Chapter Text
It’s in the early hours of the morning, when the sky is still dark and Dale still glows from across the Desolation, that Balin finds him on the ramparts.
Fíli does little to acknowledge his presence at first, remaining where he leans against the wall and watches fire dance peacefully over Dale’s skyline. He was supposed to wake Balin for his shift on watch an hour ago, that’s likely half the reason he’s here now at all, but Fíli knows Balin has been whispering with Óin and sparing him worried glances since the incident this morning.
Fíli would rather take a page out of Sigrid’s book and not talk about whatever it is Balin wants to, no matter how helpful it might be.
(He hopes she’s alright. That even if she doesn’t allow others to take care of her, she allows herself the room to take care of herself.)
“I wouldn’t worry, laddie,” Balin says on his approach, leaning up against the wall next to Fíli, “by tomorrow, this will all be over.”
Fíli scoffs, he can't help it, “in what way? The good way, or Thorin’s way?”
Balin raises an eyebrow, “are they different?”
“Thorin wants us to go to war with defenceless people,” he mumbles, knocking his fist against the stone of the wall, “you tell me.”
He’s being baited, he knows he is, but Fíli is not only missing his One but his brother as well, and if the two of them don’t make up half of his self preservation skills at this point, he doesn’t know what does. Alone he is… reckless, less likely to put others’ needs above his own because few people deserve that as much as they do, and he knows Balin’s loyalty lies more with Thorin than it does with him.
Anything he says could be his undoing.
Balin hums, Fíli cannot tell if it's one of consideration or disapproval, “with the elves, they are hardly defenceless.”
(He's very good at that, keeping his thoughts unreadable. When Fíli was a child, he always thought Balin had been a spymaster back in Erebor’s golden days. Perhaps, in a way, he had been, though in a much less traditional sense than it seems Nori is set to occupy when everything is settled again.
Balin gets people talking, even when it's the opposite of what they might want to do.)
Sigrid wants only what is owed and Fíli knows she doesn't even want any of it for herself. She wishes only to claim what was promised, to seek shelter in the last standing structure this side of the lake so that her people may actually stand a chance come spring. Is all of that really such an offence on this mountain that she, her people, Bofur and Kíli, should fall? Elven aid or otherwise.
“He cannot ask this of us,” he ends up saying, turning away from the dancing fires in the distance to look across the tattered entrance hall they’ve caved themselves into.
Balin folds his arms, his mouth twisting down as he follows Fíli’s eyes, “he is the King, laddie, he can ask us of anything.”
“Well then he cannot ask this of me .”
It's arguably the most outwardly defiant thing he's said all day. His guard is thrown down in the darkness, he shouldn’t feel the need to have a guard anyway, but here he is, preparing for the worst. Things are going to come to a head soon and who knows what will happen.
Fíli won't lie when he says he's becoming afraid of Thorin—for him, as well—for as much as he knows his Uncle cares, this dragon sickness has broken him. While he may be able to come up with whatever excuse under the sun that he can think of for Thorin leaving them in Laketown, his actions since entering Erebor have been bordering on cruel; his words alone have crossed that border.
His shifting actions towards Bilbo concern Fíli the most.
“What happened, Fíli?” Balin asks.
There’s no judgement to his tone, nothing that indicates he’s a King’s right hand. Right now, the dwarf that stands before him is the same one he grew up with, hearing stories and getting advice, even if Fíli’s methods often align more with Dwalin’s.
“When?” he counters anyway, finally meeting Balin’s eyes so he may see exactly what he wishes to, “after Kíli was left to die or after we escaped the dragon you set upon us?”
Perhaps it’s harsh, but Fíli doesn’t think it’s entirely undeserved.
(He’d rather distance himself now than deal with the heartbreak of them turning their backs on him later.)
Balin’s face transforms quickly, his neutral expression shifting into something sadder, something guiltier, that Fíli has to stop himself from shrinking away from. The Company made their choices, whether under Thorin’s instruction or not, sometimes consequences have to be lived with.
“We didn’t want to leave you—”
“But you did.” Fíli cuts him off, stopping whatever trite excuses he might come up with. “You let him leave us, let him lock himself away in this mountain; you let him force Bofur and Kíli to walk away from this Company; you let him say such harsh things to Sigrid when she wanted only peace.” He inhales, turning back towards Dale and returning to leaning on the ramparts; his voice is quiet when he speaks again, “whether you wanted to or not, you did nothing to stop him.”
Balin sighs, “no we didn’t.”
Silence overtakes them then.
Fíli tries to distract himself from overthinking the whole thing by watching the elves wander Dale’s walls, their armour glinting in the dwindling firelight as orange begins to creep into the edges of the sky. He wonders if Sigrid is watching the sunrise as he is, or if she is somewhere he can’t see from here, watching Erebor and letting her thoughts get the better of her; he has no way of guessing how the elves are treating her, Thranduil is hardly known for his kindness, but Sigrid is hardly one to fold for an unkind man.
Even without the impending dread of war, there is so much to handle before and after.
If there is an after.
(Fíli really isn’t sure what he will do if something happens to her.)
“I was worried,” Balin says after a long moment, coming once again to Fíli’s side and watching him with a gentle gaze, “worried that the moment you entered this mountain, the dragon sickness would get you too.”
Fíli traces a scar in the stone beneath his hands, not willing to mention that he had been terrified of the very same thing. He couldn’t imagine what irreparable damage he could cause if he’d heard the whispers of the gold and the Arkenstone; perhaps Sigrid has helped ground him more than he thought.
“There are several people who would be quite upset with me if I let that happen,” he hums.
Balin nods slowly, turning his gaze towards Dale with a small smile, “like Bard’s daughter?”
Fíli only slightly hopes that his smile is not as obvious as it feels. He has a feeling Balin made some guesses when they'd arrived this morning, so a confirmation can't really be the death of him, “like Bard’s daughter.”
A hand squeezes his shoulder then, more of Dale’s fires snuffed out in the wake of the rising sun. “Thorin will come to his senses,” Balin assures him, though his voice is too strained to sound entirely confident, “no one will have to die.”
“And if he doesn't?” Fíli asks, because someone has to. “If he gets worse, turns on us, on Bilbo?”
Bilbo is one of those factors they have to watch, Balin knows this as much as Fíli does, even if the rest of the Company or even Bilbo himself has no idea. Thorin almost made the mistake of harming Bilbo once, if he does so again, follows through in the way they’re sure the dragon sickness wants him to then…
Anyone capable of hurting a very piece of their soul is one that might be too far gone to save.
Balin sighs again, eyes closing against welling tears, “well, laddie, you are next in line for the throne.”
