The two opponents dance around each other, Lys with upraised fists, Grimog with outstretched knife. Thorin notices that Lys is not looking at the weapon, but seems to be staring into Grimog's eyes.
After what seems an eternity, Lys darts forward. Grimog steps to the side and slashes at her throat with his knife - but she ducks, coming up on the outside of his arm. Grimog quickly resumes his stance, not lingering in the vulnerable position of imbalance after the strike - not, however, before Lys has delivered a sharp jab to his ribs. He tries again, and once more she darts into action. They move in circles, around each other, at each other, darting in and out, weaving an intricate, deadly choreography which unravels at a breakneck speed.
For all Grimog's bulk, he is not stupid - and not slow, either. He has every bit of Lys's speed and agility, and much more strength, not to mention his knife. Thorin begins to fear for Lys. For a moment he looks away, towards her boots lying on the floor - the tall, supple elvish boots she has removed before the fight - but his eyes are pulled back to her and Grimog.
Now he understands her words back at Bag End. She does not have the ability to fight. She fights. It seems as natural and effortless as breathing to her, every movement fluid yet precise, never missing its target. She only moves as much as is necessary, not wasting energy in any direction but towards her opponent's body. And yet Thorin does not see how she can win. She blocks all his strikes, and delivers countless blows to his ribs, gut and inner thighs, but none of them seem to inflict any real damage. The fight cannot go on indefinitely.
Suddenly Grimog slashes at her face, and Thorin's breath catches in his throat as Lys does nothing to defend herself, her eyes still locked with the goblin's. The reason immediately becomes evident: the knife does not reach her face at all, but with a smooth change of direction heads down towards her stomach. This Lys is prepared for - she steps forward diagonally, along the outside of Grimog's arm, grabbing it, and suddenly a crack is heard and the knife drops to the floor. Grimog grunts. His right arm now hangs limply. He growls angrily, but does not throw caution to the wind as Lys might have hoped. His left arm remains upheld in a defensive position in front of his face. They circle each other once more, calculating.
Having lost the use of one arm, Grimog decides to use a different weapon. In a blur of speed his right knee flies up, his left foot pivots and his right leg straightens into a powerful side kick.
At the last second, Lys moves an inch to the side, letting the goblin's heavy leg shoot past her. She traps it the second it is fully extended and at the same time steps into Grimog, her left leg slipping in front of his, she pivots and he is down. His instinct protects him, however, and his head does not touch the ground. Immediately Lys's knee descends upon his throat, he emits a wheezing rattle for a few seconds and then goes limp.
Goblins are not exceedingly intelligent. Within seconds, Lys is engulfed by a swarm of the infuriated creatures, who are forgetting the fact that the fight had been arranged and are simply perceiving that she has killed one of them. Their king does nothing to stop them.
Lys's voice rises above the clamour, uttering a single word: "Run!"
Yes, they could run, while the goblins are distracted, giving them a fair chance of escape… but Thorin will do no such thing. He retrieves his sword from where it has been cast on the ground, and charges at the goblins with a yell. The rest of the Company follow, and they fall upon Lys's attackers from behind.
At first it goes well - it is the goblins who are surprised this time. But the dwarves are still largely outnumbered, and several of them are unarmed.
Thorin fights his way through the goblins to Lys, who seems unharmed except for some cruel gashes on the outside of her forearms, probably from fending off the goblins' knives. She flashes him an angry glance, then turns to punch a goblin in the jaw and continues to fight.
The goblins keep coming, and the notion of escape grows ever fainter. A sound reaches Thorin's ears as he swings his sword - the ugly laughter of the goblin king. Sudden anger sweeps over him, a red-hot fury that pounds in all his veins. Insults, treachery… this cannot be borne.
Cleaving his way through the goblins, he emerges in front of their leader, who looks on in surprise as he runs towards him, sword raised.
His first blow falls on the goblin king's ankle, cutting deep into the soft flesh. With a howl of pain and rage he reaches out and lifts Thorin off the ground, but the dwarf hacks at his wrist until he drops him.
