A/N I'm thinking there's only going to be one more chapter of this. I'm not totally sure what fic I'll work on next, but I guess it'll probably be Gold Sick, since I've already got one chapter up and I don't really want to have another one chapter fic lying around on my account for forever.
We heard the orcs before we saw them; their feet pounded in rhythm with distant, booming drums, agonizingly low and honestly a bit painful. Something, perhaps their war bats, screeched, while some sort of horn tore through the air. I stood at the head of my elves; Arasson shifted beneath me, his discomfort at their approach obvious and a bit unnerving, as it took much to bring any sort of worry to the beast. I looked about to make certain that Bilbo hadn't come outside and saw no sign of him, and tried desperately to keep how little that could mean, as I doubted I'd have any luck seeing him even with my additional sight in such a crowd and on so bright a day, from my mind.
Oakenshield and his dwarves stood amongst the dwarven army that had appeared, all of them shoulder to shoulder in a tight, unfamiliar formation, shields pressed together and blades jutting out from the cracks between. He ordered them in front of my elves and I, and it was easy to see that they planned to form some sort of barrier. I wondered how long it would hold, but I supposed I had to have some admiration for the tactic nonetheless. Bard, who led the haphazard army of men we'd gathered from the refugees, seemed somewhat unsure of what he was doing, and looked often towards Oakenshield, his cousin who called himself Dain, and myself, as if a simple glance at us would tell him how to lead an army. He soon seemed to decide that the best option would be to mix his swordsman with my own, and I gave him a nod as he rode to wait beside me.
"You've left Bilbo in the mountain?" he asked, and I nodded.
"I've watched enough people I love die in battle; I will not watch him do the same. I'd have left my son there too if I had any notion he'd have stayed," I said, gesturing at the boy who rode proudly through the ranks, his horse nearly prancing, and couldn't resist a faint smile as his ear twitched the moment I uttered the word '"son." Bard looked set to say something until Legolas turned his horse towards us and settled at my other side. I nodded at him. He frowned.
"Father, don't pretend as if you're not pleased for my help," he said, and I laughed, quiet and glad of the opportunity.
"Well, I suppose I ought to think you for bringing Tauriel; she is a far better shot than you, after all." It had been a long time since I'd seen such a shocked look on his face, and it made my lips twitch faintly as he coughed, obviously making the attempt to recover from the statement.
"I'm better with my blade than she, though," he said, and I shrugged.
"I suppose. You've yet to last more than five minutes against me, however, so I don't expect you're truly all that skillful. I'm sure if she cared to use a sword she'd surpass you quickly enough." I tried to sound as lofty as I was able, which I've been told I'm quite skillful at doing, and Legolas looked to be fighting laughter.
"Oh, shut up, father; it's been so long since you've fought that you've probably forgotten how to tell the pommel of your sword from the pointy end." Bard looked away from the both of us, hiding his mouth with his palm as if we'd be offended to see his smile.
"When we get home, oh dearest son of mine, why don't we test your theory, hm? See if you can stand for six minutes instead of five." The orcs grew nearer. He grinned, wide and ready, and I lifted a hand. With the gesture, his bow rose with Bard's, along with the bows of the army behind me. The dwarves hardened their line, stances going wide and strong.
"We'll let Bilbo watch," he said, laughter in his voice. "I'm sure he'll love seeing you lose to me." And that, oddly, made me smile more brightly than anything; Legolas was pleased with him, pleased at the idea of him living with us, and I could ask for nothing better. We would win this war, I decided, if only for the sake of that bright future. I drew my blade from its sheath and held it out, steady, easy; the orcs came ever forward, guttural cries ringing from low in their throats. Arasson settled beneath me; I was not afraid.
Bilbo's POV
Thranduil and Thorin both were mad if they thought I would stay in the mountain alone, wrapped tight in the mithril shirt Thorin had wanted me to have with nothing to do but await news, whether good or ill. I palmed the Arkenstone, thinking first of ways to dispose of it in the fray of battle, and then moved my hand to my ring, slipping it quickly onto my finger.
The world around me turned watery and shadowy, as if I were covered in a thin, gauzy shroud, and I ran from the mountain, ducking deftly between and beneath soldiers as I moved. Orcs flooded the field, and I drew Sting, letting it slice at them as they ran towards the dwarves who'd taken the front line, and some, thinking it was a neighbor who'd cut them, turned on the rest. Elven arrows rained down upon them; a couple even thunked against my back, but the mithril protected me well, and the most damage I took was a graze to the cheek that could've been arrow or blade either one. Many ran chest-first into dwarven blades, trying to occupy them so those behind them could force through, all of them rabid and wild and only a scarce few of any worth with their weapons.
