Thorin was not breathing. He had to be breathing. He had to. Not breathing meant he was dead and Thorin could not be dead. He couldn't.
Thorin was not breathing. Respiratory failure, Gróin called it, or maybe that was something else. Dwalin could not remember. But it did not matter; it could not be that because Thorin was no failure. He never failed at anything. And he certainly was not failing at breathing just now. He couldn't.
Thorin had to breathe. He had to. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Thorin, breathe. Thorin was not dead. He wasn't. He couldn't be dead. Dwalin wouldn't allow it.
Thorin had to breathe. Dwalin shook him. Shook him roughly, willing him to put an end to this, to take a breath, nothing else, just a breath, that was all he was asking. Curse you, Thorin, I never ask anything of you. Just breathe. Just one breath. But there was nothing. Thorin lay still, no breath moving his body. He lay as if he was dead even though that could not be true. Dwalin wouldn't allow it.
He tore away Thorin's clothes, ripping fabric and snapping cords, to bare his friend's chest. No movement, nothing, none at all. It could not be. In desperation, he jabbed two fingers against the smooth skin of Thorin's throat.
A heartbeat.
Praised be Mahal!
A steady heartbeat, if a bit fast.
Dwalin looked up again, but he was only met with his friend's unseeing stare. Thorin lay as if he were dead, but his heart was hammering away frantically, as if he was in a fight. Or in a panic. And he would be, of course he would be, for he had not been breathing for many long moments. Breathing. Why was Thorin not breathing? Dwalin lifted his friend's chin, looking into his eyes, hoping that he could see, that he would know that he was receiving help now. Stretching Thorin's neck, Dwalin was trying to see if there was anything in his mouth that obstructed his airway. Nothing was visible but saliva. Dwalin brushed it away with his thumb, for once cursing the metal on his fingers as the vicious blades came so close to Thorin's face. With his thumb, he pushed Thorin's tongue down, but still found nothing. No object lodged in his throat, no blood indicating an injury. Good. But Thorin was still not breathing and he had already wasted so much time.
Time. Time was moving so slowly as he shuffled backwards on his knees, a hand on Thorin's chin, the other on his forehead. So much time had been lost and yet, it had been mere moments since Thorin collapsed.
Thank Mahal I saw him go down, Dwalin thought and took a deep breath. He pinched Thorin's nostrils between his thumb and forefinger, and covered Thorin's wide-open mouth with his own, creating a seal and willing none of the precious air to escape.
Thorin's chest rose.
Mahal was merciful just this once. Dwalin breathed in quickly through his nose and gave Thorin another breath, trying to keep the air in his lungs for as short a time as possible, fearful that his body might use up the oxygen that Thorin needed so much more urgently than he did.
A third breath, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth and a seventh, then Dwalin paused, lifting his head slightly and watching Thorin closely while he himself was gasping for air. Nothing. Thorin was still not breathing.
Dwalin pressed their lips together again. Seven breaths that made Thorin's chest rise beautifully, then a pause and once again there was no movement. Dwalin bent to his task once more. Seven breaths. One for each of the tribes.
Firebeards.
Broadbeams.
Ironfists
Stiffbeards.
Blacklocks.
Stonefoots.
Longbeards.
Fucking Longbeards with their short-bearded king who still wasn't breathing.
Firebeards. Show some fire now, Thorin, show me that smouldering ember at your core, the fire that is just waiting to be stoked again.
Broadbeams. Always working, never resting, always putting others first, even when he himself was in greatest need. Just breathe, just this once do something for yourself, Thorin.
Ironfists. Fighting, fighting, always fighting, on the battlefield, in skirmishes like today, or in a council chamber. Fighting for land, fighting for food, fighting for survival, fighting for breath.
Stiffbeards. Beards stiff from cold, so often during the years of exile and warfare. Now they were finally settled somewhere and ice was easily melted in front of roaring fires. Keep fighting, because it's worth it.
Blacklocks. Black as coal was his heart, some said around the campfires of Dwarves and Men he had shared over the years, but Dwalin knew that those coals were glimmering with a fierce love, the hottest fire that never broke into open flame.
