Hey there guys! I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I last updated – it has been a very, very busy month featuring lots of work, a bout of illness (nothing serious, just annoying) and, excitingly, finally finishing a first draft of my own novel! Still needs an awful lot of work, of course, but it's nice to be able to say I'm getting there. Anyway, I'm back now, and though I struggled with this chapter I'm finally happy to put it up. As ever, please forgive any typos, and I hope that you enjoy it!
Chapter One Hundred and One: The Wounded and the Weary
The cool red glow of the morning bled out onto the plains before Erebor, glinting off of the rubble and the ruins, and glancing over the faces of the dead. Most of the corpses beyond the mountains were those of orcs, their black armour blending one body into the next until they took on the appearance of a vast, dark sea. There were cresting waves of piled warriors in places where a particularly talented dwarf had made a stand, and islands of scorched earth where the flash-flames of Erebor had landed, and soon the crows would come to feast on the dead, a shadow of the gulls of the sea.
Beyond the ocean of the orcs were the bulk of the bodies of the Easterling army, many of whom had been stuck with the swords and scimitars of their 'allies' before the dwarves could ever reach them. What remained of the barricade of the armies of Mordor was adorned with the bodies of its creators, but fire of the dwarves gnawed at the dark wood with ravenous hunger, sending the barricade crumbling to the ground, and devouring the bodies in its path.
The trail of the dead continued up into Dale. About a hundred of the bodies were stone cold long before morning, but not all who had been slain in the city had been felled by Nori, Dori and Bofur. Others were crowded in mangled piles in the streets, cut down as they fled from the ire of Fíli and the dwarves who followed him. They had left none alive.
None, that was, except the women they found, and a small handful of unarmed slaves who had been discovered cowering beneath the altar of an old temple. On Fíli's orders, the dwarves marched them down to the dungeons, deep in the rock beneath Dale, and there they were locked until further notice. Some of the women were obviously the wives of high-ranking generals or soldiers, proud and cold, and adorned with stolen gems. Most were younger, dirtier, and quite clearly terrified beyond measure.
The dwarves left the prisoners there, secure in the dungeons, and made their way back down through the city – back onto the battlefield. As the adrenalin of battle began to wear off, they looked out and felt grief puncture the swell of victory within them.
There before them, lying broken in the blood of their foes, were one hundred and twelve dwarves of Erebor. They had been among those who had followed Fíli in their last, desperate hope, and they were those who had fallen in the fighting. Five hundred still followed Fíli, and now they found a path to each of the fallen, lifting them up from the battlefield and cradling them in weary arms. A few still clung to life, and their faces lolled against the chests of their brothers in arms as they were carried back home, but most were already gone.
So many were dead.
And in each of their hearts, the dwarves of Erebor knew that those who fell on the battlefield had been the lucky ones. Most had been warriors by trade, and those who were not were at least of age, and fighting by choice. Unlike those who died in the mountain.
The dwarves who marched back home knew that they were marching towards a bloodbath, towards women and children and old folk who had been butchered in their homes, and cut down as they fled screaming through the streets. For some – for many – they were marching back towards their own murdered families.
Some of them already knew it, and marched bowed beneath the weight of their grief, but others did not yet know their families' fates, and bowed to fear instead.
Yet even as they bowed, they marched, making their way home with all the strength that they could muster, and as the sun rose higher into the morning few of them had ever hoped to see, Fíli reached the gates of Erebor. Standing outside them, before the rubble, was a single dwarf, and as he raised his hand in greeting, Fíli felt relief flood over his entire being.
Thorin.
As he raised his own hand in reply, a lump rose in Fíli's throat, and he took a deep breath.
He wanted to run to his uncle, to fall into his arms and cling to him with all the strength he had left. He wanted Thorin to rock him from side to side, to stroke his hair and tell him that it was over now, to comfort him before the despair of what he had seen and heard and done could seep into his heart.
But he knew he could not have that. He was the Crown Prince, and his uncle was King, and it would be Fíli's duty to wait until they were alone to seek comfort. He had held it together for the entirety of the battle, and that was why his people had followed him. They needed to see him strong, imperturbable, they needed their Lion Prince.
And he could hold on. He could hold on until he got home, at least.
But moment he got within arm's reach, Thorin's face crumpled, and the king fell forward, snatching Fíli into his arms. With no trace of decorum or majesty, Thorin squeezed him so tightly that his ribs hurt, and sank his fingers deep into Fíli's hair.
