Fic: “Dawn of a New Age,” (23/25) The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin, NC-17
I'm so on track with this now that the end draws near. Of course, now I've jinxed it and will get writer's block after chapter 24 :-)
Click here for previous parts!
Dawn of a New Age (23/25)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit (Movies AU)
Pairings: Bilbo/Thorin, mentions of Bofur/Fili and Kili/Tauriel
Rating: NC-17 for sex and violence. MAJOR character death.
Word Count: Approx. 6900
Disclaimer: So not mine, it's criminal . . . perhaps literally. . . .
Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. MENTIONS MADE OF PAST NON-CON. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::
Summary: See the rating for this chapter and the notes/warnings. Plenty of stuff happens, but there is a major character death.
Three days hence, on the morning Thorin and his troop are to set out from Erebor and off on several days relatively easy ride to the edges of Thranduil's kingdom-straight into the Defiler's trap-Thorin awakens just as the tip of his prick is engulfed in slick, clutching heat.
At first he doesn't even open his eyes-cannot, not even for the sweetly wanton and determined look that is no doubt on his consort's face-the sensations are so intensely pleasurable, as Bilbo slowly and with many a stuttered breath, impales himself on Thorin's eager prick.
But Thorin's hands find Bilbo's thighs once the hobbit is seated and Thorin's prick is all the way in. He opens his eyes to Bilbo gazing back at him, hot-eyed and half-lidded. His hands, with which he'd been bracing himself on Thorin's thighs as he tried to catch his breath, come up to settle on Thorin's hands. His own prick is, though untouched, hard and erect and flushed.
Squeezing Bilbo's thighs, Thorin struggles part of the way upright. Bilbo leans forward and meets him half-way in a kiss that's slow and gentle. Thus, Thorin does not roll them both over and simply take his hobbit hard and fast-which Bilbo seems to enjoy as much as Thorin does-or even make love to Bilbo gently and lovingly, till tears run from his wide-open eyes and his whispered I love you, Thorins color the air like a perfume.
No, instead, Thorin aides Bilbo's obvious desire and grasps his hobbit by his waist. Bilbo raises his body a little off of Thorin's prick, then makes a frustrated huff. “Help me, love,” he breathes, meeting Thorin's gaze once more, his own steady and direct.
And Thorin does help. By easily lifting Bilbo by his waist until only the tip of his prick remains inside Bilbo's body . . . then he's pulling Bilbo back down neither fast nor slow, and as steady as the gaze that still holds him.
Bilbo hums happily. “Again, love,” he sighs, and Thorin is more than happy to oblige. And oblige. And oblige. Until Bilbo's head is hanging and his eyes are closed in concentration for several minutes as he shifts and swivels his hip incrementally while Thorin raises and lowers him.
Suddenly he gasps, his eyes flying open wide and unseeing. Thorin smiles, squeezing his consort's waist. “There?” he asks, rather unnecessarily, and Bilbo nods, his evening sky-eyes meeting Thorin's hungrily as he licks his lips.
“Right there, my king.”
Grinning, now-as he has done for much of the past three days-Thorin clutches Bilbo's hips and now he begins to thrust.
*
After such a lovely assignation, Thorin is loathe to get up and prepare for this hunt.
But get up he does, slipping from Bilbo's gently restraining arms.
“Don't, my lord. Please . . . don't go,” his hobbit whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears. This is the closest they've come to acknowledgeing their imminent parting during the past three days, and Thorin's heart breaks not for himself, but for his consort, whose heart he swore to never break. Whom he would deny nothing.
Except this. For this, he would break both their hearts and see them possibly separated for the rest of this lifetime.
A lifetime spent alone in the Halls of Waiting . . . without his lovely burglar. . . .
And Bilbo is so very lovely, even in his fear and dread. Simply lovely . . . so thoroughly debauched and yet still sweetly innocent, sprawled amongst the scattered pillows and askew sheets. Thorin wants nothing more than to climb back into their comfortable bed and do as he has done for the past seventy-five-odd hours: love his hobbit as fiercely and frequently as possible.
“I understand why you feel you must go,” Bilbo goes on lowly. “But I cannot be happy that you are going. You are a mighty and skilled warrior, my king, but I fear for you, nonetheless. I fear for myself . . . that Azog will take from me the joy that I have wrested back from him at such great pains.”
Thorin says nothing till all that's left to don is his boots. He crosses from guarderobe to bed and sits on the edge, dropping the boots in front of his bare feet, and burying his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted and near tears himself.
