AN: Fun fact - this is one of the first chapters I outlined. It's so crazy to see how my writing style has changed over the years, but this chapter stays mostly true to my original vision.
Warnings: BotFA, y'all. Battle scenes, injuries, goldsick!Thorin
Chapter 29: The Battle of the Five Armies
"Thorin, this is madness!" Balin whisper-shouts. No one has moved to follow their King's command to barricade the entrance to Erebor. The Company anxiously looks from one to another, hesitant.
"I want this fortress made safe by sun-up," Thorin continues, ignoring Balin entirely and staring down the rest of the Company. "This mountain was hard-won. I will not see it taken again. Now, all of you!"
"Thorin," Kíli starts, taking a step back when Thorin's sharp gaze whirls to him. "The people of Laketown have nothing. They came to us in need; they have lost everything."
"Do not speak to me of loss!" Thorin shouts. "I know well enough of hardship. They have survived dragonfire; they should be grateful."
"You gave them your word," Fíli interrupts. "I gave them my word. Are you not an honorable king? Does that mean nothing to you?"
Thorin's eyes narrow. "Things have changed," he says sharply. "More stone. Bring more stone to the gate!" Again, no one moves. "If you will not obey me, I will charge you with treason and rid this place of you," he hisses.
Reluctantly, Bombur and Dwalin move to follow his orders, and the rest of the dwarves eventually follow. Fíli is the last to do so, his eyes locked on Thorin's tense shoulders as his uncle retreats back into the halls. He decides to follow Balin and Bilbo as they gather more debris, throwing stones into a pushcart that, just that morning, they had been using to clear the gate instead.
"We have to do something," Bilbo murmurs once he's sure Thorin is out of earshot. "Isn't there something we can do?" His eyes search Fíli's before he turns to regard Balin, pleading.
Balin gives them both a sympathetic look. "It's the goldsickness. I've seen it before, with your grandfather, Fili. That look. That terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It drove Thrain mad." He angrily throws another chunk of stone into the pushcart.
Bilbo hesitates, eyes flicking nervously between the two of them. "Would it...I mean, if we found the Arkenstone...would it help?"
Fíli gasps, catching his meaning, while Balin chuckles sadly. "That stone crowns all. It is the summit of great wealth; bestows power on those who possess it. Would it stay his madness?" He angrily brushes an escaped tear. "No, laddie. I fear it would only make it worse." He looks sadly to Fíli, knowing full-well that the last hope he and Kíli clung to was that finding the Arkestone would set everything straight in their Uncle's mind once more.
"Perhaps it is best it remains lost," Fíli murmurs quietly, and he physically feels the hope drain away from him. There was nothing more they could do, was there? How else could they make Thorin see reason? He had been cruel to everyone, even to Kíli. It had seemed that Thorin had already forfeited his love for his kin and company in favor of the treasure.
Bilbo nods before looking down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.
They wordlessly return to their task.
He paces along the rampart. He cannot rest. The Arkenstone stays lost to him, and an army of elves sits at his doorstep. They have finished the barricades, but he knows that they do not have the rations to protect Erebor. He has sent word to Dain, but without the stone, his cousin has no reason to answer. If he doesn't...well. Thorin will die before he lets a speck of his treasure fall to Thrandiul, the treacherous snake.
A lone rider makes their way up the road. He glares at him, watching intently before recognizing him as the man from Esgaroth that had spoken out against him.
"Hail, Thorin, son of Thrain!" the rider calls once he is near to the foot of the mountain. "It is good to find you alive beyond all hope."
Thorin doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "Why have you come to the mountain armed for war?" he shouts, waving his arm at the elven encampment.
"Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in like a robber in his hole?" the man retorts, and Thorin feels his ire rise.
"Perhaps because I am expecting to be robbed!"
"My lord, we have no intention of robbing you," the man says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "We only come to seek fair settlement. A bargain was struck, was it not? Will you not speak with me?"
With a glare, Thorin heads down from the rampart as the man dismounts his horse. He passes by the Company, who watch him anxiously, as he walks to the old guard station where a small window remains unobstructed. "I am listening," he says curtly. In his periphery, he can see Balin, Kíli, and Fíli hovering at the entrance to the station.