The grotesque creature falls to its knees, clutching its nearly severed hand, and Thorin drives his sword straight into its belly. Its eyes widen, then it topples forward. Thorin withdraws his sword and leaps to the side as it crashes down on top of several goblins, a large pool of dark, sticky blood seeping quickly from underneath it.
They must flee now, he realizes. The goblins are half-crazed by the death of their king, fighting wildly but blindly.
He leaps up onto the carcass of the goblin king and waves his sword. "To me!" he shouts, and the Company begin to fight their way towards him. Clambering in turn over the massive corpse, they reach the pathway beyond and begin their escape from the mountain.
It seems another eternity until they reach the sunlight - one of creaking, swaying pathways, of thousands of goblins, bodies dropping squealing into the darkness below, of torchlight glancing off bloodied swords, and throughout it all the frantic thinking of which way will lead them out. But they find the way, and with the first hints of daylight the goblins begin to fall back, crawling or scurrying back into their dark abode with wrathful backward glances at their escaped prisoners. The dwarves spill out onto a grassy, wooded slope, endlessly grateful for the air and sunlight on their skin.
Thorin faces Lys. "Why did you do that?"
"Why not?" she replies. "I won."
"Yes, but…" The barely concealed anger in his voice grows. "It was risky."
Lys shakes her head. "There was no risk. I knew I would win."
Thorin frowns.
"Well, perhaps not absolutely positive," she amends. "I've never fought a goblin before. I'm glad I got to, though."
Thorin's frown deepens, and he narrows his eyes. "You enjoyed it!" he accuses her incredulously.
"Of course. I could have had him at that first knife-slash, but that wouldn't have been any fun."
Lys takes advantage of Thorin's speechlessness to continue, "The question is why you didn't run when I told you to."
"You expected we would abandon you?!" His anger is now mixed with incredulity that she had actually meant for them to leave her there.
"We've abandoned Bilbo," she points out quietly.
"So you have," says another voice, and Thorin whirls around.
"Gandalf!" he exclaims at the sight of the figure emerging from the trees. Anger flows quickly back into him. "Where were you when we needed you?" he demands.
"Ah, but you didn't need me, did you?" replies the wizard. "All the same, I had hoped you'd take better care of my burglar," he continues before Thorin can properly think about that question.
"Take care of him!" he spits. "It's his responsibility to take care of himself! So he has failed to do that. If he's lucky he'll find his own way out. He never belonged with us anyways."
"You're right."
Thorin turns around again, and there is Bilbo, standing in the sunlight just outside the tunnel entrance. A small pang of guilt jabs at him - he had spoken out of anger, and he didn't really bear the hobbit any ill will, albeit considerable scorn.
"You're right," repeats Bilbo, walking towards them. "I don't belong here. I belong back in Bag End, in my home. But that's just it - I have a home, and you don't. And that's why I'm going to stay. To help you get your home back, if I can."
For a moment Thorin sees something more than a pitiful little hobbit in him - but the scorn soon returns. What help can Bilbo be to them? And his courage may fail him yet. Such a thing is easier said than done.
The throaty howl of a warg breaks the tense silence.
"Run!" commands Thorin, looking around at the faces of his Company. So it begins again. Escaped from the goblins, only to be pursued by orcs.
They fall in line behind him and Gandalf and begin to run, as they have done all their long lives.
Acrid smoke brings tears to Ori's eyes as he clings to his brother's feet for dear life, dangling off the burning pine tree that leans far out over the precipice. Lys, in turn, clutches his ankles, forming the last link of the chain of bodies suspended in mid-air.
Above him, clashes and yells ring out, the only testimony to the fight going on. Below him… he doesn't want to look down.
If only he could be up there fighting! He tries not to think of the fact that the others could be dying at the hands of the orcs while he hangs here, utterly helpless. But then again, he and Dori and Lys are probably going to die very soon too. Plummeting down the cliff, or being hewn by orcs on the ashen ground above - what difference does it really make?