How can he possibly go? Even though he needs must, how can he?
Because I am not simply a dwarf in love, I am also a king with a duty to perform. A duty that will, incidentally, at last render my love safe. I must do this for him and for all whom Azog has wronged. I can go. I will go.
“Do not make this leave-taking any more difficult than it already is, my love. I beg you,” Thorin whispers shakily into his hands, as a few tears do, indeed, escape his imprisoning eyelids. Bilbo is instantly wrapping panic-tight and desperation-strong arms around him. Thorin sits up to accept the embrace, reaching back to run his fingertips over Bilbo's soft cheek.
“Forgive me, love?” Bilbo asks contritely, and Thorin sighs.
“There is nothing to forgive. Only a terrible circumstance that must be corrected. And will.”
“I just wish someone else could do the correcting,” Bilbo says and laughs miserably. Thorin sighs again.
“I will never let Azog take anything from you ever again, my gem. Especially not myself.” He leans back in Bilbo's arms, sighing again when Bilbo kisses his hair tenderly. “He will be accorded the king's justice and when he is at last shuffled loose of this mortal coil to join his wretched forebears in the Abyss, we will both at last know peace.”
“Will we?” Bilbo is the one to sigh, this time, leaving a trail of kisses from Thorin's temple to his shoulder. “Just promise me you'll return to me. That you won't leave me to face all the long years of my life alone.”
And Thorin means to.
Thorin wants to.
But . . . Thorin cannot.
Bilbo must surely realize this, for his breath hitches and the hitch turns into a near-silent sob.
“I mean to see justice done, my love. But there is a chance that Mahal may still call me to the Halls of Waiting-”
“Then know that I will surely follow you there, as night follows day. For now that you are mine and I am yours, I cannot and will not live without you,” Bilbo says solemnly, and with an earnestness that frightens Thorin, and makes him fear for his love's life more than he fears for his own.
“Say not such things, my beloved,” Thorin murmurs soothingly as Bilbo lays his head on Thorin's shoulder. Thorin, for his part, can only stare into the suddenly blurred orange light of the fire. . . .
“I speak only the truth of my heart, husband,” Bilbo whispers, and that whisper is choked out around a throat full of tears. “If the hunt goes ill for you, my lord, I will see you interred and entombed with all the honor and dignity and pomp due Durin's greatest heir . . . but the night of the final ceremony will find me following you to your Halls of Waiting. And Yavanna help the god that tries to keep me out.”
This is said so grimly, and with such determination, Thorin finds himself chuckling even as he cleaves closer to his precious burglar, pulling Bilbo's arms tighter around him.
“Don't laugh at me, Thorin. I'm not being funny,” Bilbo says angrily, starting to pull away. But Thorin turns and captures the upset hobbit in his arms, pulling him close, and as tight as can be, despite Bilbo's token resistance.
“It is not you I am laughing at, beloved, but at the god or gods foolish enough to take you on. I laugh at the idea that anything could separate us for very long.” Thorin kisses Bilbo's hair. “I would gladly have you by my side wherever I am-presuming I don't wind up in the Abyss-”
“Never!” Bilbo says, as if personally offended at such an idea. Such faith in him makes Thorin feel . . . as if he could never leave the arms wound so tightly around him.
But he will.
“I would not have you end your life before your time, my love. I would have you live each day you are given to its fullest, enjoying them for us both. Promise me this, Bilbo Baggins. Promise me that should the hunt go ill, you will at least try to carry on. To live and love and . . . hold to the dreams we have for Erebor, for you alone know my heart and mind as no other, and would, I believe, help guide my heir and my Council in the days following my passing.
“Promise me you will do this,” Thorin asks, and Bilbo sighs again, looking up to search Thorin's eyes.
“Only if you promise me I won't need to,” he at last retorts, his eyes as stubborn and determined as ever.
And to that, Thorin has no answer he can in good faith make. So he receives no answer in kind.
*
Thorin's troop leaves shortly afer sunrise.
Riding with him out to the last of the northern foothills are his consort, his heir, his sister, and the rest of the fellowship, minus Dwalin.
Next to him, riding to his right, is Fili, looking pale and wan. To Thorin's left rides Bilbo, looking much the same, but for his red nose and eyes. Behind the three of them ride the rest of the fellowship and Dis. Not a word passes between them, nor the troop of warriors at their back.
