A Golden Punishment

Thorin was distracted in battle. As he moved to protect his family, his Company, he was elsewhere, wondering about things that were long in the past, keeping him sucked from the present. He ducked, narrowly avoiding an axe thrown by an orc grunt, and moved almost mechanically as it charged him, sticking his sword in the center of the torso and twisting. It fell shrieking to the ground before going completely still. He yanked the sword back from the fallen corpse, wildly looking about to see the other. Fili charged in front of him in a flurry of gold and steel, using his two blades as a constant barrage of rotating attacks. The king had never seen eyes filled with such fire, fierce and determined as he shouted repeated battlecries. The dwarves were slowly making their way into Dale, further and further from the mountain, and it was as if a veil was slowly being pulled from Thorin's eyes, and the more he could see, the more he wished he had been completely blinded.

The uncle hacked forwards, through the monsters, gradually pulling away from the other Company members. It was impossible to look at them. Something raw and visceral and wrong had torn forwards for the second time in his life, and he was unable to process it, to think about the part of himself that had flung itself out of his controlled shell. None of it mattered anyways. If the battle was lost, they would all be dead. If the battle was won, Thorin would have to do what his father had done past: disappear.

Too much despair had been caused already. He had forced too much pain back from old wounds, tears from past sorrows, and war from past battles. Something in him understood and forgave Thrain, now. His father had witnessed the beheading of Thror, stood in the center of a whirlwind of violence and stared out at the chaos, knowing that more death of his people was yet to come. And madness had overtaken him, or at least that was what Thorin had always been told. Now the old king was dead, most likely, either when he ran or from rotting in a prison for the rest of his life, they would never know. Perhaps it would would be better to be remembered for vanishing into a crowd than for leading your people to war over a stone, falling to madness because of the past, sealing a curse on your nephew for something he never did. Thorin wouldn't know. What held him back from running was remembering the past destruction that had taken place, and knowing that Fili would live through exactly what he had if such a plan was carried out.

For if his brother died and his uncle disappeared, the golden prince would be left with the rage Thorin had, forced to take up a title for a day he would wish he could forget that would stay with him the rest of his life.

Thorin's fingers were beginning to shake, from fear, anger, or sorrow he couldn't tell. He plunged his weapon repeatedly into the next orc that crossed his path, though his eyes were trailed from where he should have been looking. Behind the battle that raged before him he could see another one, one from long ago that he could feel mimicking the present, taunting him with the past. Thorin fell into a repeated set of motion, as his mind trailed off somewhere past delirium.

"I will fight with you!" he had insisted, pushing against his father's strong hand. Thrain's eyes had been wide and bright shining like a wild animal in a dark wood.

"Azog means to kill us all," he had shuddered, and held his son back. "One by one he will destroy the line of Durin!" Thorin's chest tightened as he turned his head to look back into the mess of fighting dwarves. His brother was somewhere. Frerin had not been put on the front lines. His bow did not belong in the clash of swords and shields. "But by my life," Thrain had raved, his fingers digging into the mail on his son's arms, "he will not take my sons! Stay here." The heir of Durin watched his father disappear into the mass of violence, until he couldn't tell him apart from the other plates and swords. The last he ever saw of his father.

When Thrain didn't return there was no other choice. Thorin had to face the Defiler or the dwarves would fall to ruin.

It was a story told to death: the charge, the oaken shield, the loss of the Pale Orc's hand, the rallying of the dwarves to win the battle despite the loss of so many comrades. It was a story that was incomplete, because history would always forget the one person that mattered most to Thorin. History left out the part where the battle was almost won and Thorin had turned to face his remaining warriors and finally saw his arched brother among them. History had left out the part where in their last charge the new leader had raced forwards to a victory and past a sight out of a feverish nightmare. Frerin dropped the bow no one wanted him to have, and curled in on himself, hands over the back of his head for futile protection as the monster behind drove a twisted spike of a weapon into his mess of blonde braids.

History had left out the part where Thorin cried out, and knelt over his brother's body in the midst of battle, ready to lie down next to him and take the same blow; the part where the dwarven leader had all but given up when he looked into his brother's face and saw not pain but an absence of all life, of anything that made him who he had been. History had left out the part when Thorin had risen from ashes and prayed for death, but was granted no such easy punishment.

