STAY AND READ THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE.

1. this is where i'll be starting the third and final part of "King and Lionheart", which basically just takes place all throughout BotFA.

2. go to Youtube. Search up the song "Poor Man's Son" by Noah Gundersen. The two top results are pretty much the same; pick either of them. But DON'T PLAY THE SONG YET. Now, in this chapter, I'll be putting an exclamation mark (!) in the beginning of one of the paragraphs. This will prove as a marker for when you should start playing the song.

So: read, keep an eye out for the exclamation mark, and once you find it, play the song, and then continue reading. It's up to you if you want to make the volume really loud or not, but the entire vibe of the song just helps capture the emotions that I'll be trying to convey in this chapter.

Love you guys; don't forget to leave a review after this one! :)

All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson, but Fheon and Elijah belong to me.

P.S. this chapter's title is a song by the Barr Brothers. You guys can search it up, if you want, but it's not much of a sad song. I just thought the title was a perfect fit.

BILBO, BEING the one on the ground, was the first to take off for the entrance.

As he ran to get a glimpse of the dragon that was flying for Lake-town, Fheon hastily clambered down the flights of ladders and followed after the hobbit. Her fingers shook with her slowly-growing panic. She could not hope to follow suit after Bilbo's light feet, instead garnering several scratches on her pants and bruises on her legs and elbows as she scrambled onto the debris of the front entrance. Just before the slope of the mountain started, the rubble ended, and this was where Bilbo waited for her, staring in horror at the dark figure of Smaug.

The moon, hidden behind masses of clouds, did not offer the light needed in order to let the scales of the dragon glisten; lest they be mesmerized by his beauty and not frightened by his malice.

The sting offered by her newly-acquired scratches did nothing to distract Fheon. Her lungs would not cooperate. Every breath she took was short and shallow. Her heart pounded within her chest painfully fast, giving her the feeling of a dragon's claws raking skin and tearing out chunks of her flesh.

"What have we done?" said Bilbo in a strangled whisper.

Fheon could not reply and neither did she find the need to. Her mind had become disorderly, her thoughts a tangled mess of everything she wanted to do, everything she wanted to say, yet was not being given the opportunity to. She felt like clawing at her throat, if only to get a single wisp of breath out. She felt like flying, so she could halt the dragon Smaug in his flight and stab him in the eye, for he had no armor to protect him there. Or she could fly to Lake-town and save her brother. Yes, Elijah was there; along with Fili, Oin, Bofur, and an injured Kili. The dwarves had dealt with a dragon before—they had escaped. Surely they could do it again, with an extra member. But the people of Esgaroth… what was to happen to them?

So just as quickly, her hopes were diminished by the pessimistic possibilities. They weighed down on her just like how Smaug gathered the wind beneath his wings and flew. With every second that passed, he got closer and closer to the town on the lake. It would not take him an hour before reaching it.

The sound of shifting rubble registered to Fheon, and then someone was pulling gently at her arm. She turned her head to find that it was Bombur, accompanied by Bifur, Balin, Dori, and Nori.

"The rest have gone to the overhang," said Balin, who was the one gripping her arm. "You could come with us, if you like."

It was Bilbo who answered. "Why would we—" But then he cut himself off as the answer dawned on him, just as it had Fheon: A better view.

"We have to help them," she reasoned. "Elijah's down there."

"Aye, so are Fili, Kili, Oin and Bifur," Balin replied with a shake of his head. "We couldn't help them even if we wanted to, lass. It would be too late."

Then she noticed Thorin standing at the very back of the small group, and she felt something snap inside her.

"You're a fool!" she screamed at him. "That was your plan? To bury him beneath molten gold?"

Even from afar, she saw the familiar expression of anger cross his face. "It would have worked, had the gold been hotter—"

"FIRE CANNOT KILL A DRAGON! Don't you know that?"

She had not noticed that her feet were carrying her towards the King until Nori stopped her by grabbing her elbow. Thorin glared at her, and she returned his gaze with equal spite, but in the end it was he who turned around. Nori and Balin started tugging at her arm, and she let them pull her away. She held onto the hope that the dwarves that had been left behind would take care of her brother.

Her own words rang in her ears as Balin and the others led her back into the mountain, where they rushed to the overhang. "Hope," she muttered to herself. "Lose it, you lose yourself. There is always hope. Always…"

You cannot lose hope…

They arrived at the overhang just as Smaug loosed a torrent of fire that engulfed a quarter of Lake-town.

By then, Fheon had gotten some of her self-possession back. With every flap of the dragon's wing, she searched for something to hope for. She hoped for Elijah's safety; Kili's, Fili's, Oin's, and Bofur's; Bard's, Sigrid's, Tilda's, and Bain's; the safety of the people of Esgaroth, even though she knew that more than half would fall to the flames, if they were not crushed by the falling ruins of their own houses. She hoped for Smaug's demise; perhaps—as impossible as it was—someone in Lake-town had kept hidden a Black Arrow somewhere.