• • •
Something is wrong and he doesn’t like that there are no clear reasons as to why.
Across the Desolation, Dale looks as empty as it had before Laketown occupied it. The walls and visible paths are empty of any movement or life, and while Fíli could try to explain that with the elves being before Erebor, that really isn't the case either.
Thranduil’s legion isn't even half of what Fíli knows it has available, which begs the question of just where the rest of them may be hiding. Not only that, but they're a decent distance from them, and are distinctly facing away from the mountain. Thranduil remains with them for the moment, his voice carrying just enough for Fíli to hear the Elvish of his orders; he fears whatever it is they might be waiting for.
Sigrid approaches them on horseback with little in the way of protection aside from Kíli, who sits in front of her dressed in ill-fitting but sufficiently protective armour with a new bow at his back; where Bofur and Tauriel may be, Fíli cannot begin to guess. The speed they approach with is enough to be concerning, though the pair are quick to pull back Eira’s reins the moment Thorin aims an arrow at them; Fíli is only held back by Balin’s hand on his elbow.
He hadn’t realised how relieved he would feel seeing the two of them again, the emotion palpable in his very core and bubbling out in a quick sigh.
Sigrid has been prepped for this war as much as Kíli has, clad in blue fabric and leather, Bard’s coat kept neatly over her shoulders by her own quiver and bow that matches Kíli’s in everything but size. The vambraces, the shortswords at her thighs, most of her hair falling loose aside from the braid over the crown of her head and the braid coming from the underside of her hair to rest against her healing shoulder, all of it marks her as someone so much more prepared for all of this, even if it's just a front that Thranduil and the others have painted over her.
Thankfully, Thorin doesn't release his arrow, but he doesn't lower it either, sneering, “where is your army, girl.”
Sigrid pulls Eira back another step, glancing towards where Thranduil remains, and perhaps something further against the horizon. Her tone is sharp, as Fíli thinks it should be, when she responds, “preparing for forces far worse than you, Oakenshield.”
“We came to warn you,” Kíli calls, cutting in before anyone can ask any of the suddenly pressing questions Sigrid’s words have raised, “there are orcs on the horizon, thousands of them. Should they find a way to enter the mountain, you will be overwhelmed in a heartbeat.”
Orcs.
It seems Azog has decided to follow them until the very end.
Balin squeezes his elbow, pulling Fíli back so that he may stand between him and Thorin. It gives Fíli the cover to look down at the two of them properly, making eye contact with Kíli first and Sigrid after a long moment of her refusing to break it with Thorin. They’re serious, both of them—he never doubted them of course, but the fear in their eyes makes it all the more real—but he can already tell that Thorin will not be as quick to believe them.
“I wanted to offer you refuge, a truce, really,” Sigrid states, the proposal surprising even to Fíli. “Join us in Dale or the battlefield here, fight alongside us and ensure that more on all of our sides make it out of this. Perhaps we can return to our previous discussions when everything is over.”
It’s such an unconditional offer, no hard promises for Thorin to keep his word as he should, just that continued good nature that’s so pure to Sigrid, wanting as many people to survive as possible. Fíli can’t lie when he says it makes him fall in love with her just a little bit; one step tends to be all it takes, he won’t last much longer before he tumbles completely.
“Do you take us for fools!?” Thorin’s response is far from surprising but no less disappointing, Fíli watches Balin deflate in front of him.
Kíli’s face falls, Fíli hates that he cannot be down there to comfort him, “we are trying to save you!”
“You wish for us to leave this mountain, empty and defenceless, so that you may steal what is not yours to take!”
Fíli would have understood if it had been Thranduil who issued the warning, he might have even found a way to understand if it had been just Sigrid, but the very fact that Thorin so openly doubts Kíli is a testament to how far he has truly fallen. Thorin has never doubted Kíli, not when he told the most absurd stories as a child, not when he was convinced that something was amiss with a visitor or two back home… not even when Kíli would doubt himself the most.
Kíli has never looked more crestfallen in his life.
Behind him, Sigrid sighs, her own disappointment evident as she closes her eyes and squeezes his shoulder. Fíli doesn’t doubt that either of them had been entirely optimistic about the outcome of this conversation, but there’s always a thread of hope with these things, and he knows it still hurts when that snaps.
“We knew he would be unreasonable.” A new voice joins the conversation, Fíli looks further back to watch Thranduil come up to Eira’s left. He narrows his eyes at Thorin, his elk huffing beneath him, and then inclines his head towards Sigrid, “perhaps a little incentive is in order.”
At first, Fíli fears that Thranduil is about to call forward the small legion and threaten the Company with more than just the warning of orcs. But Sigrid inhales instead, rolling her shoulders back and climbing down from her horse with more grace than he honestly expects. Slowly, she approaches the edge of the broken bridge, her boots clicking confidently against the stone.
(He fleetingly wonders if Thranduil had spent some time teaching her things like this so she may appear more prepared now. Whether he has or not, Fíli honestly thinks he might have to thank the elf anyway, for aiding the people of Dale and Sigrid with all of this, and for not letting his disagreements with Thorin, and the dwarves that came before them, influence the treatment of Kíli and Bofur. Despite everything, his brother looks well-fed and well-rested, and with as much influence as Fíli’s sure Sigrid has at the moment, it’s a testament to Thranduil for offering her the respect to listen to her at all.
He's done far more than Thorin has.)
Fíli sees Thorin’s hand twitch around his bow, his arm moving to raise it, but before he can even think to issue a warning, to call out to his One or grab for Thorin himself, an arrow has whizzed through a gap in the ramparts. It catches the edge of Thorin’s hand and sends the bow skittering down into the grand hallway; all eyes turn to the men behind Sigrid.
Kíli has his bow raised, his chest heaving from the speed at which he must have loosed that arrow; beside him, Thranduil’s eyes are cold as they look at Thorin and his hand is poised in order. Fíli isn't quite as surprised to see them work together as the rest of the company is.
(Kíli always liked making unorthodox friends, especially when his own kin shut him out for looking different when they were younger. It just so happens that, recently, elves have taken quite a liking to him in return.)
“It’s my understanding that this is rather important,” Sigrid calls, drawing attention back down to where she stands on the bridge holding the Arkenstone, “but, I’m just a girl, so, what would I really know?”
Fíli’s shock is far more real now, but his fear is even stronger.
A series of indignant, surprised, angered yells ripple through the Company. Glóin and Dwalin voice this the most prominently, but Thorin is silent, staring wide-eyed at the colours rippling in the palm of Sigrid’s hand.
“Thieves!” Glóin bellows, raising his axe to the sky as a few of the others around him roar in agreement, “that stone belongs to the King!”