"I only ask that you honor your pledge. We have been left in ruin. We seek only a small portion of the treasure to rebuild our lives," the man says.
"I will not treat with any man while an armed host sits at my door," Thorin snaps, ignoring when he hears Balin swear from behind him.
The man sighs. "That armed host will attack if you do not honor your bargain."
Thorin laughs darkly. "Your threats do not sway me."
"What of your conscience?" the man implores. "Our children are starving; will you not help them?"
"What aid did the men of Laketown provide my people?" Thorin roars. "When we came to you, starving and in ruins, your ancestors turned us away. Why should we not do the same?"
"You gave us your word!" the man shouts in response. "A bargain was struck -"
"A bargain?" Thorin interrupts. "What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? You call that a fair trade?" He paces angrily. "Tell me, Bard the dragon-slayer, why should I honor such terms?
Bard steps back, shaking his head in disbelief. "You gave us your word," he repeats. "Does that mean nothing?
"Begone, before I let arrows fly," Thorin sneers. "Kíli, to the rampart," he continues when the man hesitates to move.
Reluctantly, Bard stomps away in anger, cursing Thorin with every step, mounting his horse and retreating to Dale.
Thorin whirls around and narrows his eyes on Kíli. "Did your king not give you an order? To the rampart."
Kíli glances to his brother before nodding, obediently taking his place along the wall. Thorin pushes past Fíli and Balin to meet the rest of the Company, which watches him with apprehension.
"What are you thinking?" the little hobbit says, eyes alight with anger. "You cannot go to war."
Thorin walks past him, casting him a dismissive look. "This does not concern you, hobbit."
Bilbo persists. "Excuse me, but in case you haven't noticed there are several thousand armed elves out there. Not to mention a few hundred angry fishermen. You are outnumbered."
Thorin scoffs. "Not for much longer," he says, pointedly ignoring the confused looks the dwarves shoot at him.
"What does that mean?"
He smirks. "It means, little hobbit, that you should never underestimate dwarves."
"Thorin," Fíli interjects. "Let this be. They can have my share of the treasure; that will be enough for them to rebuild. That can be the end of this."
Rage fills him once more. "This is your birthright," he snaps. "I will cut you from my line if you cast it away."
Fíli's face crumples. "Uncle, we can end this. Now. Please, see reason."
"They can have my share instead," Bofur offers, and several others murmur in agreement.
Thorin glares at them. "Is this mutiny? You will have what you were promised." He whirls around, stomping off in the direction of the armory. "We have won the mountain; now we will defend it."
Bilbo watches as the dwarves prepare for war. They are sifting through the pieces in the armory, seeing what is still useful, repairing what they can. No one speaks. He doesn't know what to do; he cannot fight. Sting alone will not protect him from an angry hoard of elves. Perhaps once the fighting starts he will put on his ring and slip away. Perhaps Thorin is distracted enough that he could slip away now.
As if summoned, the King Under the Mountain stands before him. He throws a shiny, silver shirt of chainmail to him. "You're going to need this. Put it on."
Obediently, Bilbo removes his jacket and slips the silver shirt over his clothes. It hangs off of him, clearly too large. "I look absurd," he sighs. "I'm not a warrior, Thorin."
The king seems to ignore him. "This shirt is made of silver steel. Mithril. No blade can pierce it."
"Then perhaps it should go to someone who will last longer in the fighting," Bilbo says darkly.
"It is a gift," Thorin says, his voice suddenly soft. Bilbo glances up in surprise; he had not heard such warmth in Thorin's voice since they'd come to the mountain. "A token of our friendship. True friends are hard to come by," he adds.
But just as abruptly, Thorin's eyes harden.
"I have been blind, but now I am beginning to see," he says sharply, eyes frantically roving from one dwarf to the next. "I have been betrayed!"
A lump forms in Bilbo's throat when Thorin fixes his glare on him. "Betrayed?" he ekes out, fearful that Thorin somehow knows.
His glare shifts back to the company. "One of them has taken it. One of them is false."
"What?" Bilbo says quickly, wits returning to him. He sees that Thorin's glare is focused on Kíli, who is fletching as many arrows as he can, deft fingers making quick work.
"Betrayed by my own kin…" Thoin mumbles.
