Amid the battle, Thorin lost sight of the small form of his little 48-year-old brother, and a horrible sinking feeling of dread filled him.

Frerin dodged and ran, opting to simply try not to die as the battle wore on. His energy reserves had run out a long time ago and now even the adrenaline didn't help at all. As he tripped and scuffed his way down the slope, knees shaking and heart pounding, he heard the distinct sound of an orc behind him.

His laboured breathing and fear gripped chest only encouraged him to run harder. Only he couldn't. Why did he always end up running away from a fight?

Thorin would think him a coward, he couldn't help but think. But then, the back of his mind quietly whispered: No, Thorin would just be glad you are no dead.

He honestly had no time to think it over. The pounding footsteps of the lumbering orc nearly made the ground shake. It certainly made the young dwarf imagine hot breath blowing down the back of his neck.

Still, he ran, hoping to out-sprint the beast.

Only, he was a dwarf, and with his tiny stature compared to the orc, his legs could not outrun it.

The next moment, he should have realized he had made a mistake. A grave mistake in even asking to join in the fight with the real warriors. But he didn't. He was far too occupied in thinking of something else.

A tip of a gnarled, silver blade slid out of his chest, and he lurched to a stop in the middle of his step. Frerin stared at it in disbelief. The blade...had entered through his back and...

For some reason, he couldn't comprehend it. It made no sense to his mind and the world felt as though all time had slowed. Also, if he had just been skewered, then where was the pain?

Ah yes. There it was.

Shards of razor-sharp ice seemed to tear through him, a horrible feeling of agony taking over. Then...there was movement.

In a moment of cold horror, Frerin watched the blood-slick blade slide backwards, and out of his body. It was a disgusting feeling. One that left him empty somehow. Almost as though the sword had taken his heart on the way back out.

Numb and horrified, Frerin turned to look into the eyes of his attacker. Vicious grey orbs stared back at him, and the beast laughed, lifting the bloodied blade to its face and licking the length of it.

Frerin gaged, even as the blood drained from his face, and a sick gurgling sounded in his stomach. Not even bothering to turn away, the young prince's throat constricted, forcing the contents of his stomach up. Less than a second later, a metallic taste filled his mouth and he weakly spit, spraying dark red liquid across the orc's face.

It screamed and raised its weapon in anger, preparing to end his short life.

Just then an arrow whistles through the sky, coming to strike the enemy in the neck between two plates of armour. Frerin had not the time to find whether it was a helpful arrow of an ally or simply a stray shaft from the air.

No, he was preoccupied with the vague thought that the white spots in his vision were a most peculiar and irritating result of his pain...which had not let up since he first thought about it.

Wasn't it strange that pain didn't hurt until you noticed it and...Never mind.

He watched while, as if in slow motion, the beast gurgled a roar, and tipped forward, the demonic light gone from its eyes. Its huge body crumbled...directly onto the wobbling body of the young dwarf.

Not having the strength to save himself, Frerin plummeted like a bag of rocks, his back slamming into the hard stone of the mountain foot. A pounding filled his ears, and amazingly, the weight of the creature did not hurt. It certainly was uncomfortable, with the sword digging into his shoulder and all, but in the end, his torso called for far more attention.

Even as he stared at the strangely blue sky, and the sound of battle faded from his mind, he dimly waited as the feeling of his lungs filling with a hot liquid washed over him. Somehow he could not find the strength to feel scared.

Rather, the strange whistling and bubbling sound that claimed his ears when he breathed intrigued him. Until his pain-addled brain realized the severity of what was happening to him and icy fear ground at his heart.

...which was beating at an irregular timing. Although it rushed in terror, it would stumble or pause as though its feet were tangling together.

This thought almost made him laugh...a heart with feet...but the pressure in his chest forced him to keep quiet.

Frerin did not know how long he lay there, a wet puddle forming around him and an orc pinning his legs to the ground, but after what seemed like ages, he heard a name being called out.

By then he was struggling to breathe, and he dared not waste his precious breath shouting to someone who might not even be there.

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It had been two hours since the majority of the orcs had retreated into the mountain. It was obvious that the dwarves had suffered a devastating blow, and they had not even slightly come close to winning the battle.

Thorin was less concerned with the archer orcs atop the outcroppings of rocks, and more with finding his little brother. The thought that he could be dead did not even cross his mind, or rather, he would not let himself think about it.

Frerin was out there somewhere, perhaps stuck in a ravine somewhere, or nearly cherished beneath a pile of dead beings.

Thorin hated to think of the young, black-haired dwarf, bloodied and trapped, wondering if anyone would come for him, or if he would die alone.

Ducking down, the elder prince crept along the edge of a pile of rocks, coming shoulder to should with a grey-haired Balin.

Voice husky from the dry air, Thorin leaned in and whispered in his mentor/friend's ear; "We cannot stop searching until we find him. I will not leave my brother here to die."

"Thorin...what if he is already..?" Balin began hesitantly.

"No. I will not believe it. Not until I see it with my own eyes. Frerin is out there, and we will take him back to camp alive."

"What of nightfall? Twilight is coming quickly."

