With every breath he took another wave of freezing air stung his lungs. His feet were not able to find any grip on the solidly frozen river. His muscles hurt, as did almost all of the joints in his body, from the continuous strain of fighting day and night.

Nothing of that mattered at this moment. His sole focus, the very reason of all his and his kins suffering stood right in front of him. Thorin had not survived the battle of Moria, had not survived the journey towards the lonely mountain, nor the ferocious dragon and the damned gold sickness, just for him to fail here.

The running, the looking back and the continuous feeling of being watched would end today. For his and his sister-sons sake! He would have Azog's head, parade it on a stick in front of the mountain for all to see.

All the dwarven king could see was the ugly and scarred grimace of the pale monster across from him. Azog was smiling. A horn sounded in the distance and the loud marching stepps from an army closed in on him.

"I see now," spat Thorin, "you are afraid. Afraid of a single dwarf, so you had to bring reinforcements to be reassured? Let me tell you something: No matter how many you bring, I will see to it that they all shall have a painful death. And I will start with you!"

Whether it had been his words, or the fact that Thorin did not show the desired reaction, it did not matter. Azog stormed forth, blinded by rage and bloodlust. The orc felt probably superior, as he was larger than the dwarf, but he slid the same on the frozen river.

Thorin was able to dodge the uncoordinated swings from the blade where once his arm had been and from the large stone block on a chain.

He ducked to the left, jumped to the right and rolled right behind the orc. back on his feet he nearly lost his footing again, but instead managed to land a blow. The elven blade effortlessly carved through the pale flesh, cleaved a deep cut into the muscles. Black blood tinted the white snow, splattered from the wound and dripped down, leaving dark rivers of blood running down the back of his leg.

Azog let out an angry scream, whirled around even more furious than before. The orc-blade missed him only slightly and Thorin could feel the sharp stream of air on his cheek.

Rolling out of the way just in time, a hollow impact made him look to the side. The blunt weapon had missed him just by a few centimeters. For a second he stared up to Azog. The orc grinned again, a disgusting sight to see.

The dwarven king rolled further and further, he was given no time to get back onto his feet. Whenever he tried standing up, the stone would impact closer to him. It was as if the pale one was only playing with him. Like a warc would with his prey.

More sliding than rolling Thorin managed to time it just right and got back up. Orcrist grabbed tightly in both hands he dared to launch a counterattack. Azog hadn't expected such a maneuver from his prey, as it did not work the last time he had fought against the dwarf.

With another angry roar Thorin plunged his sword into the side of his enemy. The blade hadn't sunken in as far as he had wished, but at least it had scored him another painful screeching sound from the orc. His muscles ached as he forcefully ripped out the blade in a different angle than it had first entered.

Huffing brought some distance between himself and the bleeding ork. More black blood tinted the ground, painting grotesque pictures and shadows. Thorin had no chance to catch his breath as the heavy object impacted into the ice right in front of him. A small laugh escaped him, so the orc was getting tired already.

Something behind Thorin seemed to have taken over the focus of his enemy. With a blank stare the orc stood there. Tightening his grip around the sword the king did his best to not look back, to not lose focus on what was truly important right now.

A cry pierced through the cold air and a gust of wind grabbed onto some strands on his dark hair and made them dance around his head, hanging wild into his face. Nothing mattered, not even if a troll would appear behind him, climbing up the frozen waterfall. Only the one before him was important, he and the head that would soon be plunged on to a spear.

Underneath his feet it cracked dangerously and out of the corner of his eye Thorin could see how the cracks ran further and further. With a last crunch the ground was no longer only slippery, now it was even moving around like on that damned boat from the barchman.

Azog seemed to have the same problems as the dwarven king, only that his large body weighed more. A plan formed in Thorin's mind. letting go of Orcrist, so that the blade would safely land on the still intact ice, he heaved the stone out of the ice and threw it at the one who had swung it only shortly before.

The pale orc seemed to understand quite quickly, but it was too late. All Thorin had to do was take a step back. Gravity did the rest.

As if he was hypnotized Thorin followed the floating body further downstream. It was as if he had to see for himself like his enemy would fall down, he needed to see how the light in his eyes vanished once and for all.

One step after another. His muscles screamed at him to finally rest, his lungs cried because of the cold and his mind was no more than a fogged mess.

It was over. Finally over. Their enemy was dead. The dragon was dead. The mountain was reclaimed. His home. His kin. Finally they all would be able to get back what is rightfully theirs.

Pain flooded his system. An outcry of disbelief and pain left his throat and tightened his stomach. Grunting he looked down at the rigged blade that had been thrusted through his right foot from below the icy cover.

Stunned he could only watch as the ice broke a second time and Azog lunged out of the freezing water and pinned him onto the ground. With the last reserves of his strength Thorin managed to hold the blade of the orc just far enough away from him so he could comfortably stay alive.

His lungs were only irregularly filled with fresh air. The stinking breath that escaped from the gaping smile of the pale orc made it even harder to breathe than the blade pointed directly at his heart.

Above his head the king could see the eagles circling in the sky. The sound of the battlefield, clashing of metal on metal, cries and screams as well as the iron-like smell of blood flooded his senses. He could hear the dwarven horns, sounding the signal to push even further.

New hope grew in a small corner of his mind. They would win the war, but at what price? Thorin did not wish to lose any more of his family, his friends, or his kin. If he would not end it here today, the tragedy from Moria would only repeat at a later time.

Orcs were not smart, neither did they work especially well together. The only thing holding all of them together was the one threatening his life right now. The one who had dared to threaten his nephews lifes, and the whole line of Durin.

It had to end. Today. Now.

A cry sounded through the haze surrounding his mind. Warm blood trickled down his side and into his shirt, his armor. Something weighed heavily on his chest and made it difficult to breathe. His eyelids flattered as he tried to clear his vision.

The ice cold eyes of Azog were the first thing coming into focus. Next he could make out the surprised expression on the pale face. The mouth was slightly opened and the eyes stared down at the dark haired dwarf in bewilderment. Azog took another jittery breath.

In his hand Thorin could feel the familiar handle from his sword. Like a reflex he had stabbed it into the chest above, and had taken all the remaining strengths to deal the finishing blow. Giving the blade another nudge he managed to roll the large body away from him. This time he would have to make sure the monster was dead for good.

Dying didn't hurt as much as he had figured. Trembling he exhaled as he sat up. His eyes still fixated on the orc. The weight from his chest vanished, oddly enough it now lay on his legs. Looking down he nearly choked on his own voice.

The face was dirty, yes and the golden brown hair with the braids obviously had seen better and probably cleaner days. Even though she did not have a beard, not even a hint of it and she was way older than he remembered, there was no mistaking it. Freya.

Something wet and sticky crept through the fabric of his clothes and as the king carefully lifted her motionless body into his arms and pressed her against his chest, he could see the small puddle of crimson red blood where she had lay.

Shaking he stood, trying his best to keep her steady and not to put too much weight on his right foot. Painfully his left shoulder pushed into his consciousness. as it seemed Freya had taken most of the blow through her armor and somewhere into the torso, but the blade was long, so it was no wonder it pierced right through and into the king as well.

Azog was almost forgotten. He had become unimportant. Thorin only took a short moment to plinge the elven blade even deeper, so it pinned him onto the ground. The light finally left the orc's eyes. It was over. But to which price?

He had no time. She needed a healer. Immediately! Whether dwarven or elven, she needed help. He would not be able to lose her again!