Sigrid doesn’t even flinch, hiding the heart of the mountain back in her pocket. She smiles, a vicious edge to something ordinarily so sweet, “then the King can come and get it.”
(There goes Fíli’s heart again, falling a little more.)
Thorin’s entire being is coiled, his anger simmering silently on his face but something still cloudy in front of his eyes. “This is another ruse, another filthy lie,” he murmurs, voice so low that Fíli almost misses what he says entirely. He slams his fist against the stone and glares down at Sigrid with a venom that would kill, yelling, “the Arkenstone is in this mountain! It is a trick!”
For the first time, Balin reaches behind him to squeeze Fíli’s hand. He needs the support more than Fíli does, that much they're both aware of, and Fíli doesn’t bring too much attention to it because he just manages to catch the tail end of Sigrid and Thranduil rolling their eyes.
“It-It’s no trick.” Out from the shadows comes Bilbo Baggins and the sudden widening of Sigrid’s eyes tells Fíli that he isn't supposed to be there at all. “The stone is real. I gave it to them… took it as my fourteenth share.”
Fíli watches Thorin’s face take on something akin to sorrow, perhaps heartbreak, but it only lasts a moment before the anger is back, hotter now, more intense. “You would steal from me?” he asks, tone deceptively calm.
“Steal from you?” Bilbo repeats, eyebrows knitted together, “no. I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one; I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”
“Against your claim!?” Thorin bursts, taking a dangerous step towards their hobbit, “you have no claim over me you miserable rat!”
Bilbo’s face twists at the jab, his eyes glistening enough for Fíli to notice as he shoves in front of Balin again. Fíli can only assume Bilbo knows now what he is to Thorin, perhaps figured out his own feelings along the way, he doesn’t know, doesn’t think that it’s his place to guess, but Thorin’s words hurt him and that’s what matters most.
“I was going to give it to you,” Bilbo says, fists clenching at his sides, “many times I wanted to but…”
“But what, thief!?”
“You are changed, Thorin!” Bilbo snaps, a single tear slipping traitorously out of his eye that he swipes away before it can even reach his nose. “The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Would never have treated someone he hurt as horribly as you have treated Sigrid! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”
Thorin falters, it’s fleeting but it is there, and Fíli only feels slightly bad about wishing Bilbo would just burst into tears as he so clearly wants to. Before his Uncle can get lost in his delusions again, Fíli jolts forward and grabs Bilbo’s sleeve, yanking him past Thorin and shoving him right into Balin, begging him without words to just leave before things get worse.
How are they supposed to deal with orcs when they cannot even deal with themselves?
Thorin is looking at Fíli now, the clouds not yet over his eyes again, and he owes it to all of them to just try. “Don’t lay a hand on him, Uncle,” he says softly, one hand raised placatingly, “you will only live to regret it later.”
He means it as a warning. That, if Thorin ever came to his senses after doing something as horrific as killing Bilbo, he would never be able to live with himself again. But it's not taken as that, as quickly as a ray of hope appeared, Thorin’s mouth curls upwards in a snarl, Fíli’s words taken as anything other than a nephew’s concern.
“You dare threaten me!” The next thing he knows, his back is against the edge of the ramparts, Thorin’s hands gripped in the collar of his shirt. Fíli grips Thorin’s wrists in return, not breaking eye contact as, below, Sigrid and Kíli both call for him, and beside them, Balin ushers Bilbo to go. Thorin glares, “the people of Dale have infected your mind as well.”
“They have done nothing of the sort,” he hisses, thinking that even if they had, he’d rather die of the kindness of the only woman here than the greed of the man trying to kill him now, “I am not the one infected.”
Contrary to his current actions, Fíli very much does not want to die at this very moment, if only because of what it will do to Kíli and Sigrid. So when Thorin roars and lifts him further over the rampart, he'll admit that his resolve falters a little and his grip on Thorin’s arms tightens.
“Thorin, son of Thrain!” Thranduil’s voice carries even into the empty hall behind them, bouncing along the stone walls and startling everything to an utter halt, “I highly recommend that you put your nephew down.”
Fíli twists in Thorin’s hold to actually look at the scene that everyone else is staring at, finding Thranduil’s narrowed eyes locked onto Thorin. Kíli has another arrow poised, his shoulders locked and his target distinctly higher than it had been before. Sigrid remains at the bridge, Bilbo now at her side, and she has brought out the Arkenstone again, holding it precariously over the rushing water beneath her.
“You will find that he is the only thing standing between you, an arrow to the head, and the loss of your precious Arkenstone.”
Before the shock of Thranduil calling a halt to their inner affairs really hits him, Fíli’s knees hit the stone and several arms yank him back up. He finds himself on the complete other end of the ramparts with Dwalin’s hand seizing his upper arm; he finds Sigrid’s eyes and nods.
She gives the Arkenstone back to Bilbo.
Then a raven appears and the ground is shaking and all eyes turn to the ridge to find lines of armoured dwarves covering it, all led by one large dwarf on one large pig.
Cousin Dáin. Splendid.
Even just at a glance it’s easy to see that Thranduil’s legion is heavily outnumbered by the army waiting for them now. Fíli is once again left wondering where in Arda the rest of the elves are if they’re supposed to be waiting for orcs. Thranduil calls for them anyway, their golden armour glinting in the sunlight as they rush from where they’d all been positioned before to stand in the path of the new dwarves.
Kíli ushers Eira forward and Sigrid helps Bilbo climb atop her, shaking her head and saying something quietly to the two of them. She remains on her feet, taking Eira’s reins and leading her forward as Thranduil ushers his elk through his lines of soldiers. Fíli doesn't like that he can hardly see Sigrid over everyone else when they make it to the front, but he is glad she's ensured Kíli and Bilbo don't get lost in whatever chaos is about to unfold.
Dáin’s pig approaches rapidly, coming to a stop on a rocky overlook to address the people below him, “good morning! How are we all? I have a wee proposition, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a few moments of your time. Would you consider… just sodding off!”
His men behind him give a loud cheer, their whooping echoing across the hills and probably right through the streets of Dale. If things weren't so tense atop the ramparts, Fíli's sure that at least a few of the Company would join in.
“Ordinarily, a stranger would introduce themselves before intruding on someone else’s business,” Sigrid says, her voice carrying like a melody over the wind, “though I’d understand if a dwarf of your… calibre hasn’t been acquainted with the concept of manners yet.”
Nori snorts into his fist and Dwalin coughs suspiciously into his shoulder. Dáin does his best not to splutter, but Sigrid has done what she does best and thrown him for a loop.