It was a strange sight, to see things that in small numbers we could kill easily, but like this, so many of them and all of them with only the goal of killing all who stood in their way, we were far from assured of victory. Noises sounded everywhere; screaming and horns and footfalls from both sides, and the dwarven line broke. Elves and men drew blades, the battle turning into a flurry of action as wave after wave of orcs fell upon us. I had to stop the organization, somehow, that I knew; if I could do that, then their army would fall apart, since none would be able to take over. First, though, I had to find what they were using to give orders, and finally, finally noticed where their horn was coming from: some sort of contraption atop a hill, probably controlled by the Pale Orc. I think Thorin noticed it the same moment that I did, because he broke from the battle and set to running for the same hill I'd seen, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili behind him.
I followed as well, at a bit more of a distance; I think Thranduil might have seen me at the end, when I reached the base of the hill, because I'm nearly certain I heard him call my name, loud and desperate enough that few would've believed it was the Elven King of Mirkwood who spoke, from where he stood in a wide circle of orc soldiers, blade held out and gleaming bright. I didn't notice Legolas running after me, nor did I notice Thranduil's worry mount at the sight of him on my heels.
I jerked my ring off when we reached the top of the hill, too far for any of them to send me back, and I heard Legolas take in a sharp breath at the sight of me as the dwarves glared at both him and me, though for very different reasons. Thorin looked ready to haul me up by my coat and scream at me until I walked down the hill again of my own accord, but I'd long ago grown brave enough to stand up to him, no matter how I admired him.
"Oh, father will kill me if anything happens to you," Legolas grumbled, and Thorin gritted his teeth.
"I will look after him, elf, worry not over that. I've kept that hobbit, fool he is, alive since he left that Shire of his," Thorin snarled, and Kili snorted, rolling his eyes.
"He's kept us alive, more like," he said, and Legolas nodded.
"Quite; I assure you, father would have likely kept you all in the dungeon until you rotted were it not for him." I almost heard Thorin's teeth grinding as he whipped around, striding towards the signal and surely hoping to see Azog beside it, but no one was there. Trap; the thought screamed at me suddenly, just before two massive orcs, not quite as large as Azog himself, appeared. Both went right for Thorin and I ran forward without thinking, something I'd been doing far too often over my association with the dwarves, but I supposed… well, as I've said, they were the best friends I'd ever known.
I'd hoped the one with the blade instead of the heavy mace would reach me first; the blade, after all, would do no damage through the mithril. The mace, though… Thorin tried to shove me out of the way, but for the first time, he was too slow. The mace struck me across the head, a glancing blow that probably would've killed me had Thorin not managed to move me a little, and I struck the snow-covered earth hard, the world fading into black to the sound of the dwarves' battle cries and Legolas' drawn bow.
Thranduil's POV
The battle ended the moment the eagles appeared, I knew that, and yet it didn't feel like an end. I'd seen a shadow running up the hill to the signal that should not have been there, and I knew in my blood that it was Bilbo, just as I knew that the blonde figure who ran behind him was my son, certainly unaware that Bilbo was there and knowing only to follow the dwarves who were walking into what was likely a trap. The leader of this Orcish army would have lain that trap, would have lain in wait with the army's best fighters. They would have stood little chance. Bilbo would have stood little chance, mithril or no. Legolas… there was hope there, at least; he could fight well, and he knew always when to get away, even if he didn't always follow the instinct. The dwarves, perhaps some might've survived, but I doubted all. Bilbo, though… Bilbo had skills, valuable ones, but they did not lie in battle.
My body felt cold, frozen from the center out, in a way it hadn't since my battle with the dragons of the north. Dread made my heart heavy, a certain hopelessness I had not missed since my time knowing Bilbo. Had he been an elf, I would have been able to know certainly whether he yet breathed or not; I had known the moment my wife had fallen, from the bond we shared. I spared every thought I could to prayers for his life, for my son's life, and watched as the orc army fell apart like wet paper. The armies around me cheered. We had won, but I did not feel like I stood in victory.