Stonefoots. Always moving, never satisfied, his soul still wandering even when his body had settled. The strongest steel goes through the hottest fire, they say and Thorin was living proof of that.
Longbeards. Living. Come on Thorin, the Longbeards need you. I need you.
Stubborn as always, Thorin did not budge.
Firebeards.
Thorin was so much like Durin. A father, not to children of his own flesh, but to his people. He was still young, too young for any of this to be happening. He had been too young when he lost his father, first to madness and then to Dwalin's ineptitude. He had been too young when he had lead them to the Ered Luin where they could at least live in peace and start to rebuild their people in whatever slight prosperity they were given. He had been too young when he had lost his brother and his peace at Azanulbizar. Too young for any of this, but it still happened. He had been on the ground then and Dwalin had picked him up, had pieced the shattered fragments of a Dwarf back together, had sworn his ever-lasting loyalty to him underneath that yew tree, loyalty to the day he died. Loyalty to the day he died, not the day Thorin died, for Thorin would not die while Dwalin still drew breath.
Longbeards.
He exhaled forcefully into his friend's mouth, watching his chest rise with satisfaction. There was a hand on Thorin's bare chest now. Balin was kneeling next to him. When had he appeared? His eyes met his brother's. His stony face spoke volumes of the severity of the situation.
"His heart still beats," said Balin. Dwalin had no breath to waste on a reply. Instead he bent to his task again.
Firebeards.
What could have caused this? Thorin was a grown Dwarf in his prime; he possessed great strength due to his work in the forge and insurmountable skill in battle. None of these Men would have been a match for him in hand-to-hand combat. The fall from the pony? It could knock the wind out of a Dwarf and Men often ended up with a concussion, but even that did not account for Thorin's lack of breathing. What else? As far as Dwalin had seen, none of the Men even got close enough to hurt Thorin, who always kept them at arm's length. Except for...
Ironfists.
Dwalin glanced at Thorin's arm, the cloth wrapped around it stained with dark blood, with blood that his heart was evidently still pumping through his body. The bleeding was significant, but not nearly enough to account for such a prolonged swound. Thorin was strong. He did not just faint like a young girl. He did not just stop breathing because of one arrow... the arrow... it had to be...
Longbeards.
"Find the arrow," he gasped. He tried to fill his lungs with sufficient air to continue. "Wrap it securely... don't touch the tip," he cautioned.
Balin stared at him over Thorin's still life-less body. "The arrow..." he repeated "Do you think...?"
He left the unfinished question hanging in the air. Dwalin nodded sharply before he pressed his lips upon Thorin's once more. Over the pounding of his own blood in his ears, he heard Balin issue orders to the others that had started to surround them. They scarpered as he gave Thorin the first breath.
Firebeards.
Some said that the bow was a coward's weapon, but Dwalin had seen its efficiency in battle more than once and readily acknowledged its superiority over throwing axes as a ranged weapon. Arrows were shot with greater force and accuracy and left wounds that were notoriously difficult to treat. A through shot was simple enough though. Barring any infections, it healed within a weak. It did not cause a Dwarf to stop breathing. An arrow would have to strike much more vital parts of the body to do that. Unless... And that was where it did become a matter of cowardice. Dwalin had seen it before, though not in these parts of Middle Earth. Tribes from the far south in particular were fond of this technique and many used it for hunting, as even a small injury would do great damage to their prey. Even the tiniest scratch would... Not here though. Not Thorin!
Longbeards.
Dwalin was breathing rapidly, desperately trying to take in more air in the brief moment of respite as he watched Thorin's still unmoving chest. Thorin was no prey and these Men were not his hunters. Thorin would live.
Firebeards.
Broadbeams.
Ironfists
Stiffbeards.
Blacklocks.
Stonefoots.
Longbeards.
Dwalin lost count of the cycles of seven breaths that he kept administering. Time became an abstract concept, liquid and heavy like quicksilver. All that mattered was air. A fire needed oxygen to burn. Thorin's fire had just been fanned by that agreement with the Men of Dingwall. Nobody had the right to extinguish it with something as insignificant as an arrow. Some Men feared the growing strength of the Dwarves, but that was no reason to make Thorin so weak.