"Fíli," he whispered, and his voice shook slightly. "Fíli… I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you."
The strength in Fíli's knees gave way for a moment, and he fought to keep the tears at bay as he clung to Thorin. "Thank you, Uncle."
For a wonderful moment, a safe moment, he returned the embrace, but then he forced himself to pull away, and bow low, and Thorin bowed his head in return. Then, with a small smile, the king turned, and led Fíli and his troops through a small path in the rubble at the gates, and back up into their mountain.
The entrance hall behind the gates was teeming, filled with soldiers both dwarf and man running to and fro, and as soon as Fíli and his men spilled inside, a group of two dozen dwarves surged forward to begin to seal the gap in the gate.
Thorin turned to address Fíli's troops, but before he could speak, Dwalin surged forward from the throng, wrapping the king into a great bear hug.
"Thorin! You should have seen him… Fíli – the lad was like one of the Valar!"
Fíli felt his cheeks glow pink as others around murmured in assent and he shook his head slightly. "I did only what any dwarf would do for his people. I saw a chance to charge, and prevent them returning with reinforcements, so I took it."
"And freed both Erebor and the city of Dale," pointed out Dwalin, still grinning. He clapped his hand onto Fíli's shoulder and shook him slightly.
"I heard," Thorin murmured, smiling proudly. "And I saw." Then, the king drew himself up and placed his hand over his heart, addressing the throng of weary soldiers. "Thank you, my brothers and sisters. We have won a great victory today, one that few deemed possible, and the cost is even higher than I feared. However, Una's Doors remain secure, and no blood was spilt behind them. Those within the sanctuary know of our victory, any by their will we will keep them sheltered there until we can be sure the danger has passed. There may yet be orcs in this mountain, and we will not let them touch one more child!"
A roar of furious assent rose behind Fíli, and he added his own voice up into it, anger and grief and despair swelling within his heart at the thought of all the children already lost, and of those still sheltering in Una's Halls, when they should be tucked up in bed.
When it was quiet again, Thorin continued. "Would that I could send you all to rest, but our work is not yet done. For the wounded, Lord Balin has set up a temporary healing house in the First Ballroom, and healers are being escorted up from Una's Halls as we speak. When we are certain it is safe enough, those with enough strength will be moved to the Healing Halls, but for now, take all who are wounded to the First Ballroom. The dead are being laid in the Hall of Kings. Those of you with strength left to fight, report to Lady Rúna in the Great Guard Hall – she is heading the hunt for any scum left within our mountain, and more importantly the search for survivors. I know your hearts are heavy, for mine weighs more than the mountain, but I implore you, children of Durin, to hold to your strength, and make safe this city."
A sombre call rose up from the crowd, and when the king bowed his head, the army bowed back. Then, they began to disperse, and despite his fatigue, Fíli knew he would be heading to the Great Guard Hall.
Before he could take a step, however, Thorin took his arm, and glanced at those directly behind. "Ehren, Bragi, Dwalin, if you would wait too, a moment." The others nodded, and Ragan hesitated for a moment, before bowing low.
"I will be with Lady Rúna, should you need me," he said to Bragi, squeezing his son's arm for a moment before disappearing into the crowd.
Thorin's eyes lingered on Ragan's back for a moment, the grief in his gaze growing heavier, and then he turned to look at Ehren, and Fíli's heart sank down into his stomach. He knew that face, that face that meant news beyond simply 'bad', that face that meant news of death, and from the way that the colour drained from Ehren's face, Ehren knew too.
"I'm so sorry, Ehren," the king said softly, stepping forward and squeezing Ehren's shoulder tightly. "Your father… he fell in the fighting. He's gone."
Ehren flinched as though he had been slapped, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away. Grief striking him in the heart, Fíli reached out for Ehren's hand, feeling his friend's fingers tremble as they wound around his own. Even as he did, Bragi stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Ehren's shoulders, and Ehren took a deep, shuddering breath.
His grip on Fíli's hand grew painfully tight, and he whispered in a broken voice, "My mother?"
"Alive, when last I saw her, but she is wounded," said Thorin gravely. "I will not lie to you – she was not conscious. But she was alive."
"What happened?" Ehren's voice caught in his throat, and he opened tearful eyes to look at Thorin. "Where – where is she?"
