FLIGHT OF THE MOUSE

The icy cold gravel rumbled before an arm shot up from the earth. Jeanne slammed her hand down and clenched at the loose soil, pulling herself out of the ground in a crying fit. Dirt and tears ran down her face as her throat burned from all the stuff she inhaled while underground. From her skin to her insides, everything felt inflamed and agitated. Retaking deep breaths was like inhaling shards of glass down her throat. Jeanne pressed her forehead against the ground and gasped for air despite the pain.

As her breathing steadied, she quickly picked up on the sound of crunching gravel. Jeanne lifted her head, but the sun was blocked out by a tall framed figure standing before her. She blinked a couple times when her heart suddenly felt like it dove back into the cold ground.

"Azog…" Jeanne breathed out, shuffling backward on her hands and knees. She didn't even have time to say anything more when Azog suddenly reached down and grabbed her by her throat, lifting her slowly until her legs dangled in the air. Jeanne's eyes became wide as she grabbed him, trying to dig her nails into his thick arms, but she didn't even break the skin. Instead, his grip only tightened, causing a strained noise to escape her closed throat.

"Look what has become of you. Gifted with such a body…only for it to be in ruins." He grunted out with his sickening black tongue running across his teeth. "Dragon's fire does not become you…thief."

Jeanne ground her teeth together as her eyes burned with a fierceness. A fire yet to vanish. "Nor…you…!" She hissed out and pressed a white-hot burning palm against the side of his face. Azog flinched at first when he suddenly heard a sizzling sound, soon followed by an intense burning sensation. He let out a wail and released Jeanne as smoke began to emit from her hand.

Jeanne didn't even have time to grasp for breath before scrambling away. She pushed herself to her feet and ran for the old ruins. She hurried down a flight of cold stone stairs before dashing behind a pillar. She hunched down low and just listened to Azog's cries of pain, gradually turning into screams of rage.

"I shall not kill you! Not yet! Your death shall be witnessed by all! It shall be a show! It shall be a game! You will die…" Azog inhaled a moment before shrieking at the top of his lungs, "In front of Oakenshield!"


Wild and confused is what Thorin was driven to. Once the war had erupted in front of his mountain, the king within quickly retreated to his throne room, now remodeled with a golden floor from his failed attempt to bury Smaug in it. He didn't once look back at his company and was blissfully unaware of the looks of disappointment they all shared.

What could they possibly say to him? He was their king, and his word was the only word that mattered. If he ordered them to jump, then he expected them to jump. If he ordered them not to fight…then he expected them to stay put.

It took no time for Thorin's world to start spinning when he stepped onto the reflective golden floors, contorting his very features into an unrecognizable Dwarf. Voices echoed inside his head, familiar ones to which he couldn't place a face. They were all talking at once, yelling at him, questioning his authority. It was all so overwhelming that Thorin could no longer handle the noises. He pressed his hands over his ears and whipped his body around, trying to draw out the noises with his own manic shouts, demanding silence.

He turned his body around and stiffened when he saw the golden floors begin to bubble. His eyes grew wide and frightened as he watched something small rise from the floor, covered in molten gold. Yet, no amount of glimmer could hide the vibrant shade of vermillion hair breaking through the surface.

"Jeanne…?" Thorin shuddered, watching as gold dripped off Jeanne's hair and the tips of her fingers.

Jeanne's glassy blue eyes fluttered open, staring right into Thorin's with the same sadness he saw the last time he spoke with her.

"Will you abandon us…Thorin?" Jeanne said in a haunting whisper, reaching out to him with her hand dripping with molten hot gold.

" Jeanne…I..." Thorin swallowed hard and, without thinking, reached out for her dainty hand. He wanted more than just to hold her hand, though. He wanted to feel her warmth, listen to her heartbeat, and see that awkward grin slowly bloom into a gentle smile. "I…my…"

Before he could even get his wish, Jeanne suddenly melted into shimmering gold. She seeped back into the floor, leaving Thorin alone and wholly defeated.

"You won't abandon me. Right…?" Jeanne's voice whispered within the halls of the cold throne room.

The room echoed with a loud ringing noise as Thorin ripped off his crown and threw it down. It rolled along the floor as the king under the mountain looked on. Stunned, confused, frightened…but now resolved.


Despite their growing reluctance, the Dwarves could do nothing more than sit beside Erebor's stoned gate. It had been more than a couple hours since war broke out outside their mountain, and it wasn't going well by the sounds of things. Dain's voice was loud and clear, even against the thick stone dividing them. He and his army were still alive, but they doubted he could hold them off for too long. The fierce war cries from outside were growing thinner by the minute.

As anger began to bubble up inside the company, they noticed Thorin walking out of his throne room. No longer was he wearing the heavy and restricting royal robes from before. He was now dressed in a simple leather outfit with a weapon at his side.

Kili tightened his jaw and stood up before anyone else could. He walked up to Thorin and raised his voice, quivering with anger in every word. "I will not hide behind a wall of stone, while others fight our battles for us!" he barked as all his pent-up emotions came out in a breathy whisper. "It is not in my blood, Thorin."

Thorin closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. "No, it is not. We are sons of Durin. And Durin's folk do not flee from a fight," he said firmly and placed a hand on Kili's shoulder, pulling him in until their foreheads touched.

Thorin looked back to the rest of his company that now stood at attention. "I have no right to ask this of any of you; but will you follow me one last time?" Thorin said and watched as his old friends stood up, ready to follow him again into the fray...one more time.


Dain and the rest of his army were desperate now, driven to the point of having their backs against the stone gates of Erebor. The Dwarves were persistent if anything and set up a wall of shields to try and drag their war out. They silently hoped for a miracle though. Something that would save them from being demolished on the front steps of their old home.

There was a silent stand-off at first as the Orcs stood by, not yet daring to close in on the cornered Dwarves. The silence was eventually broken by a loud trumpet that reverberated across the land. All the Dwarves stiffened and looked above, recognizing the sound to come from within the mountain.

The barricade of rocks in front of the gateway of Erebor suddenly smashed outward by a giant golden bell. And out from the crumbling passageway, a small party of Dwarves rushed out with Thorin leading the way. The dwarven army parted as Thorin, and his men ran ahead.

"TO THE KING! TO THE KING!" Dain roared.

As the two armies closed in, Thorin raised his weapon and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Du Bekâr!"