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Chapter 41: Final Acts

"We trouble our life by thoughts about death, and our death by thoughts about life."

― Michel de Montaigne, The Essays: A Selection

Salvation came in the form of a silver elven blade, launched into the forehead of Thorin's attacker. Backed against the frozen waterfall's edge, the dwarf king could see that the projectile came from the blond elf, Legolas, Gemma had called him, who battled Azog's spawn on the collapsed tower below. The elven prince had also provided him cover fire as he battled Azog's minions. Thorin caught the elf's eye and gave a sharp nod of appreciation, which was returned. The orc above him staggered slightly, and Thorin barely managed to catch the sword's hilt before the body pitched over the edge. Thorin raised the blade and grinned in recognition. Orcrist felt comfortable and reassuring in his hand.

The silence which surrounded Thorin could only mean that the last of Azog's goons had been slain, leaving the Defiler and the King Under the Mountain alone on the frozen river.

Here he was, prepared to combat his mortal enemy, a situation he had yearned for since discovering Azog was alive. Yet he felt no anticipation, no buzz of excited fear that generally accompanied battle. Thorin instead felt sorrow and rage, two emotions that could hinder a warrior just as much as they could fuel him. Sorrow and rage clouded one's judgement, and could cause one to abandon strategy.

Azog seemed in no mood to engage quite yet, so Thorin took the opportunity to collect himself. He pushed down all those awful memories: his grandfather's beheading, his father's capture, the murder of young Fili, the horrified expression on Gemma's face as she was led away, likely to be tortured again. He pushed them down, but didn't shut them out. He needed them to bring him focused, calculated anger, not blinding rage. He drew strength from them, but did not let grief consume his mind.

Thorin took a slow step forward, waiting to see how the orc would react. Azog snarled, but did not move. Thorin took another step, and he saw the muscles in Azog's arms twitch. A battle horn blew in the distance, and the rumblings of the second orc army could be heard, though a small part of Thorin's brain noted that it sounded much smaller than he would have thought. Thorin stopped, and for a moment all was still, and then Azog charged. The great stone on the end of Azog's chain sailed over his head, and Thorin stood back up for only a second before he had to duck again as it swung around a second time. Azog's bladed arm clashed with Orcrist as Thorin closed in. If he could engage the Defiler at close range, Azog would be forced to abandon his rock and chain weapon, as it would be ineffective. But Azog forced Thorin back, and the dwarf king was once more in the range of the chain. Azog brought it down again and again against the frozen ground, and Thorin had to abandon his assault in order to focus solely on defence. He jumped and ducked out of the way, secretly wishing that he was as nimble as the elf fighting the other pale orc far below them.

An ominous crackling reached Thorin's ears. He didn't need to look down to know that it was the sound of the ice underfoot breaking with the force of Azog's attacks. And it was a good thing that he didn't look down, or else he would have been swiftly decapitated. The ice groaned louder as the stone once again impacted. Thorin couldn't help but groan with it. This was about to become a whole lot more difficult.

It was cold. Gemma hadn't felt the cold this whole time, because she'd been fuelled by adrenaline and worked up a sweat as she pushed her muscles to their limit. Now, limping across the empty ruins of Ravenhill, she was shivering like mad. Maybe it wasn't even the cold of the mountain which caused her to tremble. Maybe this was what it felt like when one's soul died: gnawing pain, heavy cold, and hollow dread. She focused on the task at hand, determined not to think about the pain that continued to rip her apart. Thorin, she had to get to Thorin. He was the last Durin left, Azog's final victim. He was the king, and his death would be a great blow to the dwarven forces. Not that any of these reasons mattered to Gemma; they barely even crossed her mind. No, Gemma had to get to him because he was Thorin, and after all they'd been through and all they'd lost, she couldn't lose him again. She wouldn't survive it.

A small part of her knew that there was a great chance that she would not survive even if he did. But that only made her more determined to find him. She needed to tell Thorin once more that she loved him. She needed to say goodbye, before she wasn't Gemma LaRoche anymore.