"Your father made a choice, Ehren, a brave one," said Thorin, but Fíli could see he was choosing his words carefully. "He had a group of children in his charge, but they were hounded by orcs, and cornered in one of the servants' passageways. He had the key to the Royal Chambers' backdoor, and he judged that they might make it. He chose to try for the sake of the children in his care, and he saved at least three of them, but the orcs shot him down, and the doorway was wedged open. Despite his best efforts, the orcs reached the Royal Chambers."
Fíli's stomach clenched, and his throat burnt with the sharp gasp he drew to speak. "What? Thorin-"
"No one was killed," said Thorin, though his eyes were dark with worry, "but Bilbo took a nasty blow to the head, and your mother… she was not touched, but the fear is not good for her. I want to make it very clear that there was no treason – Joren thought he could save the lives of innocent children, and if he'd had a spark more luck, he might've made it. He – he held on long enough that I was with him when he passed… he died a hero, Ehren, I promise you that. Your mother is in the Royal Chambers, too."
Ehren nodded weakly, his lower lip trembling, and Fíli swallowed, taking a deep breath and praying with all his heart that Bilbo was alright, because if he was not…
"I think you should go to your mother," said Thorin, reaching over to squeeze Fíli's shoulder tightly. The king's face was pale and grey, and beneath the strength and pride in his eyes a flame of fear still flickered. "I'm afraid that her fear will hurt her, she needs you, now."
Fíli glanced at the dwarves moving so desperately around him, and though all he wanted was to run to his mother's side, he knew that his duty was to stay.
"You've done more than I could ever ask of you, Fíli," Thorin murmured, putting his hand on the side of Fíli's cheek. "But your mother needs you now, and I need you to go to her."
His fear rising, Fíli swallowed and nodded. "Then in that case, I'm already gone."
A sad smile tugged at Thorin's cheek, and Fíli tried to reply with a smile of his own, but the motion tugged the painful gash in his cheek, and he winced a little. Thorin's smile faded, and he sighed. "Go together, all three of you, and go quickly. The mountain is not safe. Dwalin, we have work to do."
Fíli gave a short bow and turned to the road towards the royal chambers, moving as quickly as decorum would allow – until they were out of sight of the entrance hall, at least.
As soon as they were out of sight, the three young dwarves set to a run, tearing past the bloodied corpses of orcs and dwarves and men and racing through scorched and smouldering halls. A selfish hope that they would not run into anyone injured burnt in Fíli's chest. He wanted to find his mother, to make sure that she was safe, that Bilbo was fine, and he knew that Ehren must yearn for his own mother with equal anguish, or perhaps even more so.
Whether by luck, or the twisted answer to his prayer, their path was clear of all but corpses, yet the closer they drew to the Royal Chambers the smell of smoke grew stronger, and Fíli's heart thrummed against his ribcage. Was his home burning? Was his mother choking on smoke, were her babies suffocating within her?
He swallowed, and pushed his arms faster, forcing the 'what if's as far into the back of his mind as he could manage. If Ehren could stand on his own two feet, run just as fast as Fíli already knowing that his father was dead, Fíli could keep it together.
The trio burst out into the hallway before the entrance of Fíli's home, and there they skidded to a halt. The marble staircase was almost utterly black, scorched by flame and stained by orc blood, and piled over the stairs and the stone were the corpses of more than a hundred orcs.
He glanced at Ehren and Bragi, and then, without word or sign, the three sprang forward, leaping over corpse after corpse and scrambling up the stairs as quickly as they could. The door was closed, sealed, and the hall was silent, but fear gripped Fíli so tightly that he could barely breathe. With a start, he realised that he did not have a key, so he drew a long, deep breath and pounded his fist against the wall, knocking the short, rhythmic rap of a pass code. There was a pause, longer than usual, and then the door eased open a crack. An eye appeared in the gap, and then it disappeared, and the door was pulled open. The guard bowed them through the door and closed it firmly behind them as another soldier stepped forward. "They are all in your brother's room, your highness. May I ask, how goes the battle?"
"It is over," said Fíli, his eyes drawn to the orc corpses piled against the far wall, and his gut churned. "We won."
A startled laugh of relief rippled over the soldiers in the hallway, and Fíli allowed it gladly. He did not blame them for being relieved, delighted, even. They did not yet know the cost of victory.