Smaug circled back and descended, and opened his maw to release a single, continuous deluge that created a second line of fire on the circle on the lake that was Esgaroth.

As far as the town was from where she stood, Fheon could have sworn that she heard the shrill cries of a dying man. It could have been Elijah. A shiver ran down her spine. She crossed her arms and waited for her quaking to cease. He is alive… Seconds later, the roar of the dragon pierced the air as he burned down another quarter of the town.

"Poor souls," Balin muttered. Ori, who sat on the ground facing away from the fiery nightmare, sniffled as a tear strayed down his cheek. Nori placed his hand on his shoulder, but the young dwarf's weeping continued.

Barely half an hour passed before the entirety of Esgaroth was completely consumed in dragon fire.

Fheon could imagine herself there instead of Elijah—aboard a boat and headed for open water, if she still had her wits about her. She could imagine the searing heat of the fire burning her skin, the beads of sweat accumulating all across her body because of it. She could imagine how difficult it must be to breathe because of the smoke, for she remembered how it was so during the attack of Azog on her village. How he had burned everything to the ground and threw her to the fire, and how Elijah had pulled her out but not before the burning tongues had lapped at the skin on her shoulder. She could imagine Elijah in the same situation: injured, catching fire… He hoped he still had the audacity to jump into the lake and be done with it.

She noticed Smaug disappear from the sky above Lake-town, and held her breath in alertness. Had he circled back to make for Erebor once more? Soon, however, she caught sight of the spikes on his back. He had landed on the town, and was walking there. His familiar rough voice echoed across the lake, but it was impossible to make out what he was saying. Fheon started wondering who he was talking to, and why.

Then, he disappeared from view all together. She leaned forward in heated curiosity, and her eyes widened when, suddenly, the dragon reappeared from within the ruins of the town. From afar, his figure was smaller than it actually was. But she noticed the odd way he was flapping his wings, and how his long, angular neck was stretched out, and how his roaring was just as deafening as before… albeit sounding a bit pained. Her heart's rapid thumping skipped a beat as soon as she saw him start falling from the sky.

His wings hung limply at his sides, and his body seemed lifeless. Soon he landed in the middle of the ruins of Esgaroth, lost from view. But his weight alone was enough to cause a crash loud enough to reach Erebor.

Ori's ears perked up and he raised his head. "What was that? What happened?" He was on his feet in seconds.

"It fell," Bilbo replied from beside Fheon. "I-I saw it."

The dwarves started shuffling to get a good look of the burning town. Smoke billowed continuously from the lighted buildings, but Smaug did not rise again.

"He's dead," said Bilbo in a disbelieving whisper. "Smaug is dead!"

Fheon allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, which was gone as quickly as it came.

"By my beard, I think he's right!" Gloin exclaimed, and then pointed at the sky, where more than a dozen small, black figures were veering for Erebor. "Look there! The Ravens of Erebor are returning to the Mountain."

Balin nodded. "Aye, word will spread. Before long, every soul in Middle-Earth will know the dragon is dead."

Cheers of jubilee erupted from the dwarves surrounding her, but Fheon did not join in their laughter. So far, only one of Fheon's wishes had been fulfilled, but it was not the one she felt most desperate about.

For when you have lost hope, you have lost yourself.

Dawn came, and Thorin came to the conclusion that they still needed to hunt for sustenance, for the food within the Mountain had long become spoiled; if not spoiled, destroyed by Smaug. Fheon volunteered for the job, and requested that she could bring Ori with her, with the simple explanation: "He's handy with a slingshot." Thorin granted his permission—far too hastily, Fheon noticed. He then brought the rest of the Company to the treasure room to no doubt start the search for the Arkenstone. The last she had seen it was when she first laid eyes on Smaug.

She had retrieved her bow hours before, but it remained worth nothing to her considering her shoulder. Nevertheless, she still looped it and her quiver over her shoulder, just in case. Primarily armed with her sword, and Ori with his slingshot, they began their journey back down to the wilds of the mountain.

Another convenience for having Ori with her was that he knew the way back to Erebor. Not that she had easily forgotten the path, but she did not want to prioritize herself with remembering. Her mind was astray for a different thing: an arrival. Namely, the arrival of the rest of their Company.

The animals were just as cautious as before. But surprisingly enough, Ori was light on his feet, therefore keeping him and Fheon from the arduous task of having to chase down their meat.

Two hours later, four fat wild turkeys hung from Ori's belt, and it was a miracle he was still walking so straight. Fheon had a big horn sheep over her good shoulder, its blood staining her chainmail. She did her best to ignore the stench as she followed Ori back up to Erebor, where the dwarves were undoubtedly waiting for their food; then a familiar voice reached her ears, rambling about being able to devour a whole mountain lion.