A shudder runs through the chain, punctuated by a grunt from Dori, and Ori finds himself an inch lower in the air than before.
Dori is slipping.
A thrill of sheer panic jolts through Ori's body, and he forces down a hysterical laugh. This is it. They are going to fall.
"Dori, how much longer can you hold on?" calls Lys.
"I… I don't know," comes the strained reply, and Ori's panic deepens.
"I suppose it would help if you had less weight to bear," says Lys… and suddenly the pressure on Ori's ankles is gone.
"Mahal!" he gasps in a strangled voice, before talking is rendered impossible by the choking sensation in his throat.
"Did she just…" Dori trails off.
"Yes," manages Ori in a whisper, and grips his brother's feet more tightly.
The wind whistles in her ears, rushes through her hair and clothes, as she lets herself go limp and give in to the fall. She feels no fear, only a slight twinge of… sadness? Above her, the burning tree rapidly diminishes in size as she hurtles towards the ground that she cannot see - the ground of her new-found home.
And then a rushing sound, a shadow passes above her and something hard and strong, yet gentle, envelops her, causing her to change direction, now borne upwards and away.
What surrounds her is a pair of huge talons. Above her, the feathers of a giant eagle ripple in the wind. Wings span as far as she can see on either side. Gripping the talons, she turns over onto her belly. Fields and forests pass underneath her with dizzying speed. The powerful wings beat rhythmically, strokes pulsating like the blood that courses through her veins, pounding in her head. Once again, she is alive.
She sees that they are approaching a large rock which protrudes from the landscape, rising from the middle of a rapid stream.
The eagle sets her down on the rock and then lands, folding up its wings neatly.
"So, little one. We meet again. Have you not yet learned that you cannot fly?"
Lys meets its large, golden eyes. "You know that flying was never my purpose."
"Yes." After a moment's pause, the eagle spreads its wings once more. "There are still others to rescue."
Lys nods, then bows deeply. "Thank you… again."
The eagle bows its head in return, then takes off, sending currents of air swirling around Lys as she gazes after it.
The figure that the next eagle bears in its talons does not seem to be moving, and apprehension seizes Lys quite suddenly - growing to fear when it comes closer and she ascertains that it is indeed immobile, and it is Thorin.
Fear… she cannot remember the last time she felt fear. She has never had anything to be afraid of. But why is she afraid for Thorin?
The eagle sets him down on the rock. She walks over to him and kneels down. His eyes are closed, his face bloody and badly bruised. She reaches out and takes his wrist in her hand, her long, pale fingers curling around the thick limb, deftly finding a vein and feeling for a pulse.
Bilbo is the next to arrive, and he stands next to her. She remains kneeling, holding Thorin's wrist. "He's alive," she says. Bilbo allows himself to breathe.
The rest of the Company arrive quickly and gather round the three motionless figures - one lying, one kneeling, one standing.
And then Gandalf comes. Lys rises to her feet as he, in turn, kneels next to Thorin. He passes a hand over the pale, bloody face, and murmurs something unintelligible.
Sighs of relief echo all around as Thorin's eyes open.
"Where is Bilbo?" he asks, looking around anxiously until the hobbit emerges from his hiding-place behind Gandalf. Thorin slowly gets up and walks over to him.
"I doubted you," he says. "I thought you had no place among us." He pauses. "I have never been so wrong in my life."
And then he embraces the hobbit warmly, clasping him in his arms.
When they break apart, Thorin seems to notice something behind Bilbo. The hobbit turns and sees, far off in the distance, a looming, tapered shadow, wreathed with clouds - "The mountain…" he breathes.
"Yes," says Thorin, "That is our home."
After Bofur has quickly fashioned some crude shoes for Lys out of a few scraps of leather, the Company sets off once more. They clamber down the steep rock, ford the river and begin to walk across the wide fields that surround it, the image of the mountain still in their heads, driving them forward through whatever danger may come, to Erebor, their goal, their home - and they do not feel quite so lost anymore.