The breath from all their mouths still plumes out faintly white, despite the melting of the ice and snow around them. The ground underfoot is a slushy, muddy morass from which the first brave bits of green poke curious, careful shoots. Those shoots have been rewarded with an unusually sunny, unseasonably warm day.
Spring, though only recently arrived, has a definite foothold on the land, and despite the harshness of this winter, that foothold is both early and strong.
When at last the foothills have been left behind and Mirkwood can be seen in the distance as a dense line of green that beggars the small woodlands and bits of forest in between it and Erebor's foothills, Thorin brings his pony to a stop. Everyone else follows suit, but only Dis and the fellowship dismount with him.
Bilbo is immediately in Thorin's arms, shivering, but kissing all the awkward and likely unreassuring words from Thorin's lips. His own lips are, as always, honey-sweet, but a bit chilled because of the lingering cold of the early morning in early spring. But his mouth itself is warm and welcoming, as always, and Thorin explores it with his customary zeal and abandon. Till Bilbo breaks the kiss to whisper in that choked way: “Be careful, husband. And be canny.”
“Always,” Thorin replies, pulling Bilbo close and leaning his chin on the hobbit's head. His eyes then tick to Fili, who is standing nearby with Bofur. The pair are holding hands, and while Fili stares unhappily at the ground, Bofur only has eyes for Fili. And the love and affection and worry that shines out of Bofur's changeable eyes would be obvious even to a blind person.
Well, Thorin thinks with equal parts dismay and relief. It looks as if Fili's patience has paid off, after all . . . I wish him joy of his love, and a long life in which to enjoy it.
“Fili,” he says aloud, gruffly, and his nephew looks up, normally merry blue eyes grim and uneasy. But they meet Thorin's steadily. He squeezes Bofur's hand once, before letting go and stepping forward.
“Yes, your majesty?”
Thorin almost flinches at the honorific. For though proper under the circumstances, he realizes he will always prefer Uncle.
Unwinding one arm from around his hobbit, Thorin reaches out to clasp Fili's shoulder. He can think of nothing to say . . . nothing other than: “Should this hunt go ill for me, wisely and justly may your reign begin and end.”
“As yours will be remembered for its wisdom and justice, my king.” Fili bows his head respectfully.
Thorin smiles, his hand coming up to cup Fili's cheek briefly . . . then he's turning to Kili, who steps forward almost defiantly.
“Have you any further orders for me, my lord?” he asks rather stiltedly and in a resigned manner, no doubt still put out that Thorin will not only not allow him-Captain of Erebor's archers and family, no less-to come along on this hunt, but that Thorin had sent Tauriel off as a scout with Dwalin's flanking troop.
Now, Thorin sighs, clasping his younger nephew's shoulder. “No, Kili. No further orders. But have you no kind word to send me on?”
Kili's angry eyes meet Thorin's finally, and some of that anger is replaced by concern.
“Take more archers. At least one more,” he says at last, and, relenting: “Barring that, come back alive, Uncle. Fili's years away from being fit to rule.”
“Won't catch me disagreein',” Fili says fervently from a few feet away, leaning back in Bofur's arms.
Thorin squeezes Kili's shoulder again and lets go. Kili bows and backs away to stand with his brother, who throws an arm around him.
Thorin turns next to Balin, extending his hand. Balin takes it with a sigh. “You don't have to do this, laddie,” he says softly and without hope. Thorin simply smiles and says: “Lead the Council wisely in my absence, old friend.”
“Aye, my king.”
And finally, Thorin's sister steps forward, and Thorin receives the surprise of his life when she abandons her usual stoicism and hugs the side that Bilbo isn't pressed against. She shakes under his arm like a leaf in an autumn zephyr.
“Come back, brother,” she pleads gravely. “We need you. And we love you.”
“Yes, we do,” Bilbo adds, still shivering almost violently in Thorin's arms. Dis and Thorin glance at each other with identical expressions of worry. Then Dis leans in to whisper in Thorin's ear: “Worry not overmuch, for I will look after him in your absence.”
Thorin had been worrying. Quite a bit. But now he feels some measure of relief. “I thank you, sister.”
With that, Thorin lets Dis go and she steps back, her eyes slightly reddened, but dry of tears.
“Don't go, Thorin,” Bilbo hitches suddenly, so low it's barely audible, and squeezing Thorin tighter. “Stay with me, husband. I beg this of you.”
Rather than say no yet again, Thorin merely kisses Bilbo's hair and murmurs back: “I will return shortly, my beloved.”
“I fear you won't.”