He glanced at the floor, pretending that the red and black splattered across the stone was paint, and not blood, and trying not to remember all he had seen. He could not stop the faces of the children he had found from passing before his eyes, the ones he had not reached in time.
There were so many.
But he only allowed himself a moment to be overwhelmed – just a moment. That was all he had time for, and all he could afford. Already, the thrill of battle was wearing away, and the horror was clinging to his bones. His knees felt weak, and his chest tight as a bowstring, and he steeled himself, knocking out the passcode once again.
After an achingly long moment, a guard opened the door, and Fíli hurried inside.
There were another couple of guards in Kíli's sitting room, and they were lining up a row of bodies – the bodies of the dead. Fíli's eyes scanned the row, and pain punctured his heart at every face he recognised. Most were dwarves he knew only by name, but among them was Joren, and as soon as Ehren saw his face he let out a strangled moan. At once, Fíli turned, grabbing his friend's elbow before his buckling knees could bring him to the ground, and Ehren seized his arm in a grip like a vice.
"Adad…" he whispered, pressing his forehead into Fíli's shoulder and leaning against him.
"I'm so sorry, Ehren," Fíli murmured, tears stinging the back of his eyes as his friend gave a sob.
Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Ehren nodded, and then he looked up. "Amad," he said quietly. "Thorin, Thorin said that she was still alive."
"She's in there, with the others," said one of the guards, nodding at Kíli's bedroom.
Ehren swallowed, staring longingly at his father. "I… I – I'll come back, Ada…"
Fíli pursed his trembling lips and nodded, taking Ehren's hand in his own as Bragi wiped his eyes with his sleeve, leaving a smear of blood across his face in the process. Taking a deep breath, Fíli glanced down at his own arms and hands, at the thick blood both red and black that covered them. Some was his own. Most was not. He was sure that between himself, Bragi, and Ehren, they looked like a horror story brought to life, that they should probably clean up, but he could not bear to wait another moment. He stepped forward, and when Ehren tore his eyes away from Joren to follow, Fíli moved faster, pulling open Kíli's bedroom door and tumbling inside –
And freezing where he stood.
Kíli's room no longer looked like a bedroom – it looked like an emergency healing tent, complete with the smell of blood and sweat and ointment. The first thing Fíli saw was Tauriel, lying on the floor beside Elbeth, tucked beneath the duvet from Fíli's own bed. Both elves were pale as paper, unconscious and still, and though Fíli could see their chests rising and falling, they were clearly weak.
A foot or so away from the elves lay two young dwarves, both strangers, and both clearly still in their early teens, and they too were unconscious. Mikel, one of Thorin's most trusted guards, was crouching above them, tending to their wounds. Behind him – to Fíli's surprise, were a trio of dwarves he had not expected to see – Nori, Dori, and Bofur were tucked against the far wall of Kíli's room.
Nori was sleeping, his head pillowed in Dori's lap and a cape thrown over his legs, but Bofur was upright, wincing as Dori stitched up a deep gash in the side of his face.
On the floor on the other side of the bed were another two unknown dwarves, both half-clad in armour. One was awake, gazing blearily up at the ceiling as the other slumbered, and beside them, with an angry, swollen gash on her forehead, was Thora. Fíli's heart stuttered when he saw her, but he could see her chest rise and fall, and he took a deep breath of his own, and glanced over the others who were there.
Behind Thora and the strangers, huddled up in a pile of pillows and blankets on top of Kíli's chest of drawers, were two toddlers and a baby, nestled in Aria's arms. To Fíli's utter relief they looked largely unharmed – Aria was helping them drink milky tea from small wooden cups.
Dana, Glóin and Bombur were bustling around the room with blankets and bandages and cups of water, though they all stopped to look up when Fíli walked in, and Jari was leaning against the side of the bed, running his hand through Ari's hair. His younger brother was sleeping on the far end of Kíli's bed, his face pale and his breathing shallow, and Vinca was beside him, tucked between Ari and Kíli with a bucket in her lap. She looked a little green, but when she saw Fíli she gave a small smile and raised her hand in a wave, and as she did Kíli slumped in relief beside her.
