance to Mount Doom and watched the approaching army. They had been dragged outside when Morgoth, who'd been lounging and behaving like a spoiled royal until then, had suddenly gotten excited. They had emerged from the sweltering cave, where Bilba had spent the last several days convinced she was being slowly roasted, in time to see a wave of fire at the gates.
The dragons had crested over the flames a few seconds later and Bilba had watched them with wide eyes.
Were they really trying a full-frontal assault? Were they completely insane?
She looked beside her to where Frerin stood but his body was tense, and his face grim. His eyes were fixed on the dragons. Neither were bound, as there wasn't anywhere for them to go, and Frerin had wrapped his arms around his torso, fingers digging into his sides.
Bilba felt a presence at her back and glanced over her shoulder to see Azog looming over her. A shudder ran through her and she looked away sharply. Gothmog had finally given Azog a rundown of methods of revenge far worse than death and, ever since then, the orc had been almost unnaturally cheerful. Bilba had no idea what Gothmog had said, but she doubted it was anything good. She'd asked Frerin, but he'd refused to speculate. She wasn't sure if that was because he didn't know, or because he did and simply didn't want to tell her.
"I wonder," Morgoth's voice, lazy and unconcerned as ever, drew her attention, "what it is they think they are doing?"
"Attacking us, I would imagine," Gothmog replied, amused. "Isn't that what we've been waiting for?"
"Is it?" Morgoth mused. "I had expected a challenge."
"Perhaps they know that you're chained," Gothmog mocked, "and not...quite as strong as you once were."
A slow smile split Morgoth's face. Past him, the lines of dragons were nearly upon them and Bilba resisted the urge to scream at them to run. The elven dragons, and some of the human ones, were engaged with some of the orc dragons, as well as with archers on the ground. The rest of the orc army were splitting, a bulk heading toward the gates while the rest were bunching around the base of the mountain, apparently foreseeing the dragons landing on, or near, there. Some were trying frantically to ready the trebuchets but there was no fast way to load one of those and dragons were already taking them out as quickly as possible.
"Is that so?" Morgoth said slowly. "Do they believe I am limited to parlor tricks, like some sort of pathetic Maiar?" He rolled his head to the side as he spoke, giving a derisive look at Gothmog who clenched his jaw in annoyance.
Morgoth chuckled, a bastardized sound with no hint of merriment or light. He stepped forward to the very edge of the ledge. A cold wind, whipped up seemingly from nowhere, spiraled around Bilba, lifting loose tendrils of hair from the mess of braids wrapped about her head. She shivered and shot another look at Frerin, who only gave a brief shake of his head, eyes still fixed outward.
Morgoth lifted his arms a few inches away from his sides, palms facing outward and fingers relaxed and slightly curled. The wind increased, whipping his hair back from his shoulders. A glow lined his body, bringing into sharp relief his muscles and sending glittering sparks of light running along his hair like rivulets of water. It was hauntingly beautiful, and Bilba felt a strange mix of peace and tranquility wash over her.
The feeling was washed away in an instant, when Morgoth spoke.
"Mat."
A short word, deceptively simple, and Bilba's mind automatically translated it from Black Speech to its Common equivalent.
"Die."
A wave of pure, white light rippled out, expanding into an enormous wall stretching high into the sky. There was no escaping it, no outrunning or avoiding it. It passed over the orcs gathered around the foot of the mountain, overran the orc dragons swarming through the air and, finally, rushed through the ranks of dragons coming toward them.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
And then, without sound or flourish, dragons began to fall from the sky.
There was no pattern to it. One dragon would continue to fly, while the one next to it fell. An entire group would fall, while another would remain untouched. Still another would find itself thinned like a gardener clumsily trying to pick weeds and snatching flowers instead. There was no reason to it. Drakes fell next to human dragons, interspaced amongst the now dull forms of elven dragons and the smaller, pale forms that were the orc dragons.
As they dropped, those riding them fell as well, some were caught by others.
Some were not.
Bilba's breath froze in her chest, and her heart stopped. Beside her, Frerin's eyes were wide and fixed, his body so locked Bilba doubted he could turn away even if he'd wanted.
As if standing in the midst of a nightmare, she watched as Morgoth raised his arms and turned to face them, laughing as a cascade of dragons fell behind him like rain from an unexpected storm.
Bilba couldn't stop the stream of tears tracking down her face, but she was proud of herself for one thing.
She didn't give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing her scream.
Not when the dragons began to fall.
Not when they hit.
Not when dwarves, elves and humans rained down, and she heard the screams of frustration, rage and grief from those too slow to catch them.
Not even when Barahir, eyes glazed and body limp, dropped past her to break upon the mountain below.
Not even then.
But she wanted to.