Thorin holds Bilbo back a little to look him in those reddened, tear-wet, but still lovely eyes. When the tears spill over, Thorin brushes them away with his thumb. “No more tears, my love, my own. For I will return within a fortnight. Possibly less. Look to the north for my coming.”
Bilbo searches Thorin's eyes and sighs, himself, bobbing up on his toes to impart a sweet, chaste kiss that's nonetheless passionate and yearning, on Thorin's lips.
“Return to me,” he says, gazing soberly, pleadingly into Thorin's eyes. Thorin nods once, wanting to make promises he has no real control over keeping.
In the end he does not. Merely brushes his fingertips across Bilbo's smooth cheek and supple lips. . . .
Then he's letting go, and turning back to his pony and mounting up.
His consort's gaze burns upon him until distance smothers that fire. And Thorin knows that Fili-or likely Ori-will have, if necessary, dragged Bilbo back to the Mountain.
Thorin does not glance back.
*
Over the next several days, Thorin's party moves north, making no attempts at stealth or concealment.
They rest frequently and send ahead the occasional scouts who return with nothing more pertinent to report than a feeling of being watched and followed.
Thorin could tell them that of course that is all they would find: nothing but a fleeting sense of being scouted right back. He could tell them that, until they reach the open maw of Azog's trap, they are as safe as houses despite the feeling of malevolence that lingers about their party.
He could, but he does not. Part of Dwalin's trap depends greatly on Thorin's troop acting as normally as possible. And that means sending out the occasional scouts and riding if not quickly, then consistently toward their goal.
More than once, Thorin has the feeling, during the long, sleepless watches of the night, that they're being watched by something besides Azog's scouts and minions. Watched and followed, and by something or someone that means them no malice whatsoever.
This feeling, however, Thorin is certain that only he feels because it is directed, he is almost completely sure, at himself.
And he cannot shake that feeling. Not that he has tried . . . for some reason, this latter feeling of being watched puts Thorin in mind of his beloved consort-his Bilbo-and being watched by those beautiful, steadfast eyes.
Try as he might, Thorin cannot, once he's had it, set such a thought free of his mind.
He cannot sleep, barely eats, and when his captain spots definite signs of a warg that Thorin should have spotted first, Thorin can only nod his still-absent approval and remark: “It is well, then.”
We are for it, now, my love, he thinks to the so far benign presence that has followed them since early on the second day. The one that worries and frets for Thorin. Close to doom.
Azog's.
*
It is early on the fifth day, and Thorin's troops have just made careful inroads into Mirkwood, when they hear the sudden, and not far distant sounds of fighting, and the sound of wargs.
Azog's warg-riders have, rather earlier than intended, been surprised by Dwalin's troop. Or perhaps the other way around.
The plan had been for Thorin's troop to distract Azog and his warg-riders for long enough for Dwalin's troop-having come the long way around and through nearly a full week of hard marching and stealth-to ambush them.
Unless ordered by Thorin, Dwalin would never deviate from his own plan. Not when there are lives at stake, and one of those lives is Thorin's. This is Thorin's very thought as his pony paces nervously in the limited space just under the green awning of the trees and behind him, his captain and troop await orders.
Never would Dwalin flout my orders unless . . . unless he had no choice, Thorin thinks grimly, worried. Unless his attempt at stealth failed or . . . was expected. . . .
And, oh, Thorin suddenly has a very bad feeling-worse than previously felt-that he and Dwalin and the troops haven't just ridden into a trap, but ridden into a trap within a trap.
“Dismount!” he orders, doing the same, himself, for the ponies will be all but useless in fighting the warg-riders in such close quarters-will spook and throw their riders in their haste to be off and away. In fact, there is no guarantee, even with three guards posted to watch the ponies, that the ponies will be there when the troop-should the troop-get back.
So, as one, Thorin's troop creeps into Mirkwood. Throughout their creeping, Thorin feels that sensation of being watched once more-rather, he notices it for the first time in two days. It has been so constant throughout that he'd ceased to notice or be alarmed by it. In fact, it had been comforting, for he sensed the benevolence of the watcher and was content that who- or whatever followed him meant him no harm.
Guard and guide us, gentle spirit, he thinks quickly as the sounds of fighting and howling grow louder and the sense of his doom grows ever stronger.
*
Thorin needs only a glance into the large clearing to see that though there are many orcs and a few warg-riders-enough that Dwalin's troop may even be overwhelmed, shortly-there aren't nearly as many as expected. And that of that number, none of those orcs are pale and with an arm made of knives and blades.