"No, of course not!" he interjects. "Thorin, you made a promise," he says, shifting the conversation away. "You are one of the most noble and honorable people I've ever known," he admits, and Thorin's gaze is soft again when it returns to him. "Is this treasure worth more than your honor? Our honor? I was there, Thorin; I gave my word."
"And it was nobly done; for that I am grateful," Thorin admits, clapping a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "But this treasure does not belong to the people of Laketown," he continues, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder tighter. "This gold is ours, and ours alone." His tone shifts, becoming dark and foreboding, reminding him of Smaug. "With my life, I will not part with it. Not a single coin."
Bilbo swallows thickly. He knows what he must do. Tonight. He will go tonight. It is the only thing he can think of that might end this war, that might return Thorin to himself.
And if it doesn't work, he hopes the battle will take him swiftly.
Atop the wall, Fíli stands close to his brother. They had tried to mend and tailor the armor, but it still looked too big on his little brother. His little brother who wasn't even of age, who shouldn't be here.
He bites his lip, remembering the conversation they'd had the night before. Promises that they would watch the other's back, that they would protect each other. That they would go together, or not at all. Promises Fíli knew they had no control over whether they could keep or not. And this morning, they had embraced each other, both murmuring every term of endearment they had ever heard to the other.
He kicked himself. He had thought of going behind Thorin's back to try and treat with Bard privately, but Dwalin had talked him out of it. He was too important, could be used as collateral - there was no guarantee that Thranduil wouldn't return with Fíli's head on a spit, just to incite Thorin's ire.
Discreetly, he reaches down and squeezes Kíli's hand. Thranduil and Bard are nearing the gate.
Thorin whirls around suddenly and snatches Kíli's bow from his other hand, reaching over him to pull an arrow from the quiver. He fires it in Thranduil's dorectopm, where it embeds itself in the dirt before his horse.
"The next one will be between your eyes," he sneers, before shoving Kíli's bow back against his brother's chest, giving the unspoken command that he is to kill the elven king if he continues forward. Fíli fearfully watches as Kíli shakily takes a step forward, to stand beside Thorin, pulling an arrow free and raising his bow.
With a smirk, Thrnaduil gives a signal to his men, and Fíli's heart drops when he sees their archers take aim in the distance.
Thorin growls in frustration, but reaches over to lower Kíli's bow. Fíli lets out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
Thranduil positively grins as he signals for his own men to stand down. "We've only come to tell you that the most gracious payment of your debt has been offered and accepted."
"What payment?" Thorin snaps. "I gave you nothing. You have nothing." Frantically, Fíli searches for Bilbo, heart sinking when the hobbit gives him a knowing look.
Bard pulls the Arkestone out from under his coat. The morning light gleams off it, sending prisms about, making the dwarves gasp at the sheer beauty of it. "We have this," Bard says simply.
"Thieves! That is the heirloom of our house," Dwalin shouts angrily. "That stone belongs to the King!"
"And the king may have it, with our good will," Bard continues, before slipping the stone back inside his coat. "But first, he must honor his word."
Thorin howls with rage before turning back to regard the company. "They are taking us for fools," he sneers. "This is a ruse; a lie. The stone is still within the mountain."
Bilbo steps forward. "I...it's not a trick. The stone is real," he says, eyes flicking nervously between Thorin's and the floor. "I gave it to them."
Thorin jolts back like he has been struck. Fíli watches, helpless, as a myriad of emotions flash across his face - hurt, anger, betrayal, despair...he cannot stand it.
"You?" Thorin asks, disbelieving, looking more like a small child before his face hardens into absolute rage. "You would steal from me?"
"I didn't steal it," Bilbo says, raising his hands. "I may be a burglar, but I'd like to think of myself as an honest one. No, I...I took it as my fourteenth share." He hesitates, but keeps his gaze even with Thorin's. "I'm willing to let it stand against my claim."
"Against your claim?" Thorin barks, before dissolving into a dark, humorless laugh. "You have no claim over me, you miserable Shire-rat!" He takes a step toward Bilbo, hands shaking.
"I wanted to give it to you!" Bilbo shouts. "Many times! But…"
"But what?" Thorin snarls, and when he steps toward Bilbo again, Fíli grabs his arm, pulling him back for a second before Thorin wrenches himself free with a shout.