To make matters worse, the nasty gash on her left leg, and the matching one on her arm, had begun to bother her again, as if whatever painful forces attacking her body were leaking out through the cuts. Thankfully the remaining battle wounds littering her body were quite superficial and had all ceased bleeding. At least she wouldn't die of blood loss, not that it was any consolation.

She could hear the thunder of the second orc army, or rather, the significantly smaller number that remained, but they sounded impossibly far away. In fact, everything seemed impossibly far away. The barren ruins around her seemed to elongate, stretching and distorting like she was looking from the other end of a mirrored tunnel. The mountain wind moaned, and Gemma began to doubt that she'd actually make it.

With a final ominous groan, the ice broke apart. Splintering cracks ran in all directions and split to reveal to dark water below. Thorin was forced to leap from ice block to ice block to avoid the harsh slashes of Azog's bladed arm. The dwarf king ducked and stretched in ways he didn't think possible, his mind frantic as he simultaneously tried to avoid being slashed to bits and falling into the freezing depths. He lacked the energy or opportunity to make any offensive attacks.

Azog seemed unconcerned about the damage he was doing to the ice. The rock and chain continued to rocket dangerously close to Thorin's head, and every time it missed, instead smashing into the ice on which they stood, more cracks formed. If Azog continued to attack in this way, they would both end up dead, succumbed to the freezing waters after they lost the space to stand. Perhaps that was what the Defiler wanted, Thorin thought. Almost immediately, he dismissed the thought. If Azog was trying to make Thorin fall in, he wasn't doing a very good job of it; the ice around the orc was splitting just as badly, if not worse, than the ice around Thorin. No, clearly Azog was attacking blindly, not realising that there was a very good chance they'd both fall in soon. If that were to happen, both opponents would sink like stones under the weight of their armour.

Oh, Thorin thought as he ducked under another wide swing of the chain. The rock on its end swung back around, crashing into the ice behind Azog as it landed. The two combatants now stood on a single ice floe, entirely separated from the rest. The ice rocked dangerously underfoot, but Thorin had the sudden urge to grin. Oh yes. He was beginning to form a simply brilliant plan.

The ruins on either side created a wind tunnel through which great gusts of frigid air blasted. Gemma staggered along, so close, but so far away, clutching her abdomen as if she'd been shot. It certainly felt like that. Her vision swam and tilted with every step. She felt terribly disoriented and yet incredibly focused on her goal. Find Thorin.

Not that she knew what she'd do once she found him. In her condition, she'd be more of a hindrance than a help, but that feeling in her gut (not the pain, the other feeling) told her she had to be there with him. Rarely was her intuition wrong, and since she'd fallen into Middle Earth she'd had a near perfect success rate.

Find Thorin, find Thorin, she repeated the mantra in her mind. It helped to block out that tiny buzzing which had returned to the base of her skull. It seemed to vibrate, almost like laughter. Almost like Sauron was laughing at her. Laughing at inside her own head.

Oh that was the wrong decision. That was a very bad decision, on Sauron's part. Anger, white hot, cut through the cold emptiness that was sapping the strength out of her. It drove her forward with renewed strength. Sauron might be taking over her body and mind, but he hadn't succeeded yet.

As Gemma struggled on, she conjured the image of a great big middle finger in the front of her brain. She sincerely hoped that Sauron got the message.

The next time the rock came down, it stuck. Thorin and Azog stood on the same small ice floe, the stone wedged in the space between them. Azog yanked the chain, but grew frustrated when it would not budge. The orc slashed at Thorin with his bladed arm, but Thorin quickly ducked. As he did so, he felt their little ice block make contact with the edge of the unbroken ice behind him. This was what he had been waiting for.

The pale orc growled down at him, but suddenly whipped his head up, attention caught by something in the distance behind Thorin. Unable to turn around, lest his opponent strike while his head was turned, Thorin could only wait in trepidation as an ominous shadow passed overhead. The shadow's creator, however, was not ominous at all, but indeed a great relief to see. For it was a great eagle, swooping through the sky in the direction of the small contingent of Gundabad orcs cresting the hill to the north. More eagles followed, and Thorin thought that he might have even caught a glimpse of Radagast and Beorn astride their backs. Though it would have been quite out of character for him, the dwarf nearly whooped for joy. The arrival of the eagles meant a definitive turn of the tide; the battle would surely end in their favour now. The eagles also provided the perfect distraction which allowed Thorin to implement his plan. Still down on one knee, he dove for the rock and yanked it out of the ice. Before Azog could react, he tossed the rock to the orc, who caught it on reflex.

