Sorry, sorry, sorry for the late update guys! I had some very busy days and with another University paper waiting to be written it probably won't change that much in the future but I will try my best to get back to the regular updating schedule. Especially now, that the story is getting to another climax.
So I hope you'll bear with me, I'll do my best to keep the updates regularly again.
Thanks for all the lovely reviews and enjoy the next Chapter!
The clangour grew louder and louder the closer they came to the entrance hall until it was nearly deafening. Heavy boots on the stony ground of Erebor, armour and weapons clattering, yet when they reached the lowest staircase and they glimpsed down into the Hall, a view unfolded before them that neither of them had anticipated.
Dwarves, hundreds of them, all in glistening, black armour, their blades and hammers shining in the dim light of the torches and amongst them waltzed a particularly large Dwarf, his bright red, large battle axe shining on his broad back, reaching up high above the pitch black Mohawk.
"What in Durin's name is this bloody nonsense?!" Dáin thundered through the halls. "Oakenshield!"
"Finally", Fíli breathed and he sunk to his knees, his heart racing in his chest. Kíli pulled him back up, grinning and beaming. They watched as Dáin dashed through the archway to the Hall of Thrór and then caught glimpse of another Dwarf and they both stopped in their tracks and gaped in wonder.
His armour was black entirely, from head to toes, the brims and borders glistening red, like the crest on his chest. Long silver spikes, painful to look at even, weighed down his boots and the spikes also decorated his broad shoulder plates and his bracers. He wore a black helmet, the part above the forehead forming the heads of two rams crashing into each other and beneath the helmet, blue eyes glistened, a fire burning within them that the boys, for a moment, believed he was possessed by a demon. He looked just as intimidating as Dáin, yet less noble.
When he noticed them on the stairs, they both jumped, about to run off already, when an entirely familiar voice rang across.
"By my beard. You look shiny."
"Dwalin?" Amazed, they rushed down the stairs and it indeed was the old warrior, smirking at them underneath his thick beard.
"Ye both gone blind? I thought you were the young ones here."
Never before had they seen him in full battle armour and never before had they anticipated that he would look as heroic as he did. A small tank he was, lean and agile and undoubtedly baneful with every step he made. They then noticed that every Dwarf in Dáin's army was fitted with similar spikes or blades that decorated their armour, turning them into walking weapons.
"How many are there?" Fíli asked, while Kíli looked mesmerized.
"Five hundred. Bet you will need them", the old Dwarf grinned.
"Be you we do", Fíli gaped in wonder.
"That's a curious armour. You made that yourself?"
"No. No I found it in the forge and it fitted, so-", Fíli stopped when he noticed the nostalgic look in Dwalin's eyes. "Why?"
"Has Thorin seen you yet?"
"No. What's wrong?"
"Hm", Dwalin smiled, forcefully patting the youngster on the back. "Nevermind laddie. Where's the bloody grog, I'm starving!"
Little did Fíli know for his armour had once belonged to his grandfather Thráin, before he had to leave it behind when the Dragon attacked Erebor. It was rare and so precious that maybe only the Arkenstone matched it's worth, yet Fíli had no idea. They followed Dwalin into the Hall, where they found a most relieved Thorin and a most puzzled Dáin, running after his cousin, a mug of grog already in his hands.
"I don't get this, I really don't. I thought we were bashing the Elves?"
"Change of plans", Thorin muttered, pressing more blistering metal spikes onto Glóin's shoulder plates. "We'll bash Orcs first."
"Ah", Dáin nodded. "And Elves afterwards then."
"Depends on the behaviour of the Elves."
When Thorin's eyes fell on Fíli however, he suddenly grew very quiet and not even Dáin muttered another word. The King under the Mountain felt his throat clench and his heart race and when he approached his nephew, Fíli already believed that he had messed up again, for Thorin's face was stern and serious.
