Prologue:
It should have killed him. That disgusting, vile, evil creature should have delivered a blow to end the life of Thorin Oakenshield, and he very well knew it. But it never happened. The blow never came, not to him at least. Rather, something hit Bolg, son of his great enemy, in the side of the head, and sent him to the blood drenched earth, motionless and soundless.
Then he saw it, the item that saved his life. Sticking out of the orc's temple was the delicate shaft of an arrow. In fact, it was so small that Thorin was sure he wouldn't have seen it if it hadn't been for the golden color it had been painted, or the pure white feathers that were ruffling faintly in the slight breeze from the chaos of the battle going on around him.
He gave it no more thought as another orc came at him. As the battle raged on, however, Thorin couldn't shake that someone had aimed precisely for the head of Bolg, meaning to not simply kill the horrendous thing, but out of protection. His hunch was confirmed moments later when he glanced over to see an orc swinging at Fili, who was struggling to defend himself. Before the blow could hit its intended target, something collided with the attacker and sent it to the ground.
The King under the Mountain slashed his way through the mass of ugly creatures to reach his nephew, defending him until the younger lad could collect himself. As he glanced at the fallen orc, he saw the same arrow, the same fragile, golden shaft with feathers pure as snow. It confused him how such a flimsy arrow could pierce through the skulls of such dense skulls of orcs.
Once more, his attention was removed from the arrow as the battle did not pause for his thoughts. Though, that was not the last time he saw that protective arrow. One last time, before the enemy was defeated, he saw his youngest nephew spared from death, the same thing, a intricately delicate arrow piercing the skull of an orc, and allowing his nephew to see the end of his first battle.
This time, Thorin looked towards the origin of the savior arrow, and saw a hooded figure atop one of the massive statues guarding the gates of Erebor. He watched as the mysterious archer stood, and turned, disappearing from view. As his Company surrounded him, moving his weakening body towards a healer, he couldn't help but wonder who the archer was, and how they had protected his line. He was lost in his own mind as his body began a new battle; a battle against the toxins he hadn't escaped from slashes from orc blades.
Authors Note:
This is the prologue for my new Hobbit story, let me know what you guys think!