Fheon stopped in her tracks, as did Ori, and soon four familiar faces appeared from the small hill to their right.

"Fili!" Ori exclaimed, and all but threw himself to the blonde dwarf.

"Ori!" said Kili, and then regarded Fheon with confused eyes. "Fheon?"

"Kili," she replied. "Fili—"

"Fheon!" Bofur cut her off with an abrupt hug, and then, "Ori!"

"Bofur!" said Ori.

"Oin," Fheon greeted.

"Fheon," he replied in kind, and then was embraced by Ori, who seemed to be enjoying the simple pleasantries most.

! Fheon, however, was his complete opposite. She handed the lifeless big horn sheep over to Fili and then questioned them immediately: "Where is my brother?" To her dismay, they only shared grim glances with each other. So in a louder voice, she demanded, "Where is he?"

"He was on the boat with us, lass," said Bofur. "Or, at least, he had been. He took off with Bain to help Bard slay the dragon. And they did! They shot him with a Black Arrow—"

"Where are they now—the survivors?"

"On the western shore." He pointed to the west, and then his expression turned into one of deep sorrow. "We couldn't find him anywhere there, Fheon—"

"He's alive," she interrupted and then motioned down the slope. "Is your boat still down there?"

"Aye, but—"

"If he survived," said Fili, "you'll find him with the people of Lake-town."

Fheon caught him throw a warning look to Bofur, and narrowed her eyes at his use of the word 'if'.

"Take the game back to Erebor," she told them. "The dwarves are hungry." She turned and quickly started jogging down the mountain, saying over her shoulder, "I'll be back by tomorrow afternoon."

No reply came from the dwarves. In her mind, a frantic mantra had taken hold of her thoughts: He lives. He lives. He lives.

So remember this…

Because of her one useless arm, it took her nearly four hours to navigate herself to the western shore. The slight upsurge of the water did not help, though she guessed it was because of the beams and roofs and foundations at Lake-town that were still falling into the lake.

Nevertheless, after what seemed like a whole day, she finally reached the shore and was met with the sight of about a hundred survivors. Her heart clenched. Considering how packed Esgaroth had been, a hundred was not a very good ratio. Almost a quarter of them were wounded, and another quarter were women. The half that was left bustled about in the water, sifting through the waves for everything salvageable. Fheon docked the boat east of the site, where there weren't much people. Her reasons were not because they were suspicious of them—for why would they steal a boat? Where would they go? She simply did not want to disturb them; on the shore of the site, at least a dozen men, women, and children were mourning their dead.

So she docked her boat and stepped onto the thin strip of land. The soles of her boots squelched as they sunk into the mud. Fheon dared not look down, fearing that mud was not the only fluid she was walking on. She did not want to glance about either, but she had to, lest she become one of the women crying lamentingly by the waterside. Eventually, a familiar face came into view… and Fheon was not sure whether she should approach or turn around and walk away, for it was not a very friendly face.

"You," said the auburn-haired she-elf. "You helped the dwarves escape—"

"Since we've already reclaimed the mountain and there's nothing more you can do about it—and I'm in a bit of a rush—I'll tell you my name, you tell me yours, and I'll be on my way," Fheon interrupted smoothly. "We are no longer enemies. This I can tell you for certain."

The elf regarded her with narrow eyes for a long moment, before saying, "I am Tauriel, captain of the guard for King Thranduil."

"And I am Fheon," Fheon responded in kind, before striding right past her to continue her search.

"I assume you're looking for your brother."

She stopped in her tracks immediately. Still not facing the elf, she asked, "Have you seen him?"

"I was with the dwarves and him when they escaped on a boat," said Tauriel, and Fheon was too distracted to think about why she was with the dwarves. "But when the boy, Bain, took off to help his father, your brother followed him." She pointed to the right, to someone standing by the shore. "He should have been the last one to see your brother. You can ask him."

Fheon almost did not want to, for she noticed the sad, almost sympathetic tone in Tauriel's voice, and the elf would not have gained something from lying to her. Steeling herself, Fheon marched up to Bard, who was helping an old woman out of the water. Upon seeing her, the bargeman's eyes widened.

"Fheon," he said, surprise clear on his face. "What are you—?"

"Where is Elijah?" she demanded, and then allowed a detached expression onto her features. "Answer me quickly, bargeman. My patience runs thin."

She watched with anxiety and trembling hands as he handed the old woman to what Fheon assumed was her family, all the while never looking away from her. His eyes were intense, but not with affection. Fheon would never have seen it without the crease on his forehead, or his pursed lips, or the way he kept shuffling on his feet. Even before he could say anything about Elijah, the cold claw of fear had already gripped her heart.