At some point, he saw Bofur, clutching the halves of the broken arrow, the tip wrapped in what looked like a part of his shirt. The young miner's eyes were wide as he stared down at Dwalin who was once again gasping for air, trying to soothe the burning of his lungs. He gave him an almost imperceptible nod, though he doubted it looked as reassuring as he intended. Bofur should not have to look like that, he should not have to witness... He was one of the few who had escaped the madness of bloodshed and warfare so far. This was no war. Nothing bad was about to happen. No more death, not on Dwalin's watch. He would continue to breathe for Thorin for as long as it took. An hour, an age... it did not matter.
It mattered to Balin. There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, holding him back when we attempted to bend down once more.
"Stop Dwalin, you are merely exhausting yourself," he said.
Dwalin stared at him, dark spots obscuring his vision. Then he looked at Thorin, still completely motionless, sapphire eyes staring into the distance. His eyes would be sore when he awoke, but Dwalin could not... even thinking about closing Thorin's eyes was...
"It's over," Balin said and there were tears dripping into his beard.
Dwalin just stared at him and gulped down more air before he resumed his task of resuscitating Thorin. It was not over. Never.
Firebeards.
It could not be over because Thorin still had so much to live for and while that alone had never prevented anybody's death, Thorin was not one to shirk responsibility. Thorin was going to live, not just because he had to, but also because he wanted to. Thorin had so much to live for. See this trade agreement come to fruition, watch Thorin's Halls flourish; observe the growth of their people who were now safe from warfare, cold and hunger. Be here to guide the resurgence of the Longbeards.
Longbeards.
King of the Longbeards, king without a mountain, but king nonetheless.
Firebeards.
He had been thrust into leadership too early, with the pressure of exile and the decay of the minds of his father and grandfather. He would not do the same to Fíli. Little Fíli, a charming lad, courteous and studious by all accounts, but nonetheless just a lad. He would be learning his runes now. Only twenty years of age. Little Fíli. So young, so innocent. Little Fíli. A child that should grow up in peace. A child that should not have to bear the burdens of his elders. Little Fíli, just a child, not one to have his spirit crushed by the weight of leadership. Fíli should be allowed to be a child. Many decades hence he might attend council with his uncle, maybe even fight at his side. At the side of a strong leader, one who was respected far and wide. One who wasn't dead.
Longbeards.
Breathe. He had to breathe, because he needed to breathe for Thorin. Thorin needed the oxygen. It had been too long already, way too long. The fire needed oxygen to burn. Thorin's fire could not die. Not now, not after everything he had been through, not when there was finally hope for a better future. Breathe.
Firebeards.
Breathe, Thorin. Live. Live for Dís who would be leader in your stead. Live for Dís who cannot bear the loss of another brother. Live for Dís who has lost so many already. Live for Dís who was widowed less than a year ago. Live for Dís who has just started to smile again at the antics of her boys. Balin would bring her the news this time, but who would comfort her? Who would hold her as Thorin had done after Eydís' death, after Thrór's death, after Frerin's death, after Thráin's death, after Jóli's death? Breathe, Thorin. Live for your sister, Thorin.
Longbeards.
He was shaking and his vision was clouded. It did not matter. He sucked in air like one who was drowning. He was shaking. It took him several attempts to find Thorin's mouth with his own.
Firebeards. Breathe for Dís.
Broadbeams. Breathe for Fíli.
Ironfists. Breathe for our people.
Stiffbeards. Breathe for Dís.
Blacklocks. Breathe for Fíli.
Stonefoots. Breathe for our people.
Longbeards. Breathe for me.
No breath, but a still-beating heart spurring him on. Air. Air. He had to get more air, air for Thorin who needed it so much.
Firebeards. Breathe.
Broadbeards. Breathe.
Ironfists Breathe.
Stiffbeards. Breathe.
Blacklocks. Breathe.
Stonefoots. Breathe.
Longbeards. Breathe. Always for the Longbeards. For the Longbeards. All of this. All of his life, for the Longbeards. Breathe for the Longbeards.