He was propped up on pillows with his arms around Bilbo, who was lying so close that he was all but on top of Kíli, and both Bagginses eyes filled with tears as they gazed at Fíli across the room. Relief sank deep into Fíli's own heart, relief that he could see tears in Bilbo's eyes, that the hobbit was alive, and awake, and alert enough to see that Fíli had come home. And then Fíli's eyes finally, finally fell on the seat beside the bed – on his mother.
While most in the room were pale and ashen, Dís' cheeks were flushed red, and her hands were clutching Bilbo's with a white-knuckled grip. Wisps of her hair were stuck to the tear tracks running down her face, and when she saw Fíli she sobbed, and dropped her head into her free hand.
Fíli tried to smile, but it was Ehren who moved first.
"Amad," he breathed, stumbling his way through the maze of dwarves on the floor and crumpling to his knees at Thora's side. Though she was breathing, she did not respond to her son, not even when Ehren took her hand and squeezed it. "Ama?"
"We think it was just one blow," said Dana swiftly, stepping forward to put her hand on Ehren's shoulder. "She's got no other visible injuries."
"One's enough," said Ehren thickly, and then he said nothing else, slumping down onto the ground beside her. A lump grew in Fíli's throat, but then his brother spoke, stealing his attention.
"Fee? Are – are you alright?" Kíli asked weakly, and as he did Dís sobbed again, seeming to grow smaller in her chair.
"I'm fine - it's alright," he said softly, crossing through room as quickly as he could. He held out his hand, more than aware that he was covered in blood, and sweat, and orc guts, but Dís pulled him close, falling against him and dragging him into an embrace even tighter than Thorin's. "It's alright, Ama, it's over now. It's all over, it's all over now, I'm here."
"Your, your face," she whispered, looking up with bloodshot eyes. Her hand rose towards the gash on his cheek, but then her fingers clenched and drew back, and her lip began to tremble. "Oh, Fíli…"
"It's alright," he murmured. "I'm alright, Amad, I'll be fine. It barely hurts anymore, I promise. It's alright. It's over, now."
"How?" asked Vinca, her voice hoarse and disbelieving, her eyes dark with the shadow of war. "I, I saw what was out there – how is it over?"
"We got lucky," said Fíli bluntly, before anyone could crow about his so-called 'heroics' again. "Someone fired the enemy's great flash-flames into them from behind, and the armies of Mordor turned on each other – some alliance that was."
"No luck involved lad," said Dori, a heavy frown of concentration carved into his face as his needle drew close to Bofur's eye. "That would've been us, catapulting the explosives right into the bastards that made them."
Fíli's eyes widened, but then he felt a grin creep onto his cheeks despite himself. "That… makes more sense. Then we owe this victory to you three – it was their turning on each other that decimated the numbers enough for us to charge. It was bloody work, but we won. We won…"
"How many did we lose?" asked Dís, her voice tight with a pain that told Fíli she had already guessed the answer. He swallowed, and nodded.
"Too many. Too many innocent people… The warning came too late for those nearest the door to have a chance to evacuate. It was only thanks to Ari and Vinca that those further back had a chance to flee, but even so… it…" He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, and then he looked at Bilbo. "How are you, Bilbo? Thorin said you took a nasty blow."
The hobbit smiled wryly, reaching up to rub his head. "Well, it wasn't a nice one, but I'm sure I'll be alright."
Fíli glanced at Kíli, who tightened his arms around the hobbit and gave a small nod. "He'll be fine."
"Good to know I have a choice in the matter," said Bilbo lightly, but there was fear tight in his eyes, and Fíli glanced down at his mother.
"And you, Amad? Thorin sounded worried."
Dís gave a small hybrid of a sob and a laugh and shook her head, pressing her hand to her mouth for a moment. "It… it has been a somewhat stressful evening."
"When Bilbo – he was unconscious, for a few minutes, and Amad… Amad had a couple of contractions," said Kíli, and though his voice was careful, Fíli could see the fear in his brother's eyes.
Even as panic seized Fíli's heart, Dana looked up, though she kept her arm around Ehren as she did. "We've managed to get her blood pressure down, though, and there hasn't been any sign of another contraction since," she said calmly. "It's not unheard of for pregnant women to show such signs in a time of great stress, but as long as we keep you calm and quiet, I don't think we have to worry about these little ones being battle-born. Not yet, at least."
Dís shuddered, squeezing Fíli's fingers tightly. "There's four," she murmured. "Tauriel says there are four."
"Four what?"
"Babies."