"You are changed, Thorin! The dwarf I met in Bag End would have never gone back on his word," he explains, voice breaking, eyes shining with tears. "He would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin."
"Do not speak to me of loyalty," he hisses angrily, voice dangerously low. "Throw him from the rampart!"
No one moves. "Thorin," someone says, tone soft and disbelieving.
"Do you not hear me?" Thorin shouts, eyeing the company, settling his gaze on Kíli, who barely shakes his head. "I will do it myself," he snarls as he steps toward Bilbo once more.
Fíli grabs for his arm again, pulling him back once more, as Kíli rushes forward and pushes back against their uncle's chest. Thorin's arms flail wildly, eventually freeing himself from Fíli's grasp and shoving Kíli roughly to the ground.
"I curse you!" Thorin shouts as he grasps Bilbo by his coat, and Fíli can hear the deep hurt in his voice.
"Thorin, no!" Kíli yells as he begins to drag Bilbo to the edge.
"Cursed be the wizard that brought you to my company!"
Suddenly there is a bright light, and a voice booms out. "If you do not like my burglar, then please return him to me."
Thorin roughly shoves Bilbo to the ground, whirling around to regard their visitors once more. "You," he snarls, recognizing Gandalf now joining Bard and Thranduil. "You orchestrated all of this, didn't you? Never again will I have dealings with wizards!"
"You're not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you?" Gandalf asks.
With Thorin distracted, Fíli sees Bofur help Bilbo back to his feet. "Go," he hisses under his breath. "Get him out of here!" he says to Bofur, eyes pleading. It's not a moment later that Bilbo is using a rope to climb down the rampart, fleeing from Erebor.
Fíli reaches down to help Kíli stand as well, pulling him back, away from Thorin, positioning himself between his uncle and his brother.
"Fee," Kíli says softly, and he feels Kíli's hand grip the arm of his sleeve.
"Are we resolved then?" Bard calls out. "The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised to our people."
Thorin says nothing, but Fíli can see how his shoulders shake with rage.
"What say you, King Under the Mountain?" Bard tries again. "Give us your answer. Will you have peace or war?"
A large black crow flies in front of the rampart, landing before Thorin.
He laughs. "I will have war."
"Fíli," Kíli calls from behind him, and Fíli turns to regard his brother. Kíli is absolutely terrified, and he can see the sheen of tears in his eyes. Without hesitation, he presses their foreheads together, hand squeezing the nape of his neck.
"It's going to be okay," he says, but he knows Kíli doesn't believe him. He doesn't believe himself.
Then, from behind him, there is an uproarious shout, and Thorin's laughter grows even louder. Fíli turns to see another army ascending the hill, led by none other than Dain.
Dwalin paces angrily, like a caged animal. And they were, weren't they? Trapped within the mountain as the sounds of battle raged outside. He couldn't believe Thorin's cowardice. Dain's army, their kin, who had come to their aid, now faces an onslaught of orcs and other foul creatures, and Thorin wanted them to sit here and wait.
"Let them fight amongst themselves," he had said, before disappearing into the halls once more.
He'd had enough; with an angry huff, he treks through the halls to find Thorin, easily finding him sitting on the throne, Thrain's crown atop his head, staring at nothing.
"Since when do we forsake our own people?" he shouts as he approaches the throne, not bothering to hide his anger. "Thorin, they are dying out there."
"There are holes beneath holes beneath holes within this mountain," Thorin mumbles, seemingly ignoring him. "Places we can fortify. Shore up; make safe. Yes; yes that is it," he says. "We must move the gold further underground to safety."
"Did you not hear me?" Dwalin calls again, standing directly in front of Thorin now. "Dain is surrounded. They are being slaughtered, Thorin."
Finally, Thorin looks up at him, and Dwalin can see the madness in his eyes.
"Many die in war; life is cheap," Thorin says, sounding weary. "But a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost. It is worth all the blood we can spend."
Dwalin steps back, mouth agape. "Is it? Is it worth my blood? Fíli's? Kíli's? You sit here in these halls with a crown upon your head, and you are lesser to me now than you have ever been."
Thorin's eyes narrow. "Do not speak to me as if I were some...some lowly dwarf lord," he says, getting to his feet, though he staggers a bit, as if drunk. "As if I were still just...Thorin Oakenshield. I am your king!"