He recovers however, looking mockingly at Thranduil, “what have you done then, eh? Bringing one of your little fairies down here. Send her back where she belongs, ya faithless sprite!”
(Fíli's going to remember to have very strong words with Dáin when he gets the chance.)
Sigrid scoffs, “I apologise, I didn’t realise you had such delicate sensibilities.”
Dwalin coughs again.
“Watch yer mouth why don’t ya!” Dain snaps, his pig huffing beneath him, “or I’ll cut out yer tongue and feed it to the ravens!”
That threat would probably sound a lot scarier if Sigrid hadn’t already been through the end of the world five days ago and been face-to-face with a dragon. Fíli wonders if she laughs at him.
No response comes from her, and Thranduil has briefly leaned down from atop his elk, likely saying something to her that no one else is really meant to hear. He can still hardly see her over the heads of the elves, but he recognises the motion of her folding her arms and nodding. Kíli and Bilbo disappear for a moment as they lean down to hear whatever it is Thranduil had said, two more nods and then the lines of elves in front are moving to let Sigrid pass through.
“That’s it, go on and run back to mummy and daddy!” Dain just has to yell.
Sigrid stops only briefly, throwing a glance over her shoulder, shrugging, “none to return to.” She continues until she's at the back of the legion, rolling her shoulder and ignoring Dáin's spluttering.
Out of harm’s way for now, Fíli turns his attention back to his volatile cousin and the trio left to deal with him—not that it seems Bilbo plans to say anything, likely content to observe and remain unseen.
Dáin finally takes in that it's Kíli on the horse beside Thranduil, his eyebrows knitting together and his question carrying, “what are y’doin’ with the spriteling and the bird there, Kíli?”
“Don’t call them that,” Kíli retorts almost immediately, pulling on Eira’s reins for a moment, “I’m doing the right thing.”
Brows go from furrowed to raised in an instant, “abandonin’ yer kin is the right thing now, eh?”
Kíli shrugs, “they abandoned me first.”
That certainly has an effect on the Company remaining on the ramparts, a few noticeably flinching and others grimacing. Kíli has yet to say that so plainly in the presence of the Company, but Fíli thinks it’s good they’ve heard it now, properly, what leaving did to Kíli; he honestly wonders how long it might take for him to forgive them… if he’ll have the chance to at all.
Thranduil takes over the conversation then, an impressive calmness to his voice as he tries to get Dáin to understand that they aren't here to wage war on their tiny Company. Fíli would pay attention, but something else has caught his eye, specifically the fact that Sigrid very much has an arrow pointed at his face.
He elbows out of Dwalin’s hold in a rush, catching his attention on the situation at hand and ripping an angered yell out of him. Fíli smacks him, trying to shut him up but more people have noticed now and Sigrid rolls her eyes as Dáin causes an uproar again, only held back from charging her by Thranduil’s elk and Eira.
Fíli doesn’t know what she’s doing for a moment, his eyebrows knitting together until he notices that she keeps glancing upwards, above him. The only things above him are windows leading into the mountain, but they're all shadowed in darkness; he looks.
Something moves in those shadows.
A knife has left his hand in an instant, catching the edge of the mass in the darkness and sending it sprawling into the open air. Sigrid’s arrow soars through the air before it has a chance to go anywhere, ripping through its throat and knocking it out of the sky entirely; it’s a bat, a big one, one that should not have been there.
“A scout,” Thranduil states, coming up to Sigrid’s side and staring disdainfully at the mass on the ground, “we are out of time.”
The hills burst open.
Everything happens so fast from up here on the ramparts. Fíli watches giant worms break through the rocks, disappearing back into the hills as if they’d never been there at all; a horn sounds from somewhere, and then the Desolation is being flooded with orcs. He loses sight of Sigrid so quickly his heart nearly stops, Dáin’s rallying battle cry and Thranduil’s organised commands doing nothing to help draw his attention elsewhere, not even at the impressive display of teamwork by both legions, taking out dozens of orcs in so few swings.
“I’m going down there,” Nori declares suddenly, twirling his spiked mace in hand, “who’s coming with me?”
Fíli cheers, of course he does, and he feels so much better hearing the others do so as well.
The hopeful feeling hardly lasts, however, when Thorin barks, “stand down!”
Fíli will not, “are we to do nothing!?”
“I said stand down!” Thorin repeats, sharper still and marching to get right in Fíli’s face, “or perhaps I will actually throw you from the ramparts this time, you ungrateful worm.”
“You do not scare me,” he lies, “you do not get to look at your One like you want him dead at your feet and think you are in any position to keep me away from mine.”
Another horn goes off before anyone has time to process either of those admissions, their attention turning back to the tunnels and seeing a whole new legion of orcs pulling through, followed closely by large trolls and other unkind monsters.
Fíli briefly catches sight of Eira amidst the chaos, thankful to find that Kíli and Bilbo are both still on her back and clearly yelling at someone as they fend off the orcs trying to take them down from either side. He thinks Kíli calls for Thranduil and then he is pulling Eira’s reins and racing her back towards Dale.
Another horn goes off and an entire half of the orc legions turn to follow them.
(He hopes that Dale does not fall so soon after Laketown.)
Thranduil’s elk draws his attention next, leaping over orcs and batting them away with its antlers as it crosses the battlefield and comes to a halt somewhere. Thranduil offers a hand down and then up climbs Sigrid, pressing a hand to her cheek and gripping Thranduil’s armour with the other, nodding at something he says.
“Ironfoot,” Thranduil calls, catching Dáin just as he beheads about three orcs in a row, “I leave my men to you, do not lose too many of them.”
In such a pure moment of comradery, Dáin yells in return, “kill a troll for me!”
Then Fíli is watching his One disappear towards the enclosed war that must have flooded the streets of Dale by now. He feels his blood burn and whirls on Thorin again, biting out, “you are not my King—” and on the off chance that he is still anywhere in there “—you are not my Uncle.”
• • •
He isn’t surprised when it’s Nori who finds him hiding away in an alcove, sharpening one of his swords and intermittently kicking at the wall as the sounds of war echo from outside. Neither of them says anything right away, Fíli scrapes the whetstone over his blade and Nori leans back against the wall, resting his mace beside him and crossing his arms.
“If you leave…” he starts, glancing at Fíli, “if you leave I’ll follow. I know most of the others would as well.” Fíli doesn’t know what Nori wants him to say to that. Thank you? Better late than never? His confusion must read plainly because Nori turns to him properly, “Dáin’s forces cannot do this alone, three of our own are out there and we should never have lost them in the first place… you have your One for Arda’s sake!”
Fíli scoffs, rolling his eyes, “do not pretend to care about her just because you suddenly think you have to.”