Most of Dwalin's stealth-troop are not dead, though there are several bodies around the glade that are not wargs or orcs.
Quietly drawing Goblin-Cleaver, Thorin wades into the fray, mentally prepared to face the doom of his time.
Again.
*
Having managed to fight his way to Dwalin's side-the older dwarf is clearly in his element-fighting three different orcs at once. He's even egging them on-Thorin nearly grins at the other dwarf's running commentary on the orcs' parentage and lack of fighting prowess.
Despite this lively engagement of the enemy, Thorin takes an orc off Dwalin's hands-by relieving the orc of its head-and sends it to the Abyss and the waiting arms of its comrades.
“Where is Azog?!” Thorin demands when Dwalin's taken care of another one of his dance partners. For none have spotted a pale warg-the original having been so bravely dispatched by Bilbo-with a pale rider.
Without taking his stone-green eyes from his final opponent, the captain of Thorin's personal guard answers tersely: “We've not seen the coward, yet!”
Swearing-Do not let this journey and these deaths have been in vain, he thinks desperately-Thorin turns, taking in the clearing once more. With the arrival of Thorin's troop, though not large, the battle has most certainly tipped in favor of the dwarves. In fact, some of the orcs are even running from their individual fights, disappearing into the depths of Mirkwood, where Thranduil's guards will no doubt have them.
Perhaps, Thorin thinks wearily, but with a pang of homesickness that nearly floors him. Of love-sickness that nearly enervates him. Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps it is good that Azog has chosen not to show himself. And perhaps-
Thorin does not get to finish his thought, for just then his name is called from behind him and across the clearing, all gravel and grating. That sense of preordained doom settles upon him once more, as when the fellowship went to face down the armies beseiging and battling about a newly-won Erebor.
Thorin turns, raising Goblin-Cleaver . . . he turns to face Azog . . . the Defiler.
*
Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin and King Under the Mountain, meets Azog, the Defiler, King of Mount Gundabad, in the center of the body-littered glade with a great clash of death-dealing metal. Sparks fly from a ceaselessly glowing Goblin-Cleaver and from the giant ebon sword wielded by the King of Gundabad.
This time, there is no white warg, no fiery pine cones, no Bilbo-no distractions and no saviors to interrupt this battle of diametrically opposed forces.
The King of Erebor is sent reeling back, stumbling to save himself a fall. He catches and rights himself as the King of Gundabad presses his advantage. Erebor then rallies, blocking a mighty blow from Gundabad. But Gundabad merely laughs and turns the repelling blow from Erebor into a spin and follow-through swing of his arm of blades and knives. He catches the King of Erebor glancingly across the chest, but the king is saved by his armor. Nonetheless he is sent reeling back once more, and Gundabad gargles out more orc-laughter, throaty and cruel.
“I will take your head and toss it into the dirt like rubbish, as I did your forefather's,” Gundabad declares in Westron, his chilly blue eyes pinning the King of Erebor. “Then I will take your kingdom, and your gold, and finally your precious halfling. Again.”
Erebor's king pales and his body goes utterly still, but for his sword arm, which trembles. Not with fear, but with a great and cold rage.
“You will not speak of him!” Erebor grits out, color returning to his pale cheeks as a hectic crimson flush. He shifts into a ready stance, obviously trying to calm himself. “Nor will you speak of Erebor! For sacred are they both, and pure beyond your understanding and beyond your diseased touch!”
Gundabad smiles, his scarred, moon-white face creasing among many seams and scars.
“Oh, but I will speak of them, son of Thrain. Most especially of your halfling . . . shall I remind you of his lovely screams as I took him? As I broke him open?” Gundabad's smile turns gentle and almost fond, in its utter mercilessness. The arm that is blades and knives-heretofore aimed at the King of Erebor, as is his sword of black steel-now drifts up to rest over his heart in a mockery of sentimentality. “I wonder if all halflings are so sweet and delicate . . . so pretty and innocent? Or is it just yours?” Now, that smile turns into a smirk. “When I've used yours up, I shall have to take another to find out.”
Erebor snarls and begins to circle Gundabad, who returns the favor, still mocking Erebor. “After I've taken your kingdom, and placed your head atop your own throne, the first thing I will do will be to reintroduce myself to your little halfling . . . who will very shortly become my little halfling . . . for as long as he lasts, anyway. And I guarantee you that won't be for long.”