"You were always my king!" Dwalin shouts, unashamed of the tears that are in his eyes. "You used to know that once." His voice breaks. "You cannot see what you have become."
Thorin's brow furrows in confusion, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe, just maybe he has gotten through to him. "Go," Thorin utters darkly. "Go now, before I kill you."
He doesn't want to, but he doesn't trust that Thorin won't make good on his threat. Dwalin scoffs softly, shakes his head sadly as a few tears slip loose, then he turns to take his leave of Thorin and rejoin the Company.
He stares at Dwalin's retreating back, his oldest friend's words echoing through his mind.
You are lesser to me now than you have ever been.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Dwalin was wrong. It was he who could not see; Thorin had been betrayed, it was him who had been wronged. Dain had only brought his own men so that he could stake his own claim to Erebor, he was certain of it. With the Arkenstone in the hands of men, Dain could easily take it, and all would be lost, lost, lost. It was better to let the orcs and elves take them out; it was better to let them all kill themselves so that Thorin would be the last standing, and he could reclaim the Arkenstone.
Is it worth my blood?
How could he even ask that? Dwalin knew what he had agreed to when he joined the Company. They had talked of nothing other than reclaiming their homeland since their youth, and now Dwalin doubted whether it was worth it? Of course it was. He must just be frightened; that is the only explanation. He staggers to his feet, walking aimlessly to try and recenter his thoughts. His head throbs. Maybe he was making a mistake. He feels sick.
Fíli's? Kíli's?
His wandering carries him to the Gallery of Kings, over the freshly-cooled floor of gold. He smiles, seeing his reflection in it, admiring how kingly he looks with the crown atop his head. No, no; he was right. Would it hurt to lose the boys? Of course, but if that were the price of this treasure...he could pay it.
But then he remembers...remembers the first time he'd held Kíli in his arms as a tiny, newborn dwarfling. How terrified he had been at the thought that he might not survive the winter. How he had almost lost him in battle before. How his heart had once shattered at the mere thought of a world without Kíli. And now...now it was an acceptable price? He could live in a world without Kíli's warm smiles, without his touches and embraces that lasted just a touch too long? Was it worth that?
He stares down at his reflection on the golden floor. It feels like his boots are sinking in, like thick mud, trapping him.
And Fíli...Fíli who had followed him into this mess, who had trusted him implicitly his entire life. Was it worth his life? Smart, responsible, Fíli, who had never failed him, who had always pushed himself to the brink to please Thorin, who had taken every additional, impossible responsibility that Thorin had thrust upon him with grace and humility. Fíli, who made him stronger, who made him better. It...the gold...it was worth losing that. Wasn't it?
The gold seems to pull him in deeper, no longer solid, but molten. Pulling him down, down, down...suffocating him, crushing him…
With a gasp, he rips the crown from his head and throws it aside, the room returning to normal as it clinks across the floor. He struggles to regain his breath, the realization of what he's done, what he's gambled washing over him.
It wasn't worth it. None of it.
"I don't care what Thorin says," Dwalin says, pacing the room once more. "I am not staying here and letting Dain's army die for...for this." He gestures around the hall, hands shaking. "I would rather die out there."
Balin gives Fíli a knowing look. "Perhaps it is time to continue down the line of succession," he says evenly, though there is a glimmer in his eyes. "Thorin's mind is far afield. He is lost to us now. We can not give him more time to come to his senses; not without leaving our kinsmen to die."
Fíli sucks in a deep breath, catches Kíli's eye. He knows it's the right thing to do. He knows, but his heart aches. He was never meant to be king without learning under Thorin's rule first. Then Kíli looks away, focusing at something behind his shoulder as he gets to his feet.
He turns, and spies Thorin returning to the entry hall, sword drawn. It would not surprise him if Thorin had overheard, if he were coming to accuse the Company of treason. He prepares himself for a fight, gathering every bit of confidence he has as he approaches Thorin.
"Thorin," he starts, fighting to keep his voice strong. He can feel Kíli's comforting presence behind him. "I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us. It is not who I am - who we are," he says, gesturing to the Company behind him. Closer now, he can clearly see Thorin's face; he looks almost...normal? Like himself. Hope renews itself in his chest; he thinks he might burst into tears at the sight. "It is not in my blood," he finishes, voice breaking, relief flooding him when Thorin smiles. Not the crazed, manic smiles of days past but a real, genuine smile. His uncle's smile.