Nori barks out a laugh, “when have I ever pretended to care about anything, Your Highness?”
Placing his whetstone on the ground, Fíli frowns, running his thumb over the edge of his knife and trying not to let himself think too hard about the title. When they first met, Dori had been very adamant that both his brother and cousin addressed Thorin, Fíli and Kíli by their proper titles; it was ridiculous, really, and the only reason Nori ever did it was because he saw how uncomfortable it made Fíli. Now, somehow, it has become something fond, a reminder of what they started with.
(It helps, really, that Sigrid had taken the same lighthearted manner about the whole thing as well.)
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Nori asks, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “Sigrid.”
“Yes,” Fíli says quietly, knocking his head back against the wall and pressing his hand over where her necklace rests.
Nori grins then, “I like her, she actually has a bit of dwarvish charm.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Fíli snorts, “I’m rather sure Thorin and Dáin have put her off.”
When footsteps echo down the hallway, both of them shut up, their almost jovial mood soured by mere noise. They exchange a glance before leaning out of the alcove to watch the hallway leading back to the main gate; Dwalin is making his approach, his back tense and a frown marring his features. Nori watches him carefully while Fíli tosses his weight back against the wall again, twisting his knife in his hand to spin the point of the blade against his finger.
Dwalin stops short of actually joining them; the distance is prominent in more ways than one.
“I’ll join you at the gate in a minute, Nori,” Fíli says, watching Dwalin’s shoulders set from the corner of his eye as Nori, in turn, barely conceals his concern.
Still, he goes, swinging his mace over his shoulder and sauntering off with intentionally loud footfalls. Fíli watches him disappear, ignoring the weight of Dwalin’s attention for as long as he can before he has no remaining excuses.
“Who is it?” Dwalin asks immediately, his presence stiff and looming as Fíli remains seated.
“What?”
“Your One,” he bites out, as if the word itself is the only reason the Company has as many problems as it does at the moment. “Which of the Laketown folk is it?”
Fíli furrows his eyebrows, frowning as he slides his knife back into his sleeve and shifts to sit up more. He understands that he hadn’t explicitly said it, but as far as he can tell, everyone but Thorin himself had put the pieces together back on the ramparts.
“Are you being intentionally ignorant or—“
Dwalin huffs, “I want to hear it from you; as I used to hear everything.”
“If we look back,” Fíli starts, pushing up the wall to finally stand and meet Dwalin’s eyes properly, “I think we’ll both be able to see where exactly you left your privilege to that knowledge.”
(From his attitude when they first entered Laketown to some of the choice phrases Fíli has overheard since, how was he ever supposed to assume that Dwalin would have been anything other than disappointed in this development?
Not to mention his undying loyalty to Thorin.)
“If you had said—”
“I didn’t want to have to!” he exclaims, his voice echoing through the large, empty hallway; he wonders if those at the gate can hear it. “I should be able to hope that you have enough of a spine to stand up to Thorin when he’s doing something as cruel as strong-arming a teenager into war!”
He knows it might be hard, that loyalty is something that cannot be easily swayed, but Fíli thinks loyalty should include telling someone when they’re wrong, especially in cases such as this. But perhaps it’s naive of him to hope for that.
“It would have made things easier if we knew before,” Dwalin grumbles, folding his arms almost petulantly.
He narrows his eyes, “Sigrid deserves respect regardless of her association with me. Regardless of her association with anyone.”
Dwalin averts his gaze, the first real indication Fíli has gotten of remorse. They stand in silence for so long that he thinks he begins to hear the very dust moving in the air around them.
The Dwalin clicks his tongue and nods down the hallway, “you going over that wall?”
Fíli scoffs, though he feels the corner of his mouth pull upwards, “of course I am.”
“Let’s get started then.”
• • •
Fíli sucks in a breath, tugging at the cuff of his glove and standing on a large piece of rubble to look across what remains of the Company; he’s rather sure Bilbo would have something poetic to say about it.
They look back at him, their expressions ranging from determination to pride. He feels his gut swoop at the attention, more anxious about it than any pseudo-speech he’s ever given some of them before. He’s never really done this, not seriously, not with such real stakes at his back and hiding in these walls, but everyone has to start somewhere.
(If Sigrid can do this on an upbringing of poverty, then Fíli can do this after years of being told he’s a Crown Prince.)
“We are the dwarves of Erebor,” he starts, watching the pride strengthen in his friends’ forms, “we are brave and we are foolhardy, and no one but this Company could have made it here.” A unified cheer rings in his ears. “Right now, the elves, the people of Laketown, and Dáin’s men are out there, defending this land that you reclaimed; many of those forces have every right to turn their back on us, but they haven’t. The orcs that followed us are out there standing against them and I, for one, will not let our allies die fighting for our Kingdom!”
He finds Balin, who offers him pride. He finds Dwalin, who nods. He finds Nori, who grins. He finds each member of the remnants of their Company and they give him unwavering belief.
“We are the dwarves of Erebor, and loyalty does not die with us.”
The unified cheer becomes so much more; a thunderous roar of the brave. It echoes through the hallways, a deep harmony over the orchestral clamour of the war beyond that wall.
Over their heads, he spots a figure standing in the firelight at the end of the hallway. He knows who it is before they even move, but still, watching Thorin approach in simple leather clothes and a drawn sword, makes Fíli’s heart stutter just enough. The others turn when they notice his shifted attention, naturally creating a path through their huddle when Fíli steps down from his platform.
He flexes his hands, resting them atop his two shortswords and trying to stand tall, trying to hope that the imminent fear of this being the very moment he has to kill his Uncle isn’t showing on his face.
“Thorin, we are going, whether you wish it or not,” he announces, loud enough for the others to hear him as he meets Thorin halfway. They stand with mere feet between them and Fíli whispers, far more desperately, “please, do not make me fight you.”
The way Thorin looks at him is so much clearer than it had been before, Fíli hopes that it's not simply his hope latching onto the change and deceiving him. Thorin swallows thickly and seems to hesitate, reaching up to place his hand on Fíli’s shoulder and whispering in return.
“I will not.”
The tension drops out of Fíli’s form almost immediately and Thorin’s mouth pulls up in a watery smile.
“We are sons of Durin,” he says, that former soft regalness returned to his voice, “and we do not hide, we do not shirk our responsibility.” He pulls Fíli forward, pressing their foreheads together and murmuring, “I am so sorry, is there any way that you can forgive me?”
Fíli can sense the sincerity in his voice and the vulnerability of his own tears trapped behind his eyes. He pulls back and manages to smile, “apologise to everyone else and I’ll consider it.”
Thorin squeezes his shoulder and they know they’re okay, that he’s back and he’s ready to make up for his mistakes.