His uncle however, merely clasped his cheeks with both hands and leaned his forehead against Fíli's. He then reached out for Kíli, closing his eyes while he did the same to his younger nephew and when he looked up again, he quickly blinked away a few tears.
"No matter what happens out there, you should both know that I am incredibly proud of you. Both of you. And I know that you will step out and you will shine in this battle and you will defend the name of our family bravely."
Both boys simply nodded and suddenly it all became very real.
This was no banter with Orcs, this was a war. A real, proper war. And they looked around themselves, looked at the faces of the Dwarves in the Hall and it suddenly dawned on them that they would see some of those faces never again. That many of these brave Dwarves would die that day.
They looked at Bofur, Bifur and Bombur, still looking a little shabby in their armour but nonetheless proud, equipped with their familiar weapons and Bofur smiled at them, ever optimistic, ever cheerful. And they feared that they would never see this smile again.
They looked at Dori and Nori, dignity on the face of one, while mischief was written on the face of the other and when Dori bowed at them and Nori smirked, they feared that they would never see their faces again.
They looked at Ori, so young and so innocent, his armour too big, his weapons too heavy and he smiled at them, honestly, openly, for even though they had bullied him when they were younger, he loved and supported them nonetheless and they feared that he wouldn't live to tell them stories again.
They looked at Óin and Glóin, standing tall and proud in their glistening armour, the crest of Durin shining bright in the light of the flames and both also bowed to them, silently letting them know that it was an honour to live and die by their side and in their service. And they feared they would never see those proud faces again.
They looked at Balin, small and old, his armour shining red and sitting tight and never before had they seen him like this. And they remembered the long, utterly boring days they had spent in the studies of the Blue Mountains, bent over maps and books while Balin taught them how to read, how to write, how to calculate. He taught them the history of their kin, told them stories and occasionally beat them up when they had fallen asleep over their lectures again. And he smiled at them, this loving smile that had always reassured them since they were little. And they feared to never see this smile again.
They looked at Dwalin, grim and honourable as usual, the tattoos on his hands shimmering black and they remembered the training in the great halls, when they battered him with sticks and iron and he would laugh, beating them up one after the other, again and again until they were bruised and knackered. And he would carry them back to their rooms and smile, telling them about the great battles and the many heroic deeds the Dwarves of Durin had done until they had fallen asleep, their wooden swords under their pillows. And they feared they would never hear his deep, thundering voice again.
And they looked at Thorin and they remembered his tales and his past, they remembered his fate and remembered his strength that had led them to this very point. They remembered the day their father had died, leaving their mother heartbroken and devastated and it had been Thorin who had taken them under his wing, raised them as his own, taught them and he had given them strength, love and hope when they had needed it the most. And the mere thought of never seeing his face again frightened them to the bones and suddenly, they wished to be back in the Blue Mountains again, safe and sound, in the arms of their mother.
"Don't let it frighten you", they suddenly heard a deep, calm voice in their backs and when they looked over their shoulders, they found Dáin standing behind them, a small smile playing on his lips. "Let it encourage and quicken you. A piece of advise from an old warrior like myself?"
"I think we could do with one", Kíli smiled and they both turned around.
"A great warrior is driven by courage and anger. And he will fight fiercely and effectively, taking many lives and defending what is his until his dying day."
The brothers looked at each other, their spirits faltering even more for none of them was truly angry, nor did they feel very courageous.
"A deathless warrior however", Dáin smiled. "Is driven by honour and love. And he will overcome any obstacle, he will smite any enemy and he will never die, for his love will always linger on in the heart-", he gently tapped his finger on Kíli's chest. "Of somebody else. That is why your uncle is so strong. Because he knows that his grandfather, his father and his brother are fighting by his side today. And your father is by your side right now, even though you might not be able to see him. And he will be there, until you both exhale your last breath and meet him again in the Halls of Waiting. We're Longbeards, lads. We have endured. We will endure. For the spirit of Durin is in all of us and it dwells in our hearts and hardens us until we're impenetrable. Never forget that."