"No, it is not," Thorin agrees. "We are sons of Durin, and Durin's folk do not flee from a fight." He reaches out and grabs Fíli's nape, touches their foreheads together tenderly. "I am sorry that I forgot myself," he whispers.
Fíli's withheld sob breaks through. "Uncle," he murmurs, returning his embrace.
"I am so sorry," Thorin murmurs again as he pulls his head away, before reaching for Kíli and dragging his tearful brother into their embrace. "I love you; the both of you," he whispers fiercely. "More than any treasure within this mountain. I swear it."
Fíli doesn't want to let go. While he knows the battle may very well take them, it sits so well within his soul that Thorin has returned to them. That he had found peace, that he had remembered himself. That he had remembered them.
Eventually, Thorin takes a deep breath to steady himself, then separates himself from the lads to regard the Company. "I have no right to ask this of any of you," he says, voice thick with emotion. "But, will you follow me? One last time."
He's met with roars of celebration from the Company, before being embraced by each of them in turn.
All too soon, they are focusing on the task at hand. They must bring aid to Dain's men, even if there are only 13 of them. It's quick work for them to get armored up, to get their weapons in order.
"Fee," his brother calls from behind him. When he turns to regard him, he's struck once more by how young Kíli looks. He prays to Aule that they will make it out of this alive. He hasn't forgotten Kíli's oath. He hasn't forgotten his purpose as the spare. He knows Kíli hasn't, either. He knows that if he or Thorin are in danger that Kíli would protect them with his last breath, with every ounce of strength that he could muster. With them being so outnumbered, he can't imagine how Kíli survives this. He honestly isn't sure that any of them will survive this. Together or not at all, they had promised.
There are tears in his brother's eyes, and without a second thought he gathers him into his arms, breathes in his scent, commits him to memory. Just in case.
"Look at me," he says, and Kíli does. Fíli cups his cheeks in his hands, studies his face.
"Fíli, whatever happens out there," he starts, but Fíli shakes his head. He's saying goodbye. "No, listen to me!" Kíli continues. "I...I need you to know. Just...whatever happens, it's not your fault, okay?"
Together or not at all.
"Stop," Fíli whispers, feeling fresh tears coming; he hopes that if Kíli departs for the undying lands that he won't be far behind him. He presses a kiss to his brother's forehead. "I love you," he says quietly.
"I love you too, nadad," he replies, reaching up to cup Fíli's cheek as well. His lips quirk up into a small smile. "Don't do anything stupid."
Fíli chuckles lightly, feels the icy vise that's wrapped around his heart ease just a bit. "Isn't that usually your department?" he asks, smile growing wider when Kíli laughs. He pats his brother's cheek, then touches their foreheads together once more. "Watch my back, won't you?"
Kíli's answering smile is genuine. "Always."
The pale orc laughs as he mows down several of Dain's soldiers, turning to point his mace at him. Thorin rights himself, staggers to his feet. The fighting has lasted for hours, and he is wholly exhausted. With the help of the men and elves, they had managed to beat back the orcs and goblins, but there was still Azog to deal with. Dain had spotted him atop Ravenhill, leading a second wave of goblins and orcs to the battlefield, and they had diverted a few dwarves to handle the onslaught.
He had lost sight of Kíli and Fíli in the fighting. He trusted that Dwalin had stayed with them, that he would help protect them.
Because now, Thorin's eyes were singularly focused on the orc filth. The others could handle the rest of them; Azog was his. He would avenge his grandfather, avenge his brother, who had died at the hands of that murderous beast. Then he could be at peace.
The orc spits something in Black Speech at him, bearing its teeth in a feral smile. "This one is mine!" he shouts in common, again pointing his mace at Thorin.
He readies his sword, braces himself for Azog's onslaught. As expected, the pale orc rushes at him, throws his full weight behind his sword as he leaps at Thorin, who is able to use Orcrist to block his blow and force him to the side, sending the orc tumbling across the ground. Azog growls.
"I will end you, Oakenshield," he hisses. "I will end the whole of your filthy line!" He curses in Black Speech again.