They turn to look at the others, Thorin’s voice carrying in the way it once did, “I have no right to ask this of any of you; but will you follow me one last time?”
What remains of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield rise and hold their weapons to the sky.
• • •
They have come to Ravenhill in search of the head of the snake. Yet in the snow, it is quiet, the bodies of felled orcs already scattered along the path upwards.
Fíli stands with Thorin, Dwalin and Nori, their small party having left their goats at the base of the hill and the rest of the Company under Dáin’s command. His heart spikes with anxiety, the uncertainty of it all starting to get to him, even if the goblin mercenaries at their feet had been little more than a mild nuisance.
The quiet is uncomfortable. The kind that seeps beneath his skin like the cold, chilling his bones and his blood and his resolve. He forces himself not to falter, twirling his shortswords in his hands and trying not to think about who could have been up here before them.
(And if they still stand.)
Ravenhill itself feels like a ghost, a memory trapped in ruin with no light to follow and no afterlife to escape to. Its ruins sit cold and forgotten, decaying stone and rotting overgrowth. He wonders what it was once used for, and what they may return it to once this battle is over and Azog is dead; though he has to admit, even in the haze, the sprawling view beyond it has the potential to be magnificent.
The silence is slaughtered by the beat of a drum.
Up on the tower, through the fog and the ice, his heart stutters to a stop.
“Bilbo!”
Their burglar hangs over the sheer drop by Azog’s grip on his neck. He is facing them, his discomfort clear, but when he sees them his eyes widen and he calls out.
“You can’t be here!” He cries desperately, his will to help them shining through even in the face of his own potential downfall, “they have another army, you have to ru- ah!”
Azog squeezes Bilbo’s neck and presses the tip of his bladed arm to his cheek; they’re being toyed with, all of them, and Thorin’s fear is so clearly beginning to outweigh his anger. Right here, right now, they're losing Bilbo for good.
Azog spits something but Fíli is not so well versed in the language of orcs to understand him; a blade pointed at him is all he needs to know that whatever he is saying is a threat to all of their lives. The orc pulls his arm back, his blade aimed to pierce Bilbo’s heart, and Thorin’s cry of anguish is loud enough to be a pain all its own.
Three things happen then. All in such quick succession that Fíli truly thinks he has to have missed something.
Azog is hit by a pair of arrows, one to his wrist, another squarely in his back, and he jolts. Bilbo has the chance to squeeze out of his grip but he still falls, causing Fíli’s heart to leap into his throat even as Tauriel appears from the mist like some elven guardian to swing her way down and catch Bilbo before he can fall too far. They stand atop a lower-level railing and the others look up again, just barely catching sight of Kíli and Sigrid disappearing into the cracks of other ruins on opposite sides of the central one.
Azog roars, ripping the arrows out of his back—a line of blood at his leg tells Fíli that this isn’t the first time one or both of them have shot him—but he disappears back into the mist, leaving them in the quiet again for a brief moment.
Then Bofur makes his appearance, sprinting along the walkway below Tauriel and Bilbo, out of breath and with a torn sleeve to his coat. He pauses when he spots Fíli and the others waiting below, beaming in that way Fíli has missed.
Tauriel leaps down to the bottom of the tower, setting Bilbo on his feet and stepping back to allow the immediate, tight hug that Thorin wraps his One in.
She turns to Fíli, “did you see which way Sigrid went?” He nods, pointing towards the western tower. “Good, take someone, go get her. No one should be alone in this place.”
He more than agrees.
“I take it we’re gettin’ Kíli?” Bofur calls, peering down the way he came and making Fíli worry that he's being pursued.
Tauriel leaps back up to the level Bofur remains on and nods, then they’re both running off and disappearing.
Fíli trusts that his brother is in good hands.
He glances back at the others, Nori’s mace leaned against his shoulder as he watches the way Bofur and Tauriel ran. Thorin has pulled away from Bilbo but his hands remain on his shoulders, both of their eyes are wet and Bilbo is nodding at something Thorin has said.
Fíli looks at Dwalin and before he can open his mouth, the dwarf has hefted up his axe and started marching towards the western ruins.
“Let’s hurry this up.”
They make their way across, weapons drawn and movements as precise as they can be. He takes the lead, trying to catch sight of Sigrid’s shadow through the fog or the sound of her boots on the stone. He follows what path he can, taking careful steps up icy stairs as he and Dwalin make their way into the ruins, crossing a cracked threshold.
The corridor they enter may have once been contained, but the far end is completely open, a portion of the cliff had collapsed at some point, taking the edge of this part of the ruins with it. The hallway breaks off in different places, other corridors branching off, further through what was once a building.
(It’s much like when he first laid eyes on Dale, the ghosts of the past lingering within it, and the people of the future wandering through.)
Fíli hears the shriek of the bats before he even sees them coming. Still, they catch them off guard, flooding through that open end of the hallway and swarming them with claws and wings and teeth.
Dwalin roars over their shrieks, rushing forward to create some space between him and Fíli and give him ample room to swing his axe. More bats swarm him than they do Fíli, clearly intent to take down the physically stronger of the two first.
Fíli swings and slashes, grunting with the effort of fighting against their combined weight and power. One catches him off-guard, crowding into his space with a swift beat of its wings and clamping its mouth around his gloved hand; its teeth sink cleanly through, forcing him to cry out at the sudden wash of pain and forcing him onto the ground with another flap of its wings.
His swords have fallen to his sides, not quite out of reach but not quite accessible either; one hand trapped in the maw of a beast and the other clawing roughly at the creature’s snout. He hears Dwalin call out again but can tell without even looking that he is beginning to get overwhelmed himself.
Out of the darkness comes his ever-present ray of hope.
An arrow whizzes over his head, the dying squeal of a bat crowding Dwalin reverberating through the scuffle, giving him enough space to kill those that remain. A bow comes over the head of the bat trying to tear the rest of Fíli’s hand off, yanking it back with a force that seems to surprise both of them, but it gives him the chance to reorient himself and grab one of the swords at his side, sitting up to stab it through the beast’s head.
“Glove,” Sigrid orders in lieu of a greeting, kneeling on the floor in front of Fíli and beginning to pull one of the laces out of her boot.
He carefully pulls the glove from his injured hand, wincing as the fabric brushes against the mangled wound; she takes it when it's just barely brushing against his fingers. Using one of her new shortswords, she pulls at the stitching and opens it out further, wrapping the leather around his open wound and ordering him to hold it there as she takes the lace of her boot and wraps that around it too, keeping the makeshift bandage in place when she knots it.