I ran back towards Erebor, towards the medical tents that had been arranged mere moments before the battle began, and my eyes focused onto Legolas, who stood worriedly in front of one the tents, immediately. I almost felt as if I flew to his side and wrapped him tight into a hug, and he settled his own arms loosely, limply, over my shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, and I felt something within me fall. Had he… I could scarcely believe it, and yet I could see few other reasons for apology. My eyes stung, every wound on my body turning shockingly numb all at once.
"No," I whispered, more to myself than to him, and he squeezed my shoulders.
"I could not grab him before he ran in front of Oakenshield; a mace struck him over the head."
"He is gone, then?" I managed, and Legolas stepped back. He did not smile, but still he shook his head.
"Unconscious only, but the healers don't know if he will ever awaken. Time will tell it, they say. Oakenshield is waiting at his side; he found the Arkenstone on Bilbo when the healers took his coat so they could better see all the damage done, and started weeping. I think he sent that big dwarf with the tattoos to throw it into the forges. His nephews are in there as well." My heart nearly stopped. I squeezed his arms one last time and slid by him into the tent.
Bilbo lay there, limp and still, Oakenshield collapsed in a chair by his bed and the princes standing on either side of him. My mind flashed again with visions of my wife, pale and thin in my arms, blood spilling onto white snow. I was clutching his hand before I even realized I'd moved to do it, apologies tumbling one after another from my mouth, regret for my failure in keeping him safe, anger that he'd been hurt, and a depression I'd thought gone once I saw his face all fighting to overcome me. My hand shook. Oakenshield laughed, bitter and low, head held in his hand. One of his braids was missing, and an old knife lay on the floor, abandoned and sharp, beside a clump of dark strands. I almost couldn't believe that this had affected him so as well; I suppose I'd never really believed that he'd cared for Bilbo as anything more than his quest's burglar, useless once his task was done, no matter how many times he and others told me he saw the hobbit as a dear friend.
"You… have failed in nothing, Elf Lord," he murmured. "Were it not for me… were it not for me, for my quest, for my madness, he would not have…," he could not finish the sentence for the catching of his voice, hoarse and low in his throat. My son stepped into the room slowly to stand at my side, hand gentle on my shoulder and sharp face kind and unusually soft. Bilbo breathed, deep and steady and slow, on the bed between us, dwarf and elf.
"I swore I would not let him be hurt," I said, "I swore I would let no one I loved be hurt again."
"It was never you who put him at risk. My madness, that damn stone… I am glad to know it will be rid of. This is the second blow he has taken for me, Elf Lord; the first, he was not hurt, not truly, but this… without meaning to do it, he saved me twice from the hands of orcs and once from the darkness of my own mind. I… am glad to have known him; I have never known any finer. I am glad also that he… that someone loves him as well as you, and is so devoted to his happiness." Thorin's nephews settled hands on each of his shoulders, their own eyes full with unshed tears. I squeezed his hand more tightly. He groaned once, so quiet that I could barely hear it, and then again, more loudly this time.
His eyes fluttered behind his eyelids. His mouth twitched. Slowly, so very, painfully slowly, he stumbled into wakefulness, and squeezed my hand in return. His eyes were warm and tired, his lips curling into a soft, sweet smile. I wept above him, openly and for the first time in decades, and took both he and my son into my arms, holding them as if I feared they would vanish if I let go.
"I'm well, Thranduil, you and Thorin can stop worrying so," he said, voice quiet and a bit hoarse, but I didn't loosen my hold in the slightest. Thorin, too, cried his happiness with his nephews, the three of them hunched over the bed and smiling through their tears.
"You and Legolas worry me far too fiercely," I whispered, my voice sounding weak and thready even to my own ears. "Must I keep you both forever tied to either arm to keep you from doing things so reckless?" They both laughed, as if they relished in harrowing me so, and Bilbo pressed the softest of kisses to the corner of my mouth.
"It's over now," he sighed, "We're all safe, and the quest is done. Thorin, I… the Arkenstone…," the dwarf king shook his head, settling one hand lightly atop the hobbit's curls.
"I am at fault, Bilbo; the Arkenstone is being destroyed as we speak. I will not be the slave to gold my grandfather was. You are a hero in more ways than one, Bilbo. You will be honored amongst us, both as that and as my dearest friend." Happiness, pure and simple: it had been a long time since I'd felt it, and yet at that moment, I could describe my emotions as nothing else. For once, everything had worked out for the better, and the future seemed brighter than any I'd ever dared imagine. All that was left, I supposed, was to let Bilbo heal for a time, and then… then, he and my son and my army and I were going home. I'd never before had so pleasant a thought after so terrible a day.