Thorin sets his jaw, rebalancing himself so he can advance on the orc. If Azog knew of Fíli and Kíli...no; it did not matter. Thorin would strike him down, here and now atop Ravenhill. With a shout, he raises his sword and swings it mightily at the org, only narrowly missing as Azog rolls to the side. Thorin doesn't relent and swings again, successfully knocking Azog's mace from his hand and sending it skittering across the battlefield.
He is met with a well-placed kick from the orc that slams right into his side, forcing the air from his lungs as he careens to the ground. He is quick to get back on his feet, frowning when he sees that Azog has grabbed a scimitar from a fallen goblin and is ready to fight; the score evened once more.
He steps back, resetting his footing as Azog advances; successfully parries the scimitar and puts the beast on the defense again. "Men shmek menu!" he shouts as he swings his sword down, cursing once more when Azog is able to block the blow. He doesn't relent, slashing his sword down again, but Azog is able to evade him every time, and on his final swing he misses, and Orcrist slams down into the dirt. He turns with a huff and raises his sword once more, but is met with the blade of the scimitar piercing his abdomen, just below where his armor protects him.
He staggers back in surprise, dimly reaches down to touch the wound, and is dismayed to see his hand come back stained with blood.
Azog laughs, throwing his head back in celebration. "Death to dwarves!" He raises the scimitar victoriously.
Mustering as much strength as he can, Thorin lunges forward again, swinging Orcrist in a graceful arc that succeeds at separating the foul creature's head from his neck. His head thumps lowly on the dirt of the battlefield, a grin still fixed on it's wretched face.
Thorin sinks to his knees, relief flooding him. He's done it. He's killed Azog. He's done it!
He presses his hand over the wound in his stomach, frowning. It's a lot of blood. Too much. He is too far from the mountain, too far from aid.
A few orcs are advancing on him, weapons drawn, howling in Black Speech over the death of their leader. He uses Orcrist as a crutch in an attempt to get to his feet.
Then a fearsome roar sounds from behind him, and the Bear-Man bursts forth.
They both have a moment to catch their breaths; there are no enemies advancing on them at the moment. Fíli knows that he should be scanning the field, but he looks his brother over instead. Kíli doesn't look too worse for wear, aside from the smattering of blood caking the dark hair at his temple and dripping into his eyes. He reaches up subconsciously, wiping some of the blood and dirt from Kíli's face, ignoring the soft hiss of pain as he does so.
"Come on, lads," Dwalin says, reappearing behind him, readying his axe. "It's time for the big one."
Fíli turns back to the battle, sees that the next wave of orcs and goblins are led by the other pale orc - Bolg, Fíli thinks Gandalf had called it. It rides atop a white warg, with a handful of other mounted orcs. Most of the troops appear to be goblins, quick work for the dwarves. If they can kill Bolg, if they can cut the head off the snake, they may well win this. It is no small task; the wargs add an additional challenge, for those creatures knew only bloodlust.
He readies his twin blades, nodding to the other dwarves who are holding the line with him, before running to meet their enemy head on. "Du bekar!" he shouts.
It's chaos on the battlefield. The only constant is Kíli at his back; he can feel his brother's presence throughout the fighting. Dain's men fight valiantly beside him, but still, some goblins manage to take them down.
After much fighting, they have managed to decimate most of the evil forces. Only two of the previously mounted orcs, a smattering of goblins, and Bolg with its white warg remain. The pale orc shouts commands in the Black Speech, before dismounting his warg and pointing his sword at Fíli. "Are you ready to die, princeling?" it growls, twisting its face into something akin to a smile.
Thinking quickly, Fíli drops a sword and grabs one of the throwing knives from his vambrace, hurling it with deadly aim at Bolg, who manages to deflect it with his mace before advancing on Fíli. He draws his sword again and runs to meet the charge, striking at Bolg with each of his blades. The beast manages to parry him, though Fíli has him off balance now, so he does not relent. He swings again, this time managing to slash the beast across its torso.
His victory is short-lived as Bolg howls with rage, swings his mace and slams it directly into Fíli's left shoulder. He can hear the bones break, and his sword falls from now-useless fingers. Regaining the upper hand, the orc punches him, and Fíli careens into the blood-soaked earth. He scrambles to right himself with only one arm, fingers scrabbling at the dirt to find his sword, but it is just out of reach and he catches nothing. The orc continues to advance on him, and Fíli frantically tries to think of his options. He doesn't want to die here.