They couldn't say why, but vague and simple as those words were, they helped. Both of them did not fight this battle for gold and treasure. They didn't even fight for Erebor and their home. They fought for the honour of their family, for the pride that dwelled within them. For their father, their grandfather and every single Dwarf of Durin's Line, for their people. And they both found that no reason to die could be nobler and more honourable.
"Are you scared?" Fíli asked and Dáin raised his eyebrows, taking a good sip of grog.
"Of what?"
"Bolg. You killed his father after all, didn't you?"
"Huh? That ugly puss?" Dáin chuckled. "Nah laddies, I'm not scared. If he desperately wants to face me in battle, he bloody well can and I'll cut him into bits. But I doubt that he's after me."
Fíli and Kíli exchanged a puzzled glance.
"After Thorin then?"
"More likely. Though there might be someone else who's pissed him off entirely", Dáin grinned delighted and once more patted Fíli on the shoulder. "Good luck, laddie."
The youngster blinked, staring at the opposite wall and in this moment, all the wise and loving words were forgotten and he hated Dáin and his carefreeness with a passion. Fíli grumbled quietly and silently prayed that Bolg had already forgotten about the fight in Mount Gundabad. Charging into battle was well enough, but he felt entirely unprepared to face the leader of that despicable army.
Only a few hours later, Kíli stood by his uncle's side.
It was midday already but no sunlight shone through the thick clouds above. Snow was still falling and a cold, uncomfortable fog wavered over the frost-covered ground. They stood high on one of the spurs that bordered the valley before the Great Gates of Erebor, the bridge in some distance to their left. With them stood Thranduil, the olive green armour glistening in the dim light and behind them were the three hundred Elves and about two hundred Dwarves, all scattered across the slopes of the spur.
Some miles away from them, on the other spur bordering the valley stood Dáin with another two hundred Dwarves and Bard by his side, accompanied by two hundred armed Men from Lake-Town. They could barely see anything through the dense fog but Dáin was certain that at least the Dwarves could use the weather to their advantage, gleefully telling Thranduil that they would be harder to spot, so low above the ground. Judging from the way the Dwarves had behaved towards the Elves, Kíli doubted that they would ever leave their forest again.
"Do you think he'll be alright? Out there, leading the vanguard on his own?" he quietly asked, glancing at Thorin by his side.
"I'm sure of it. This was his strategy after all", the King under the Mountain smiled reassuringly, though concern was carved deep into his ageing face.
Unnoticed, under the dense cover of the fog and the falling snow, another division of about one hundred Dwarves scurried across the frozen grasslands, the weather swallowing any sound their steps made. They dashed past the spurs to the mouth of the valley, turned right and split up in two large groups. One was lead by Dwalin in his thick, black armour. The other was led by Fíli.
"Remember. Once they've reached the outer borders of the spur, retreat. Retreat as quickly as you can", he muttered and Dwalin nodded before he led his group further to the left.
Then they waited.
It was a low sniffing sound that caught Fíli's attention first, followed by the silent cracking of ice. Shadows appeared in the thick fog, large and distorted until it seemed like an army of massive demons slowly waltzed across the Desolation of Smaug.
The youngster held his breath, his swords firmly clasped in his hands. He felt his heart racing in his chest, the blood gushing through his ears. He heard the armour of the Dwarves in his back shift and slowly lifted his hand.
"Ithrikî."
Everything fell quiet again.
"Close ranks."
They shifted a little.
The chilly air suddenly reeked with the foul smell of decay and damp fur. A large shadow moved close by, only a few feet separating the beast from the young Dwarf. He heard the sniffing again, followed by a deep growl. But before the animal could make another sound, it already lay dead on the ground, the blade of Fíli's sword buried deep in its throat.
They came out of nowhere. A shadow in the dense fog, nothing more. Silent but lethal did the Dwarves of Durin's Line come over their enemy, a stone-cold wave of destruction, taking Orcs and Wargs alike by surprise.