He hesitated for another moment before saying, "Your brother… he is dead, Fheon."

"Do not jest," she snapped. "Everyone says that he was with you and your son when you killed Smaug. So I'll say it again: Where. Is. My. Bro—"

"He fell," said Bard. "He went with Bain to retrieve the Black Arrow… but at the tower, when they were giving it to me, Smaug flew by us and completely destroyed the fortifications. They were just dangling off the edge and he threw Bain to me first. I tried to save him. I did… and then his hand got cut." He shook his head. "Before he fell, he insisted I tell you something—"

"No." Fheon cut him off before he could say more. The winded feeling had returned. She scowled at the ground and tried to control her thoughts. Hope… He did not fall… At least find something to remember him by—"You lie," she hissed at Bard. "He was one of the Dunedain. He knew how to swim. He would not have drowned."

"From how far up we were and considering the amount of debris in the water…" The bargeman trailed off, though he did not to finish in order for Fheon to understand what he was trying to say.

Her eyes stung as tears threatened to spill forth, something she could not allow. Blinking rapidly, she looked away from Bard and searched the crowd with wild eyes. Old women, old men, young women, young men, babies, mothers, fathers… She searched for the problematic tuft of hair that stood up at the back of his head, the familiar copper hue of his skin that was the same as hers. His billowing, evergreen cloak… Old women, old men, young women, young men, babies, mothers, fathers… No Elijah.

"I offer my condolences, Fheon," Bard said from behind her. "You will not find him here. His body never washed up—"

"He's not dead!"

"There is only one other place to look…"

Knowingly, Fheon turned and met the bargeman's sad gaze. "I am allowed?"

He nodded. "Yes, but it'll be dangerous. You're welcome to any of our boats, though."

He had not even finished speaking yet before she was walking back to her boat in long strides. Using her stronger legs, she kicked it back into the water and, ignoring the protests of her muscles, rowed to the ashen ruins of Esgaroth.

He is alive… He has to be.

When things are dire and bleak…

The air still strongly smelled of fire and smoke. Fheon was careful not to wade into the more narrow canals, for the creaking beams above could still easily decapitate her. With her paddle and seldom with her own hands, she pushed the floating debris away from her boat; she did not want to get stuck. And wreckage was not the only floating things she had to worry about. As determined as she was to find her brother still alive, holding onto a beam to keep afloat, it was difficult to have to look at the faces of the corpses she passed by. She checked if any of them were breathing, and none of them ever were.

A large beam crashed into the water in front of her. She was forced to switch routes, but ultimately reached the edge of the town anyway, with still no sign of her brother. Panic had long begun to swell inside her chest, eliciting from her sobs that tore past her throat. Yet no tears came.

She called for her brother, desperate for an answer. She did not care if he was injured, or if his legs had been flattened beneath a slab of wood, or had been splintered. He would answer her so she could save him.

It was three hours of her exploring the wreckage of the town. She had succeeded in going through all the passageways twice. If Bard's story was correct and Elijah had indeed fallen into the water, then he would not have been buried beneath the wooden rubble. He would have sunk to the bottom of the lake at the second hour of his death.

Finally, the tears came, rushing down her face. Streams of heartbreak and sorrow. Her shoulders shook with the strength of her woe, rocking the boat back and forth. She was in open-water, now. No harm would come to her unless brought forth by her own hands.

She lamented Elijah—he who had protected her, loved her, favored her above all else; he who had stolen her back from the very clutches of death, but could not do the same for their sister, or their parents; he who had shared in her pain and irritation whenever a new wound appeared on her body; he who told her that older stars were the unmoving ones, and younger ones were the ones that roamed; that winking was the star-language; he who had coaxed her into accompanying him in such a dangerous journey, but ended up falling before she did.

Something sprung forth from the deep parts of her mind—a memory: her and Elijah standing in the shadows. They had just come across the Company and were offered a place in their ranks. And Elijah had finally succeeded in wheedling her acceptance.

Fheon muttered in distaste, "If I die, I'm coming back to drag you with me."

He was still grinning. "And what happens if I die?"

She rolled her eyes. "Highly doubtful. I would die first trying to save your arse. This is a dragon we're dealing with."

A single, high-pitched wail tore through her throat. She dug her fingernails into her hauberk, as if she was going to tear her own heart out. Her fingernails broke and cracked against the material, and thin streams of blood flowed through the chainmail.

In time, however, her tears ran dry and she grew too exhausted to keep sobbing. Her fingers ached from remaining curled for so long, but she took hold of the paddle and made way for Erebor once more. She did not want to return to the western shore, fearing that, if she laid eyes on the survivors, she would start to despise them for making it out alive when her brother did not. There was no one there for her to speak with anyway. Bard was not plaintive enough for any of his daughters to have died. His family was alive, which was more than Fheon could say for herself.

She was alone.