Then, a yellow-fletched arrow lodges itself into Bolg's chest, followed quickly by a second, then a third. The orc sinks to his knees, shouting something Fíli does not understand as he yanks an arrow free. The ambush districts Bolg long enough that Fíli remembers the knife stowed in his boot - one Kíli had made him ages ago. With a fearsome cry, he grabs the knife and lunges forward, stabbing it into the orc's neck and dragging it along, ignoring the spray of blood. Bolg sputters for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, before he falls over backward; dead.
Then a sound breaks through the rushing in his ears - a scream. Kíli's scream.
He whirls around, blood turning to ice when he sees Kíli trapped in the white warg's jaws. He stammers back to his feet, grabbing his sword as he runs as fast as he can to his brother's aid. Dwalin gets there first and smashes his axe over the warg's head. Kíli tumbles limply to the ground, dropped by the warg as it turns its focus to Dwalin. His weapons master slashes at the beast with his axe again, then, with a pitiful wail, it falls to the ground.
"Kíli!" he shouts, rushing to his brother's side, heart leaping in his chest when he sees how pale he is. His armor is bent and dented, punctured by the warg's fangs. Then Kíli coughs, and it's a sputter of blood. "No," he murmurs, using his good hand to brush Kíli's hair from his face. "No, no, no, no, no. Hang on, okay?"
"Fee,"Kíli whispers, somehow sounding calm and terrified at the same time. He draws in a ragged breath, then coughs more blood.
Fíli bends down and touches their foreheads together, a few tears falling onto his brother's dirty face. Distantly, he hears the dwarves cheering of victory. "We won, nadadith," he murmurs. "Because of you."
Heavy footsteps come from behind him, before a warm, familiar hand rests on his shoulder.
"Dwalin," he murmurs, reluctantly pulling away from his brother to regard his weapons master. "Dwalin, I can't carry him. You have to get him out of here. Please."
"I've got 'im," Dwalin promises, voice thick with unshed tears. He squeezes Fíli's shoulder. "Can you manage?"
Fíli nods. "It's only broken," he explains, but when he looks at his arm he sees that his sleeve is stained bright with blood. More blood than he had thought.
"Look," Kíli whispers, his glassy eyes on the sky. "The eagles…"
But he cannot bear to look away from his brother, away from Kíli's bloody face, away from the soft, half smile that plays on his lips.
"Come on, my boy," Dwalin murmurs, gingerly gathering Kíli into his arms. His brother hisses in pain, coughs more blood, and the smile drops away.
"Dwalin," Kíli murmurs, sounding delirious. Fíli fears he's lost too much blood already. His only hope is that Dwalin can get him to the mountain, can get him to Oin and the healers quickly enough to spare his life.
"I'll send someone for you," Dwalin promises as he adjusts his grip on Kíli, but Fíli shakes his head.
"Just get him help," he says, and Dwalin hesitantly nods, clearly reluctant to leave Fíli alone, before rushing back to the mountain.
He'll be okay, he tells himself, his head starting to swim from the blood loss. Dwalin will get him to the healers. They'll take care of him. His body feels strangely heavy, so he lets himself sink down to rest on his back. Overhead, the eagles are circling, occasionally swooping down to pick off the last of the orcs and goblins. The dwarves are already singing drinking songs. He can hear similar shouts of victory from the elves.
They won. Thorin had returned to himself. Kíli would be okay; Dwalin would be sure of it.
Little bits of black start to creep into his vision.
They won. The mountain was theirs. He had helped bring his family home. He had restored his mother's legacy.
He smiles. His vision darkens further, and it is almost as if he can feel his mother's worn hands carding through his hair.
They won.
Someone calls his name just as everything fades to black.
AN: Stay aliiiiiiiiiiive…
Only one more chapter to go, friends. I am nearly sobbing now thinking we are at the end. I am almost certain of which ending I will use. Almost.
I still struggle with goldsick!Thorin and writing battle sequences, so hopefully this one was okay. I also had to pull a lot of dialog from the movies, which I also have a hard time with.