It took a moment for the word to sink in, but when it did Fíli's knees shook beneath him, and he felt the blood drain out of his face. "Four? Is, is such a thing even possible?"
"Yes," said Kíli at once, but his voice was tight, afraid, and Fíli felt hope and horror start up a tug of war over his heart.
He stared incredulously at the elf on the ground. "She does not look well – she could be mistaken…"
"From what she said, and the way she said it, I doubt it. I think it'd be best not to worry about what has or hasn't been possible in the past. We're here now, and there's nothing we can do about it, so we'll have to make the best of it," Dana said firmly. "Come on, boys, take off your armour and sit down. You've more than earned a break now."
But Fíli shook his head, looking over the injured dwarves in the room, and resting his eyes on the deathly pale elves. "There must be something we can help with."
"Unless you've suddenly become fully qualified healers, then no," said Dana. "We've done all we can here."
Reluctantly, Fíli nodded. He considered simply stripping his armour off right there and then, but there was not a single space on the ground to kick it into.
"I'll be right back, Ama," he promised, sending a small smile around the room before heading through into his own room. His bed was lacking a duvet or any pillows, and several drawers had been pulled open – no doubt in an attempt to find dressings and blankets, and as he stared at them he was pulled back a few hours, to other peoples' homes and rooms, homes torn apart and burnt and ruined by hordes of orcs and Easterlings, and fury and sorrow burned together in his gut.
Exhaustion was beginning to wear him down, now, and the urge to just sink down onto the floor and cry was growing stronger. All he wanted to do was bawl, for the babies and the children and the innocent who had lost their lives, for the soldiers who had been cut down defending their home. For Ehren and Joren and Thora and Bilbo and Dís and Kíli and for himself – he wanted to cry away the horror of what he had seen, the fear of what he had faced –
But he could not break.
Not just yet.
He made his way to the bathroom and lit the lamps inside, and when the light swelled before the mirror to reveal his face, he winced. The slash the orcs had given him was long, and deep, stretching down from above his eyebrow to the tip of his chin, and the torn skin around the edge of the wound was shadowed with bruising and swelling. It ached, and stung, and he could feel the tight tug of dried blood against his flesh every time he moved his jaw. It was no wonder his mother had cried.
He sighed, ignoring the few tears that snuck from his eyes before he could stop them, and twisted open the tap. Water sputtered out, first cool, then warm and then hot, and the heat was a relief beyond measure as it poured over his aching hands, and began to wash the filth of battle away. He needed a bath, really, but he was not sure that he had the strength, so he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and ran the soap up his arms, scrubbing at the black and red blood that covered them until it had all drained away down the sink. His forearms and hands were bright pink from the heat of the water and the force of the scrubbing, but he did not really care.
He took a flannel and ran it under the water, and then, gingerly, he raised it up to his face. He scrubbed the left side first, moving slowly and tentatively towards the wound on the right, until it could not be put off anymore. Then he began to clean away the edges of the wound, hissing through his teeth as the pain grew sharp and hot and fresh. When he pressed a clean, wet flannel against the open wound itself he almost cried out, but he gritted his teeth and held his tongue, and after a few, torturous minutes, it was over.
Like his arms, his face was flushed and pink, and the wound began to weep again now that the dried blood had been moved away, but he was too tired to figure out a way to bandage the wound properly, so he just pressed a towel against it, and fumbled his way into the bedroom to change his clothes. With one hand, he pulled on a clean tunic and leggings, and then a pair of thick, woollen socks, though he forewent shoes. He wanted to pretend, even if only for a moment, that he was tucked up in pyjamas, that the night had been no more than an awful dream.
He sighed heavily, resting his weapons on the side and kicking his filthy clothes to the corner behind the dresser, and then he threw the bloodied towel atop the pile and returned to his brother's room.
"Ah, that looks better," Dana breathed, and she stood up, crossing the room to pat the tiny space between Bilbo and the end of the bed. "Come now, Fíli, sit down and let me have a look at your face."
Too tired to argue, Fíli obeyed, and the moment he sat between his parents his mother seized his hand, Bilbo put a hand on his leg, and Kíli reached over to grab the back of his elbow, and despite everything Fíli smiled slightly. Dana took his chin in her fingers and glanced at the wound carefully, before looking to Glóin.