She looks up after double-checking her handiwork and Fíli immediately reaches forward to graze his thumb over the scabbed cut along her cheek. He notices her new braid then too, almost gasping as he takes in the intricacy of it and the familiar pattern of the way her hair weaves; Kíli did it, he can tell, and the bead holding it in place is nothing short of Bofur’s work.
(They have marked her as a friend of dwarves, a friend of the Durin line, accepted her entirely, with no input from the others, and he cannot help but feel a rushing sense of gratitude.)
Sigrid inhales, her eyes scanning the rest of his form before she finally lurches forward and wraps her arms around his neck, mumbling into his shoulder, “never scare me like that again.”
He can’t help but be unsure if she means from just now, or hours ago at the gates. Still, he hugs her back, his grip tight around her waist with a hand cradling the back of her head; he apologises gently, squeezing her as tightly as he dares before pulling back and brushing hair from her face.
“What are you doing up here?”
“The same thing as you, I imagine,” she shrugs, glancing around at the corpses of the bats surrounding them, “it didn’t exactly go to plan but at least no one is dead yet.”
Behind them, Dwalin snorts, catching their attention. He looks at Sigrid and offers her a bow, “Dwalin, at yer service.”
She begins to stand, gently pulling Fíli with her and not faltering as Dwalin eyes their clasped hands. “Are you injured as well?” she asks earnestly, scanning him as she had Fíli and nearly looking ready to relinquish her other shoelaces.
“Nothin’ I can’t handle, lass, don’t worry yerself over it.”
She nods, though doesn’t look entirely convinced.
They hear the loud clash of swords and the cry of orcs from the hole at the end of the hallway. They approach slowly, peering over the edge and through the fog to see the glittering armour of the elves clashing with the second legion of Azog’s forces.
Dwalin’s eyes narrow, “is that—?”
“Lord Thranduil,” Sigrid confirms, smiling gently, “Varian must have found Bain.”
(If Fíli had to guess, he’d say Varian is one of her birds. How fast she must have sent him off when they made the discovery… something new about her impresses him every day.)
Dwalin seems no less confused, “he came to help us?”
“I’m rather sure that if he’s helping anyone, it’s her,” Fíli says, nodding at Sigrid and squeezing her hand, “he has a soft spot, I’m telling you.”
Sigrid scoffs lightheartedly, rolling her eyes, “I think it’s just that he would rather not deal with Thorin and Dáin without me.”
Fíli mouths soft spot and Dwalin has that same expression he started to get after Thorin discovered that Bilbo was his One.
The lightheartedness cannot last, of course, and the three of them notice the few numbers that manage to break through the elven force. They begin their climb up the side of the hill, making their way towards the eastern ruins, and Fíli’s worry returns.
“Kíli’s in the east, yes?” Dwalin asks, swinging his axe over his shoulder in such a way that Fíli can already read his mind.
“You can’t go by yourself—”
“I count as two people,” he retorts, nodding at Fíli and Sigrid and gesturing back towards the way they came, “you need to go and help Thorin, I’ll make sure the others aren’t overwhelmed.”
“Do not get overwhelmed yourself,” Sigrid says kindly, earning a nod in return.
Fíli waits until Dwalin is completely out of sight before he and Sigrid gather their scattered weapons and take off back towards the frozen river where this critical battle started.
(Azog is hidden somewhere in here, Fíli fails to forget. At every turn, he tries not to let his paranoia sink too far, but that monster is intent on destroying anything and everything Thorin cares for, Fíli included.
He fears that Azog will discover, far too quickly, that there are ways to hurt him far worse than death ever could.)
“Uncle!” He calls as they come to the western end of the broken bridge.
Bilbo and Nori lie somewhere on the other side, out of sight though, likely, not out of danger. Thorin, however, is nearly pinned at the edge of the waterfall by a small force of orcs, all with clear orders to kill. He glances up at the sound of Fíli’s voice though before another word can leave anyone’s mouth, Sigrid has loosed an arrow into the back of one of the orcs and is already setting another.
Fíli leaps down from the ledge, careful not to land so hard that the ice cracks, and quickly joins the fray alongside Thorin with his shortsword and his one working hand. Thorin nods at him through the skirmish while Sigrid provides ample support from afar. They dispatch the small legion easily and Fíli feels the familiar thrill of fighting alongside Thorin again.
(Sparring in the Blue Mountains feels like so long ago now. Even just those early days of the quest, with the trolls and Radagast, before Rivendell and Azog; they are changed, they were always going to be, but he cannot help but feel reconnected with a part of his old self now, here, fighting side-by-side his Uncle.)
As Fíli slices down the last orc, feeling wholly unbalanced with a sword in only one hand, Thorin kicks the carcass of another down the edge of the waterfall, watching it fall with a snarl curling his lips.
“What happened?” He asks the moment he turns back, nodding down at Fíli’s wounded hand as he tosses his noticeably broken sword to the side.
“Bat,” Fíli responds, trying to seem nonchalant even if the pain keeps shooting through his arm with every heartbeat. “Sigrid helped kill it,” he adds, glancing back towards where the woman in question stands.
Not for the first time, he finds her distracted by her birds. One sits atop her fingers, singing a melody into the cold, while the rest putter around at her feet, chittering their own series of noises that she periodically looks down to return. Under her arm sits Orcrist, Thorin’s lost sword, and Fíli honestly starts to wonder if she has magic somewhere in her blood.
She must feel him watching because she turns, smiling briefly before shooing her flock away—half heading for Ravenhill’s eastern side and the other flying out towards the second legion. She sits at the edge of the bridge as he and Thorin approach, jumping down and landing lightly on the ice, spending a brief moment scrutinising it before giving them her attention and rolling her shoulders back.
“Prince Legolas sends his regards, Master Oakenshield,” she says, her tone even but her stance stiff; she pulls Orcrist from under her arm and holds the hilt towards Thorin.
“Thorin, please.” He considers her—not cruelly, not like before—and sighs, bowing low, “I have done nothing to earn such respect from you.”
Sigrid’s first response is to look, wide-eyed, at Fíli, but he smiles encouragingly, hoping she understands that Thorin is not as he once was. She manages to school her features before Thorin rises again and her posture shifts into something softer, much more like her.
She offers Orcrist out again, “I’m glad to see that some sense has returned to you.”
“As am I.” The corner of Thorin’s mouth pulls upwards and Fíli counts that as a step in the right direction. He glances across to the other side of the river, opening his mouth as if to say something else but stopping short, his features setting harshly as he looks at something over Fíli’s shoulder.
Through the mist, Azog is not the sight Fíli wanted to see. He stands there, a threat all his own, with a chain-wrapped boulder at his feet, and though he stares only at Thorin, Fíli can feel the extended threat towards him and Sigrid as well.