"Thorin!" He was falling backwards, a snapping orc clawing at him with fierce determination. His sword was in no position to counter attack. It was as if he had just woken up, bewildered and unable to react quick enough. One of the creature's sharpened claws slashed at his face, and he felt warmth pouring from his cheek. He hit the ground hard and braced for further attacks, only to have the orc scream and crumple to the ground to reveal a battle torn Dain in a fury of war and adrenaline. "Thorin! What in all of Middle Earth do you think you're doing?" The dark haired dwarf blinked as his cousin helped him to his feet. "What'd it do your face?" Thorin raised his fingers to his skin. The cut was shallow, and would likely only leave a small scar, but like all head wounds it bled like a stuck pig. He resisted the urge to curse as he wiped the red off his cheek with the back of his hand.

"It's nothing," he insisted, though Dain clearly saw that the cut wasn't the only thing wrong with his relative.

"I heard about your nephew," the fiery headed dwarf recalled, handing Thorin his sword and watching him with a nervous and cautious look on his face. The son of Thrain was as wary as his cousin. He did not know how much Dain knew, or who had told him, and a slip up here could result in the loss of an important ally.

"He's being taken care of back at the mountain," Thorin responded tersely, focusing on the storm of orcs that was beginning to build behind his relative.

"Is he injured then?" Dain wondered aloud. It was as if a weight had been tugged from the other dwarf's chest. The leader of the Iron Hills knew nothing of the attack, a relief. Dain still looked at the King Under the Mountain with an air of respect and familial trust in his face, all that Thorin ever wanted.

"Kili is very ill, but we have the very best trying to keep him with us," he responded. Dain nodded and gripped his fellow leader on the shoulder.

"Then I bet we have to do our very best to make sure that you and Fili are still in one piece to see him when this is over, ay?" Ironfoot comforted. Thorin almost smiled. "And to do that, we have to need to get rid of a lot more of these buggers. Better get on it." He'd make a good king, Thorin thought to himself as he readied for the next wave of orc enemies pouring over the entrance to Dale, like a river downhill. Soon it would break over the dwarven rocks, and they would see which side would be left.

The battle was an entity of its own, an uncontrollable monster always changing, turning, evolving into a different form of itself, eventually taking in everyone that dared be a part of it. And Thorin found that he was once again lost in its chaos, absorbed into the pain that it brought every time it took him from floundering in the state he called normal. His eyes were everywhere but on the enemy. One again he craned his neck looking for the head of gold hair, terrified that history would repeat itself again.

The past had cursed Thorin Oakenshield with gold.

His breath drew and released in hurried rushes. His arm began to tire of battling. His head began to tire of blood. From the moment he entered Dale he was unable to find another member of the Company, and was instead surrounded by enemies and elves, forced to keep pressing. His mind was swept in the madness of memory. Even though his elder nephew was more than capable with his weapons, Thorin had to find him before something happened, something catastrophic. Where would Fili go in such a time of battle.

All it took to find his answer was to look up at Ravenhill.

It was the only logical plan of attack. The large flags anchored there were being controlled by the orc's leaders, and without Azog the army of monsters would quickly become complete chaos. But it also entailed a risk. Isolated on that peak allowed for total surrounding. Once up, it would be difficult finding a way to get back down, especially if the beasts trapped them in such a state. Fili would try and attack it, if not for strategic gain, for revenge. Lit with a new fire, Thorin pressed on through carnage.

He was running down a impish orc scout when he caught the first glimpse of a Company member: battle axes at the ready, coarse dark hair electrified by battle, and eyes as wild as the churning clouds that brewed above.

"Dwalin!" he called to his comrade, quickly beheading the enemy and continuing on his path. The warrior whirled around, as if he had heard a ghost, but quickly recognized his king.

"Thorin, where have you been?" he responded, smiling as much as anyone could in such warring circumstances. The king noticed Dwalin's hands were bleeding, as was the skin underneath the armor on his shoulder, but knowing the dwarf, he knew that such injuries were nothing to be concerned about.

"Dain," was the only explanation Thorin could manage. His fellow Company member nodded only in form of a response. "Where's Fili?"

Dwalin answered with a hard expression, but pride in his voice. "He's leading a charge up Ravenhill," he explained. For a moment, the Durin felt almost victorious. He had been right. "I was joining them, but I got mixed up with a troll on the wall," the warrior gestured to his shoulder. "He has many of the others though. Ori and Balin are helping Bard clear out the market."

"I have to go to him," Thorin announced and stepped forward to emphasize the point. Such action brought a pained look to Dwalin's face, remorseful and melancholy.

He urged, "Thorin, don't." The king almost dropped his sword in surprise.

"Why wouldn't I?" he questioned, completely and utterly baffled. "He's my nephew I need to protect him."

"You'll distract him," the warrior corrected. "You're distracted yourself." While the truth rang inside his head like bells, Thorin could not accept his friend's words.