"I'm not sure… It's not quite as wide as Bofur's, I'm not sure if stitches would be the best bet…"
Glóin glanced over and nodded slowly. "Aye… put a dressing on it if you can, just until the last of that bleeding stops. But I wouldn't stitch it."
Fíli gave a small sigh of relief, even as Dana retrieved a pot of ointment that he knew full well would sting. He had never much liked having stitches – the sensation of the needle pushing through his skin made his stomach turn. He sat back and let Dana tend to his wounds, and when she was done, he stayed there. He knew he ought to move, to be helping his people, to be doing something, but his mother was clinging to his hand as though it was all that tethered her to the universe, and he could not bear the thought of leaving her.
About half an hour after Fíli sat down, Dwalin arrived at Kíli's door with a small guard detail to escort those who could be moved to the Healing Halls. He had brought two healers with him, Rútr and Iola – dwarves that Óin had trusted beyond almost any other healer he had ever met – and the pair went carefully from each wounded person to the next, assessing who could be moved safely to the support of the Healing Halls.
"I believe most of the wounded can be safely moved," said Iola finally, running a hand over her braided, greying beard. "But Ari and this poor young lass here both have a high risk of having some sort of spinal or neck injury, and I don't think it'd be wise to move them so far as the Healing Halls, not when they might happen upon orcs, and be subjected to sudden or jerking movements. As for the elves, they are both very weak… we could move them, but I would recommend doing so with a fresh guard detail – I would want at least four dwarves per stretcher, to make sure they are supported and safe, but doing so would reduce the number of your guard dangerously, Lord Dwalin."
"I don't mind them staying here longer," said Kíli softly. "As long as they need to."
Dwalin bowed his head. "It's your call, Iola."
She inclined her head back, and then looked to Rútr, who nodded. "Then we will move all but Ari this lass here, and the elves. I will stay here, with them, and Rútr will accompany Lord Dwalin and the others back to the Healing Halls."
At once, Dwalin and his soldiers began to move the rest of the wounded onto stretchers, though Dwalin took the two toddlers from Aria's arms himself, nestling them in the crooks of his elbows as Rútr took the baby into his own arms. Ehren rose with his mother's stretcher, glancing at Fíli with a trembling lip, and Fíli nodded.
"Bragi," he murmured, and when the albino caught his eye, he nodded at Ehren. Bragi nodded back, crossing the room quickly and taking Ehren's elbow, and together they followed the stretcher out of the bedroom.
Finally, when all the rest of the wounded had been moved out of the bedroom, Dwalin paused by the door and smiled wryly at Fíli.
"I have orders from Thorin," he said warmly. "For now, he wants you to stay here, protect the family."
Fíli offered a small smile back and nodded. "I suppose I can do that."
Dwalin nodded, and then strode out of the door, and Fíli smiled a little stronger as he heard the older dwarf barking orders all the way down the corridor.
Iola stepped into action with equal (though far quieter) authority, turning to face the room. "I should like to have a better look at Master Ari's wounds, if that is alright, and for the sake of privacy it may be best to move to another room. Forgive my asking, my prince, but might I use your table?"
Fíli bit back a smile as Kíli fought against rolling his eyes. "Of course," said the younger prince. "Please do. The couch might be more comfortable…"
"Unfortunately, that won't do," said Iola, rolling up her sleeves. "I need him to be higher, that I may see to his wounds properly. Aria, would you mind helping me move some of these blankets to the table, make it a little more comfortable for him?"
A short while later, when Iola was ready, Fíli rose to help Jari and Glóin move Ari carefully into Kíli's dining room, laying him out on the table as gently as they could. Though he winced, and hissed in pain more than once, Ari gave no complaint, even smiling as the others bowed back into Kíli's room.
Over the next few hours, Iola moved between the dining room and the bedroom, tending to each of the wounded with a single-minded care that reminded Fíli so painfully of Óin. She moved here and there with ointments and potions Fíli would never have thought of using, and by the time evening came, Tauriel opened her eyes.
She was weak, and alarmingly so, but when she saw Iola, she gave a small smile. "I remember you," she murmured. "From the Battle… of the Five Armies… You seemed the only dwarf around… with any sense."
Iola gave a wry smile. "Aye, I remember you too, lass. Only last time you were helping us heal our wounded, not the other way around."
Tauriel closed her eyes, nodding slightly. "You… you are not unskilled, my lady. Listen to me, now, and perhaps we may help each other again."