“This is not your fight, Dragonslayer,” Thorin says without prompt, as if reading Sigrid’s tense shoulders without even seeing them, “do not risk yourself for this.” He goes forward without another word, ready to engage this danger that has loomed long before this quest started.
Fíli inhales, watching his Uncle go, and unsheathes his shortsword, ready to follow, but Sigrid catches his elbow and forces him to look at her.
“I’m not running away,” she snaps, squeezing his arm and glancing worriedly back over his shoulder, “not when he is a threat to my people; not when he is a threat to you.”
He knows better than to try to change her mind. Though he’d rather she go, run to find the others or back to Dale entirely, he knows she won't budge until this chapter is closed and he cannot fault her for it.
“Keep your distance, at least,” he requests, brushing his fingers over the side of her waist he knows is still wounded. He’s more than relieved when she nods.
Behind them, Azog roars, sprinting forwards to swing his rock at Thorin. Thorin ducks beneath it just as Fíli joins him, sliding under another swing and crossing to Azog’s back to thrust his blade forward alongside Thorin’s slash. They back away quickly, whistling and mocking, drawing the beast’s attention and drawing him further up the river, away from the remains of the bridge and away from being an immediate threat to Sigrid.
(Fíli wills himself to trust that she will remain out of the way, if only to keep himself focused on this battle.)
Azog’s next swing sees his rock meeting the ice. The top layer cracks and shatters, white lines spider out from the epicentre and make Fíli wonder just how long this ice will hold. He and Thorin are stuck in a dangerous dance, avoiding a blunt force that would surely kill them if tossed hard enough, and each other, remaining unified yet distanced; one mistake could risk everything.
Fíli manages to circle around, ducking under another fatal swing as Thorin goads Azog into keeping his attention diverted. The ice continues to crack and break, floes beginning to form and making all of them unbalanced, but Fíli takes his Uncle’s distraction and pushes forward to stab his shortsword into Azog’s lower back dragging it lengthways where his armour does not protect him.
He twists and tries to pull the blade free but he moves too late and, before he even realises it, Azog has tossed him across the river. His back hits the other side of the broken bridge and he slumps into the ice with a groan, his entire body vibrating in pain as he coughs, winded.
Not even a moment later, Sigrid cries out from the other side and he feels a rush of cold. Twisting, his body aching as he moves, he makes out Sigrid’s form where she once stood; Azog has tossed his blade into her ankle, bringing her down to the fracturing ice. He tries to call out but his voice leaves him in a wheeze and he is left to do nothing but watch everything else unfold.
Sigrid seems to take note of the cracking ice, her head swivelling as she takes stock of everything before her.
Azog and Thorin have migrated off of the floes, shifting further towards Sigrid as Azog decides to move towards her cornered form first. He doesn’t get very far before his chain tugs, his rock trapped in the ice at Thorin’s feet; Fíli watches a look pass between his Uncle and his One.
He might be as equally surprised as Azog when he watches Sigrid rip his blade from her own ankle and stab it into the ice, Thorin forcing Orcrist in on Azog’s other side. They twist their blades and pull, forcing the cracks to form in full and creating a new floe just for the orc.
Thorin calls out, bloody and tired but mocking all the same, and when Azog turns, a snarl on his lips, Thorin tosses the chained rock back at him and they all watch as the ice floe tips and Azog disappears into the frozen water.
Fíli heaves a sigh of relief, pushing up on his uninjured hand to settle slowly onto his knees; he brings his other to cradle his ribs, feeling the bruises already beginning to form on his back. Thorin looks his way, concern hardly veiled, but his shoulders sag in relief when Fíli nods.
Any sort of reassurance stops when Sigrid shrieks.
Their heads whip around, catching sight of a blade, Azog’s blade, piercing through the ice in front of her. Her form is still curled and her hands are still wrapped around her bleeding ankle; her wide eyes find Fíli and then she’s gone, a hole in the ice where she once was.
He doesn’t even get a chance to cry out.
Thorin drops Orcrist where he stands, shedding his coat and diving into the frozen depths from the place Azog had fallen. Fíli’s heart drops into his gut, beating rapidly and making everything hurt just that much more.
“Fíli!”
He looks up, finding Bilbo leaning over the edge above him, worry pinching his features as he and Nori drop down on either side of him. Their heads whip around, surveying the battlefield that has become of the river, and though they clearly come up short, they turn their attention back to Fíli and help him sit up further, even if the only thing he wants to do is yell or cry.
“Easy,” Nori soothes, a gentle hand on his back when he hisses at all the movement. He spares another glance around and squeezes Fíli’s shoulder, “where’s your other half?”
He can’t find his voice, his attention all but locked on those holes in the ice; whether Nori and Bilbo follow his gaze, he doesn’t know, but Bilbo makes a sort of broken noise in his throat. They’ve only been under there mere seconds, a minute or two at most, but it feels so much longer.
Not soon enough do their heads break the surface of the water, coughing violently and gasping for breath.
Dwalin—who must have been waiting above with the others—lands in front of Fíli and dashes forward with Bilbo; Nori stays by his side, helping loop Fíli’s arm over his shoulders to get him upright. They start forward as well, stepping carefully on the fragile surface of the river as Dwalin pulls Sigrid from the water and Bilbo helps yank Thorin over the edge as well.
Nori sets Fíli between Sigrid and Dwalin before stepping over to help Bilbo with Thorin.
“Never scare me like that again,” Fíli says shakily, helping her peel her frozen coat off and eyeing the dark marks around one of her wrists.
She hums, nodding stiffly and trying to tug at the laces of her corset, “help me before I freeze to death, please.” Her voice is raspy.
With two working hands between them, they get the laces undone and Fíli adds the corset to the pile with her coat, moving then to help with her shirt. She feels far too cold, her whole body shaking with shivers as violent as her infrequent coughs remain; removing his other glove with his teeth, he rests his hand over the exposed bandage at her side, hoping some warmth passes between them.
Dwalin averts his eyes in time to catch the coat Thorin tosses over; Fíli notices then that Bilbo is pressing Thorin’s discarded shirt to a bleeding slash across his torso. His eyes catch the others back on the eastern side of the bridge too, Kíli and Bofur both beat up and bloody but, more importantly, alive and supporting Tauriel who sports just as many injuries, including a nasty-looking head wound.
“What happened under there?” He asks incredulously, throwing Thorin’s coat over Sigrid’s shoulders and still trying to pass some of the warmth back into her skin.
She snorts, amused by her own words before she even says them, “Dale and Erebor formed an alliance.”
Above them, the eagles cry.
Perhaps the worst is over.