The opponents stilled for an instant in a silent battle of wills. Slowly, Thorin raised a single eyebrow at the orc, and Azog growled in confusion. Then Thorin took the tiniest step back, onto the solid ice behind him. The ice floe, now thrown off balance, tipped backwards quickly, sending Azog into the murky waters with a splash. The Defiler clawed desperately at the frozen edge, but the weight of his armour and the rock and chain still wrapped around his wrist dragged him down. His pale head slipped below the surface and Azog was gone, the water swallowing him up and stilling once more. It was if he had never even existed.

Despite the fact that he had not raised his sword to finish his foe, Thorin nearly collapsed in exhaustion from the exertion of the fight. Kneeling on the ice and leaning heavily on his sword to remain upright, Thorin heaved a great sigh of relief and finally allowed himself to smile. It was over. Sure, they weren't out of the woods yet; the battle would certainly continue in spite of the orc commander's demise. But the monster who had haunted the line of Durin for an age was gone. Indeed, both monsters were defeated: Azog and Smaug. The great relief Thorin felt was only dampened by the memory of Fili's murder. His nephew's demise remained a stinging wound, but Thorin knew that Fili would not wish him to suffer from the thought. He had to permit himself to think optimistically for once. Some part of his brain warned him not to get ahead of himself, but he couldn't help it. With Azog's defeat, Thorin was free to reunite with the others. He would find Kili, and Dwalin and Bilbo. Together, they could free Gemma from the tower. That is, if she hadn't already managed to free herself, which was quite likely since she wasn't exactly a patient person. Then they'd find the rest of the Company, clean up whatever was left of the battle with the help of the eagles, and return to their reclaimed mountain victorious. Thorin would claim his rightful throne in the true homeland of his people, and he would take Gemma LaRoche as his queen, old dwarven customs be damned. They would assist the Lake-men in rebuilding Dale, and perhaps even establish new relations with the elves. Together they would welcome his people back home, to a new age.

Yet it seemed, of all his flaws, overconfidence would be his fatal. A crackling sound, which would have been inaudible if not for the eerie silence that stretched across the river, reached his ears, and movement below the surface caught his eye. A pale mass was floating along under the ice, just visible in the thinner areas. As Thorin warily approached, he could discern the facial features of his nemesis. Azog's body glided along, and Thorin followed, watching as the orc's pale eyes drifted closed for the final time.

Or not. The Defiler's eyes snapped open again, startling Thorin, and a snarl formed on the face of what he had thought was a corpse. A dreadful anticipation filled the dwarf upon knowing that the orc was not entirely dead yet, and this feeling was brought to awful fruition when, from under the ice, a blade jutted up into his foot.

Thorin roared in pain and was knocked onto his back as Azog burst through the ice in an explosion of crystalline fragments. The blade on his arm was thrust towards Thorin's stomach, and it was only the battle reflexes which Thorin had honed for decades which prevented it from impaling him. He brought Orcrist up and held it with both hands, one on the hilt and one on the flat edge of the blade. The sword caught at the junction of Azog's jagged blade, and the opponents were locked in a battle of strength.

There was no way out of this. Thorin was going to die. He'd thought about his death numerous times before, as any warrior had. He'd once believed that when the time came, he would accept it bravely. Death in battle was honourable, and he'd thought that he might feel proud, might even welcome it. But now that the time had come, he could only think about all the things, all the people, he had to live for. He didn't want to give in. He didn't want to die. But there was no way out of his position; there was no way he could defeat the orc above him.

Well, there was one way.

Thorin continued to push back against Azog's blade, but the point continued to slowly inch towards his chest. To Thorin, it was obvious what he had to do. He just had to work up the nerve to do it. He couldn't allow Azog to live. Not because of his need for retribution, but because he had people he loved who he could not allow Azog to harm. If Thorin couldn't live for them, then he would die for them.

