"The orcs have spread their filth about the halls of our forebears," Thrain called to his troops, "Today is the day we reclaim what was lost for the honor of our kin and for the honor of all dwarves!"

With this cry, the dwarves charged into battle. Orcs had infested the rocky plain outside of Moria and they awaited the dwarves' attack with a vicious thirst for blood. Leading them was a massive pale orc: Azog the Defiler.

The battle raged on for what seemed like an eternity and none fought more bravely than Thorin himself.

As the sun began to set, Azog engaged the dwarf prince in battle. They fought fiercely, neither gaining the upper hand until Azog managed to disarm Thorin.

As the pale orc moved to strike, Thorin clutched a piece of an oak branch to defend himself. He held Azog off just long enough for a familiar voice to cry, "Thorin!"

A figure tossed a sword to the dwarf and then was promptly battered by the enemy's weapon, sending them skittering like a ragdoll across the rocks.

Only after slicing Azog's arm off and sending the orcs into hiding once more did Thorin realize that the mysterious figure, now crumpled in pain, had a mane of silvery hair.

A pit formed in the dwarf's stomach and his heart stopped for an instant. He ran to her side.

"Marryn," Thorin whispered, kneeling by her side and wrapping his arms around her frail body, "no."

Tears formed in his eyes and his throat tightened as the pale grey of his wife's eyes began to glaze over.

"No," he stammered, his eyes searching her face desperately and his arms gripping her tight as if his grasp might be stronger than the pull of death, "this is not how it was meant to be."

He kissed her forehead, smearing blood, tears, and dirt across her pale skin that was beginning to grow cold.

"We were supposed to have many more years together," he sobbed, "You were supposed to slip peacefully away in my arms, warm in our bed."

Marryn lifted a trembling hand to his cheek and wove her fingers into his beard.

"It's better this way," she sighed, "I am proud to have fought beside my truest love and my king, Thorin of the oaken shield."

She gave a weak grin and tried to laugh but it was swiftly replaced with a cough and one drop of blood escaped the corner of her mouth. Thorin wiped it away and rested his forehead against hers. Her hand dropped weakly to her chest.

"The years we've spent together have been my happiest. To live without you will require a strength I do not have," Thorin bleated, his breath coming out in shaking sobs, "How can I go on when my very soul has been taken from me?"

"I will be there in the old songs they played in Girion's hall," Marryn replied wistfully, "in the spools of golden thread dear Haban used to use, in the moon pebbles strewn about your path. I will be there in the steam of a hot bath, in the glow of a fire in autumn, in the laughter of our nephews."

Thorin ran his fingers through her hair.

"And I will be there when you lead our people back into the mountain," Marryn whispered, "my only love."

And with one last shuddering breath, Marryn closed her moonlit eyes and shrank into Thorin's chest. The dwarf howled and struggled to catch his breath, curling up in defeat next to her body.

The few dwarves that remained from the battle knelt reverently.

Frerin fell to his knees and through his tears, he began to sing:

At autumn's feast, in Girion's hall, the Lady Marryn danced

The dwarvish prince, he saw her there, and asked her if perchance

She'd dance with him, into the night, beneath the grinning moon.

The lady fair and prince of dwarves, they danced so long that soon,

We could not part the dwarf from her, nor keep her far from him.

With dragon fire and homes laid low, the future now seems dim.

She waits for him in lands beyond, described in tales of old.

And in due time, he'll join her there, to live in halls of gold.

Thorin stood, clutching Marryn's empty shell of a body to his chest and looked toward the setting sun. There would be no feast and no rejoicing, for though the battle had been won, the loss the dwarves endured was beyond the count of grief.

The few dwarves that remained stood also and followed he who they would call king.

"And that is why Thorin Oakenshield has more cause than most to hate orcs," Balin concluded, "and why he always wears one moon pebble ring on his finger and one on a chain 'round his neck."

Fili and Kili looked at their uncle with a renewed sense of respect and awe as he stood on a cliff in the moonlight. He stroked the moon pebble that hung from his neck and hummed under his breath the Song of Marryn.