And Iola listened, and by the time the evening wore into night she had created a draught from Tauriel's instruction, one that somehow allowed the healers to feed those who were unconscious. Fíli did not understand it at all, and he was not entirely sure that Iola understood it either, but she brewed batch after batch, and delivered it to the Healing Halls, and to Elbeth and the young, unnamed dwarf in Kíli's room.
Whether it was by Iola's wisdom or Tauriel's guidance, or an answer to some desperate prayer, every dwarf and elf and hobbit that had been sheltered in Kíli's room when Fíli found them survived the wounds that night had dealt them. Many more within the Healing Halls were spared by the potion – but the rest of the mountain was not as lucky.
The days that followed the battle passed slowly, and as they crawled by, the count of the dead rose higher. It took several days to find all of the bodies, and bring the children of Erebor home from their last, fruitless hiding places, and even when the last of the missing had been found, the number of the dead continued to rise with those that even Iola could not save.
And among the dead were many that Fíli knew – many that he cared about, deeply.
Alfr had fallen in the final charge, Alfr, who he had known since birth, who had been close as kin to him for decades, who had saved Glorfindel, and Elrond's sons with Soren in Mirkwood. Alfr, who the hobbits of the Shire would cheerfully call 'Alfie' on his many visits back, Alfr, who had remained in Erebor this year to be with his wife, and their new-born daughter.
Elza, Dwalin's wife, lost three of her five brothers, dwarves that had been heartily welcomed into Fíli's extended family over the past two decades, dwarves he knew, and cared for, and grieved as cousins. Darben had fallen in the first sneak attack on the gates, and Dalen in the charge out from the mountain, but Dustan had fallen inside, one of the many cut down as they tried to usher the more vulnerable to safety.
Ión, the old dwarf who had taught Fíli all he knew about wielding dual blades, had also fallen. At the age of three hundred and two, he had insisted on fighting on the frontline, and an orc arrow had struck him down from the wall. A similar fate had befallen Nora, Thora's sister and Ehren's aunt – a woman who had been like an aunt to Fíli himself through much of his childhood. She held on for three days, but then she too succumbed.
And after four days of fighting wounds that had torn apart his stomach, Bard, King of Dale, breathed his last, joining his eldest daughter in death. Though not a warrior, Sigrid had placed herself between the orcs and her fleeing people, and in doing so she had fallen to the axes of the orcs. Bard's younger children, the new King Bain, and Princess Tilda had taken it hard, but even as they wept, they refused to fall apart, employing the same, quiet dignity their father had worn so well.
In the end, the official death toll counted three thousand and seven hundred dwarves dead – three thousand seven hundred people entombed in freshly carved stone coffins, three thousand seven hundred buried deep within the mountain. So deep, Fíli hoped, that no invader would ever bother them again. In days to come, he knew, the names of the dead would be carved into the walls, and the chamber would become a thing of great beauty, but as it was now it was only a place of death, the final resting place of folk who deserve better. The warriors lay beside the children, the poor by the rich, and the lords by the labourers, for they had each faced the same threat, and each lost everything in the face of it.
As for the two and a half thousand men who had perished, Tilda requested that they be buried beneath the stars on the mountainside. She did not want to risk digging for so long outside of Dale while there was still a chance of orcs in Esgaroth, and no one had the heart or will to deny her. As the men carved their wooden coffins in the manner of their people from whatever wood and old furniture the dwarves had to offer them, Fíli led a hundred odd soldiers in digging the graves. When the time came to lay the men to rest, Thorin offered a great, white stone to the people of Dale, engraved with the names of their dead, and the crest of both Dale and Durin.
When the stone was finally set up before the gravesite, and the last coffin had been covered with the final mound of dirt, the dwarves of Erebor and men of Dale stood a while upon the mountainside in a silence that encompassed them all, man, woman, and child. Not even the whimper of baby broke the quiet, and though every soul was wrapped in their own thoughts, they stood together, no one out of hands reach of another. In that moment, even the most xenophobic of the dwarves and the least trusting of the men felt it – a bond that ran deep as the roots of the mountains, that flew as vast as the sky above.
They were dwarves, and Men, and hobbits, yet they were as one, and they always would be.
And even with his anguish and grief and lingering fear, Fíli had never been so proud in all his life.
I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought, I love hearing from you! Until the next chapter, take care!