"Then we shall search through the night and pray the orcs are blind to put movements."

Balin sighed. "Dwalin told me he would return from camp the moment he got the warriors there. He promised to help."

A pang of pain squeezed Thorin's heart at these words, a fear tearing its claws into his mind. He could not help but think that if he had kept a better eye on Frerin, there would not even be time for Dwalin to help look, and he would be safe in a tent on the side of a mountain.

Off the two went, looking and looking around corpses and cracks in the mountain. Soon they were joined by Dwalin, still bloodied and bruised from the battle. In fact, they all were.

Fortunately, this helped them blend in with their less-than-fortunate surroundings.

Then, just as the sun began to sink below the horizon, a whistle caught Thorin's ear. Spinning on his heel, heart thumping madly, he ran for the sound...only to find something he wished he had not.

There, in a mostly open area beneath a tree, knelt Dwalin.

At first, he could not tell what was behind his muscular friend, but he could guess, and naturally, he refused to believe even his own constricting heart.

As he stepped to the side, a horrible sight filled his vision.

There on the ground, splayed out, hair tangled lay a very familiar dwarf. Across his body lay an orc that was clearly dead, and Thorin could not help but notice the grass about the bodies. It was swamped with and dyed a deep red colour.

Shaking out of his frozen position, Thorin ran and skidded to a stop beside Frerin's body. Desperately hoping the blood was not his, the prince shoved the orc from his younger brother's body.

Up until then, Frerin had laid pale and motionless in the arms of Dwalin, but when the creature was moved, a gasp of pain was swept up in the gently brushing wind.

Thorin winced, but he was yet glad. An expression of pain meant the person was still alive.

Pulling apart his brother's leather armour and clothing, a cold chill tickled its way up the older dwarf's arms and back.

Beneath his fingers was a terrible wound, bleeding sluggishly. Even as Thorin could not see inside, he knew from the placement of the would and the colour of the skin around it, that this injury would not easily be fixed. He feared that should it ever be, his brother would suffer breathing problems for the rest of his life.

Wasting no time, Thorin hastily, though gently, scooped up his child brother, and held him to his chest like a baby. His face, which only just showed signs of a beard, leaned heavily on his brother's shoulder. What neither brother noticed nor cared about was the blood soaking through both of their clothes.

Thorin, with Dwalin and Balin close behind, rushed down the mountainside. They had never moved with such urgency in their lives, and they did not know if it would even be enough. The You prince was losing blood quickly and already had the pallor of a ghost.

When they reached the camp of soldiers, that was gut-wrenchingly few, they made a beeline for the healer's tent. There, attending to grievous wounds of others, was a brown-haired Oin.

"Oin! I need you here now!" Thorin shouted, not caring that his tone may disturb or startle the other patients in the tent.

Scurrying over, Oin instructed his prince to place the younger boy on a cot. The table-like object made the young dwarf look tiny, and Thorin has to avert his eyes.

For a long time, Thorin stood unmoving, Dwalin by his side, as he watched his brother be poked and prodded. He hated every second of it, but he had to watch...for Frerin. Frerin detested being touched or inspected by any kind of healer and would avoid it at all costs.

He could not let this happen to Frerin without seeing every motion. He had to stand watch, even if it was Oin doing the inspection. It would not matter to Frerin that the healer was a trusted friend of his.

After a while, Thorin fell into a sort of daze, one that he only snapped out of when Oin spoke.

An apologetic look upon his face, Oin spoke to the watchful dwarf in a hushed voice. "Thorin...there is no more I can do. His lungs are slowly flooding. From here we must wait and let what happens happen."

"No." He could not believe it. Would not believe it.

Oin, with a devastated look on his face, drifted off to care for the other pained patients.

Thorin did not care though. He sank to his knees next to the cot, reaching for his brother.

"Frer...please wake up. Look, I got you back."

As his fist rested over Frerin's bare shoulder, as Oin had removed his tunic to treat him, Thorin began to lose hope that his Brother would answer.

Just as his gaze dropped to the bedsheets, a weak voice spoke.

"Rin. You came. I knew you would."

The raspy grate of the sound was bittersweet music to Thorin's ears.

"I always will."

"Thank...thank you."

A tear slipped down his face and disappeared into his beard.

"You better live long enough for me to be able to. I can't rescue someone who's not alive." Thorin almost pleaded.

"I can't promise that. But I can promise is I believe in you. You'd make a good king Thorin." Frerin whispered, pained gasps breaking up his words.

As his brother's breath grew more laboured, Thorin buried his face in the cloth beside his arm, a keen escaping his throat. "Please...no."

A wheeze left Frerin, and Thorin lifted his eyes once more. Just as the air left his lungs for the last time, and his heart beat its last, Frerin turned to look at his big brother. The fear shone brightly in his eyes, and it wrenched at Thorin so much that he could do nothing to alleviate the pain or terror.

When his bloodied chest fell, never to move again, a cry rang out across the camp.

All soldiers in that campground bowed their heads at the devastated, pleading sound that would forever be kept in the minds of a very few present.

Not for the first time, nor the last, was Thorin's heart broken.

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