Firebeards.
Broadbeams.
Ironfists and Stiffbeards.
Breathe. Breathe. Mahal's beard, Thorin breathe.
Stiffbeards.
Blacklocks and Stonefoots.
Longbeards. Every breath for the Longbeards. Breath. Every breath. He fell forwards, almost crushing Thorin.
Firebeards.
Broadfists.
Stiffbeards.
Iron... Iron... Pull yourself together, Dwalin.
Blacklocks. Breathe.
Stonefeet. For Thorin.
Longbeards. Longbeards. Longbeards. Breathe for me.
At some point the sequence disappeared and then the counting to seven became impossible.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe...
He just kept breathing, counting forgotten, exhaling sharply into Thorin's mouth, their lips gone dry. Just breathing because Thorin couldn't be dead. Because Dwalin could not live without Thorin. Just breathing to keep them both alive.
Balin bodily dragged him away this time with a strength that might have been surprising in one so short.
"Stop it, Dwalin, you are hurting yourself!"
Dwalin lay on his back and gasped for air. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, hammering out a steady rhythm. He had lost. All his strength and all his determination had been for naught once again.
"Breathe, Dwalin."
He was breathing. He tried to even out his breaths. Breathing. Breathing just for himself, not breathing for Thorin any more. Calm your breathing. He had trained so much it came to him naturally. He fell into an easy rhythm more quickly than he would have liked. He tasted something salty and wasn't sure if it was sweat or some other liquid. His vision cleared, and he found he was staring up at a colourful canopy of leaves. Shades of copper and gold, beautiful if it had not been for the darkness of the day.
He raised himself up into a sitting position, still breathing harshly. They were all standing there in a semicircle. Wide-eyed shock all around, disbelief, fear, pity in some as they stared at him. Let them stare!
He crawled back to Thorin, to be by the side of his friend, his brother, his captain, and his king even if no other called him that. Thorin lay still as Balin closed his eyes. Dwalin had been unable to do even that small service for him. He acutely felt the loss of Thorin's glance, felt it in the very rock of his being. He looked at Thorin, looked at that warrior's body sprawled in the dying leaves. His clothes were simple, but practical, his shirt now torn to reveal his chest. The wound on his arm seemed to have stopped bleeding. Then Dwalin saw for the first time the large wet patch that had spread across Thorin's groin. The indignity of it hurt him almost physically. For a Dwarf so proud and proper to be brought so low as to lose control of his bladder in front of his men, that hurt. With trembling fingers, he unfastened his furs and spread them over Thorin's hips. At least they would not stare at that any longer.
"And so dies Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin."
Balin's words echoed as if he was speaking in a vast cave. There was no truth to them because Thorin could not be dead. Dwalin heard Bofur sob. Several of the others were sniffling as well. Dwalin got to his feet, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to his toes. Staggering away from Thorin, he drew his axes.
It could not be.
He sunk one blade deep into the trunk of an old oak tree, withdrew it swiftly, then let the other axe cut into the wood. He worked quickly, using the full strength of his arms to place the blades forcefully and to then drag them from the tree's grasp. There was no reason for his labour, but there was a rhythm to it.
Thorin — was — not — dead.
Splinters of wood were flying around him.
Thorin — was — not — dead.
Balin was saying something in the distance, but Dwalin paid him no heed.
Thorin — was — not — dead.
All this strength and it had been for naught, he had not even been able to save Thorin.
Thorin — was — not — dead.
And yet he knew that it had been many long minutes since Thorin had last drawn breath on his own. Many, many minutes, or Balin would not have dragged him away. Many, many minutes, or else he would not feel so exhausted.
His left-hand axe sank so deep into the oak tree that he found himself unable to retrieve it. He lowered his arms and leaned his forehead against the rough bark, exhaling shakily.
Thorin was dead.
I'm unfortunately still not a medical professional and despite having extensive first aid training, I claim no expertise. Considerable research goes into my fics, but they do remain just that — works of fiction. On a completely non-fictional note, folks, thank you for reading... now it's time to go out and brush up on your CPR skills. That stuff saves lives. Learn how to do it properly!