Thorin pulled Orcrist away from Azog's blade, which plunged into his abdomen. For a moment, the dwarf could not move, the pain so unbearable that it forced air out of his lungs. He gasped for breath, and tried to regain focus in order to complete his final act. Azog's chest was directly above him. The armour which covered it was crude, made of a metal which would certainly deflect lesser weapons, but would crumple under a blow from his elven sword. Thorin raised his sword and, with great effort, delivered a fatal stab to Azog the Defiler, right through his chest plate. Unlike the orc's stab, which had punctured Thorin's stomach in a sloppy, off-centre way that would guarantee a slow and painful death, Thorin's blow was efficient. Loath to allow the orc a merciful end, Thorin flipped them both over so that he was above, twisted his blade sharply, and pushed it all the way through to the ice below. Azog's roar of pain petered off to apathetic moan, and at last the monster's eyes, still filled with shock at Thorin's actions, stilled and drained of life.

Only once he was absolutely sure that Azog was dead did Thorin lower himself off his blade, nearly collapsing with the effort. Crimson stained through his shirt and vest, blood flowing from the wound in his stomach at a rapid pace. He clutched at it desperately, attempting to stave off the flow, but it was useless. No one could survive the blood loss which the wound would bring. He was only prolonging the inevitable.

Thorin looked at the great corpse beside him, and his resolve hardened. He refused to die in the same forsaken place as that monster. So he hauled himself to his feet, trying to ignore the agony in his side and the dizziness it brought to his head. With a final glance down at his defeated foe, Thorin staggered away.

He didn't make it far. The effects of his wound became unbearable as his feet met the ground at the edge of the river, and seconds later he collapsed against the protruding stones at the edge of the ruins.

Not long now, he mused, staring up into the winter sky. If he continued to apply pressure to the wound, perhaps he'd last another hour's half. Thorin cast his eyes from side to side, searching for some small bit of beauty to focus on in his final moments. He found no splendour in the hard grey stone and harsh white snow, and no peace in the silence of the ruins, but he knew that closing his eyes would only lead to unconsciousness. Instead, he continued to stare at the steel grey sky and conjured pleasant memories: the Company laughing and dining in the wilderness, his nephews getting up to their usual antics back in the Blue Mountains and driving his sister spare, his talk under the moonlight with Gemma in Rivendell, the first time they entered Erebor after so many years, his night with Gemma in Lake-town, and her acceptance of his spur-of-the-moment proposal.

At first he thought the sound of her voice was a fabrication of his mind. But if he was going to imagine her voice, he'd hear it in its smoky alto tones, rich with laughter and teasing, or sharp with sarcasm, or perhaps warm with love or breathless excitement. He would not imagine it like this, scratchy and so full of anguish as she shrieked a single word. He concentrated on it, trying to make out what it was.

"Thorin!"

She shrieked his name.

AN:

Don't hate me! Just trust me guys, really. I know the past few chapters haven't given you any reason to trust me, but please, just stick with me here. I've promised a bittersweet ending, not an outright sad one.

Thanks for continuing to read and review (even if those last reviews were mostly expressions of anger and/or unintelligible crying). This is the penultimate chapter, and I'm feeling a bit sad that this story is almost over. I'm trying to make these last two chapters the best they can be, hence the delay for this one (Though I actually have another, legitimate excuse this time: my computer hates me).

That being said, I can't fit everything that you and I love about this story into the last chapters. There's just no room for the humour in such a gloomy ending, and that's horrible because the comedy is the most fun to write. But remember, the sequel is going to happen, and next chapter you'll find out what it's sort of going to be like. I'd love to get some prompts from you guys, because as of yet I don't have a solid plot developed.

Remember, I'd still love a cover for this story. If anyone here is any good at drawing, you can send it to my box by uploading it to the link in my bio.

Oh, and check out AliceNotInWL's story The Treasure Hunter and a King Under the Mountain, which I have the pleasure of beta-ing.

Reviews are so appreciated!