"The orcs can surround Ravenhill. It will be massacre!" the king warned. Dwalin peered at him with thoughtful eyes, as if examining a wound.

"This is not Azanulbizar, my friend," he comforted. At the sound of the name, Thorin felt his nerves tighten. It seemed almost bad luck to speak its name on a battlefield where dwarves and orcs once again fought in uneven number. The warrior did not seem to share such an opinion. "I will not let that happen."

"No one can make promises in war." The king hadn't meant it to sound accusatory, but it came out that way.

"I can promise that Fili will not give up. Not when his brother is dying back there," Dwalin predicted. He tried to look at Thorin again, for any sign or signal, but the son of Thrain had drifted off somewhere past once again.

"They made a pact as children," he breathed, remembering for the first time in years.

"What?"

"Dis used to tell them the story of Moria, before I made her stop," Thorin reflected, the image of the hearth and chair warm in his mind. His nephews would curl up in an old blanket and listen to a tale of old every night, two if they were lucky or especially persuasive. " They learned very early what it meant to lose a sibling. Fili thought he did for fifty years," he continued, the fireplace in his head beginning to fizzle out just as the children fell asleep. "But when they were young, I remember they told me they'd made an oath, that they would never leave the other for anything in the world, not even death. They swore they would keep that pact forever: live together, fight together, die together. The first two promises they made have already been broken." The realization came hard and felt like a blow to his stomach.

"Fili will be careful," Dwalin swore. Thorin shook his head.

"You can't be careful in battle," he disagreed. "Every step you take is a risk."

"Then what good will you being at his side provide?" The warrior was taking one last try at his argument, a sign clear in the king's head that they would soon reach a conclusion.

"Durins fight as kin," Thorin persisted. Something in his friend's face softened, a part that remembered the time before pain was what ruled their days and regret their nights.

"Then as kin we shall fight," he announced. The warrior grasped the king by the shoulders and smiled: the slightest yet strongest gesture. A moment of understanding filled the chilled air.

When Thorin looked to Ravenhill, he saw it had started to snow.

The pair hurried, working their way up the steep incline towards the peak shrouded in fog. Thorin surveyed Dale from up high, and saw for a moment hope. The men were pushing back, never tired of being beaten into the ground. While the orcs swarmed like bees to honey into the city, they were met with the forces of Laketown, Mirkwood, and the Iron Hills. It was as they reached a frozen waterfall that Thorin finally looked upon Erebor, upon the area they had chosen for his nephew's healing. A tendril of black smoke rose from the ground and towards the bleak sky. Dwalin said something about passing over the ice, but the king was entranced as he saw the light of a fire barely visible between the rocks.

"It's burning." Thorin couldn't say it softly enough. Saying it would acknowledge it as real, as truth. Nowhere else had fire touched his kingdom, yet he saw the signs clear as the morning, hidden in the blaze, that the safety he had left his nephew in was no longer in place.

"What?" Dwalin was immediately alert.

"The mountain is burning." Thorin felt sick. His friend rushed to where he stood and for a moment they stood in awe of the sight.

"We should-" With no warning the most horrific sound came piercing through the air, one that forced the king to his knees, hands clamped so hard against his hear he felt as if he would crack his own skull. Yet still it filled his ears. It was most definitely a scream, one of something that sounded not quite unnatural, rooted in a real voice and not the inhuman shriek that seemed to tear the air apart. Thorin's heart began pounding to hard he feared his chest would burst open. He was petrified as it continued, turning his veins to ice and his mind molten. The longer the wail lasted the more recognizable it became, and by the time it cut off in one finite and soul-ripping tone of absolute agony, the uncle was on the ground, his tears mixing with the falling snow. "Kili," he whispered, his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry."

AN: So thank you all for reading this most recent chapter of this little story of mine. Once again, update time was slow and I am really sorry. The good news is the next one will be up very soon, as it was one of the first chapters I wrote for this story. I just need to edit it. Also, side note: the dialogue from the Battle of Moria scene was taken from the scene between Thorin and Thrain in the Extended Edition of DoS (with the minor change that I added Frerin into it. In the film Thrain says "son" and not "sons" because Frerin isn't acknowledged at all in those movies). No copyright infringement intended. I just love that exchange! But anyways, if you enjoyed what you read in this installment, make sure to follow this so you can be informed when I post another chapter. If you want to make sure this story is shared with other writers I strongly encourage you favorite it, and as always please post all comments, predictions, critiques, etc. as a review for me. I love hearing from you guys. Until next time…