Now vermillion, Erebor rushes Gundabad. “Never again will you touch him!”
His needling of Erebor having obviously worked, Gundabad's smirk becomes a smile once more as he blocks Erebor's powerful, but hasty blow. But this time the King of Gundabad is driven back, growling and sneering. He, too, rallies, attacking the King of Erebor with sword and arm.
Erebor is, indeed, fast, parrying each swing or weathering each blow. He acquits himself well-despite having been put on the defensive by Gundabad's strong, relentless offensive-Goblin-Cleaver a ceaseless blue blur in his skilled grasp.
Around them, the Ereborians are steadily beating back the Gundabadian horde, cutting down their numbers and driving quite a few more of them off into the dim mirkness of Mirkwood. Every being is engaged in their own personal battle. No one has eyes for their king, be it Erebor or Gundabad, except for one. . . .
After long minutes, Erebor has fought Gundabad to a draw. It is now speed against might, respectively. And so the stalemate holds without giving. Until all the battles around them have stilled, and even the captain of the Ereborian king's guard has left off fighting to watch this historic battle between kings, his great war-hammer still raised, but gone quite still.
But for the great clash of swords, the world is one silent, held breath. . . .
Until the King of Gundabad, with a terrific lunge, drives through the King of Erebor's speedy, but faltering defense. And he does so not with his sword, but with his arm of blades and knives. These blades and knives are sharpened to fine edges and points, and one such blade parts not only the leather and wool of Erebor's device and tunic, but also drives apart the rings of his mail armor, razing the skin and puncturing the flesh of Erebor's side.
The King of Erebor grunts and goes to one knee, that blade dragging up his side . . . and lightly across one rib, but scoring it deeply, before Gundabad draws back slightly, while swinging his sword forward, meaning to cleave the King of Erebor in twain the long way.
But Erebor dodges, rolling away and to his knees, slowed slightly by his injury and the pain of his nearly severed rib-bone. At the same time a voice, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once calls his name in tones of fear and horror.
Glancing around, startled and afraid, himself-but not for himself-the King of Erebor mumbles as he struggles to his feet: “Bilbo?”
And in his moment of distraction, the King of Gundabad swings on him again, laughing. Erebor barely gets his sword arm-which happens to also be on his damaged side-up just in time to block it: a blow that would have severed arm from body.
However the strength behind that blow is enough to stun his arm and wrist, and the mighty sword Orcrist, called Goblin-Cleaver in the common tongue, falls to the ground with a loud clatter.
At last, complete silence reigns in the glade, and Gundabad smiles.
Raising his jagged black sword, he kicks the Goblin-Cleaver away from Erebor's sudden lunge for it as if it's trash; then he steps on Erebor's wrist, pinning the dwarf-king in place.
“Prepare to meet your fathers, son of Thrain,” Gundabad says smugly, swinging his sword down in one smooth motion, toward Erebor's face-
-only to have that sword stop mere inches from its target with the ring of steel on steel and a shower of sparks. So surprised is the King of Gundabad that he does not instantly follow through with the blow which, had he done so, would have killed the King of Erebor, anyway. There is nonetheless the clatter of a fallen sword once more, and a pained cry that yet again comes from everywhere and nowhere, leaving almost everyone, even Gundabad, looking around for it's source.
Everyone except for the embattled King of Erebor, who's freed his wrist and is scrambling for the Goblin-Cleaver. Recalled to his purpose, the King of Gundabad is but a moment behind him, but that moment is all it takes for Erebor to retrieve his sword and swing it upward in a blow that relieves the orc-king of his right arm at the elbow.
Too stunned to do anything for long moments, Gunadabad sinks to his knees and merely gazes at the blood spurting fom his missing arm as Errebor gets unsteadily to his feet and swings once more. Gundabad turns that stunned gaze to Erebor just in time to see the Goblin-Cleaver take his own head.
His head falls from his body and rolls away into the dust and dirt, like the rubbish it is, and his captainless body slowly crumples forward to the ground. The King of Erebor, breathing hard, lurches out of its way
And thus Azog, King of Mount Gundabad-called the Defiler by many-is done.
*
Panting, Thorin does not pause to follow the trajectory of the head he'd so valued, once upon a time, not too long ago.
Instead, he immediately turns to the seemingly empty space nearby from which pained moans and hisses have begun to emanate.
“My love?” he says quietly, going to his knees when his toe bumps something solid-something which grunts softly and withdraws. Thorin reaches out at about chest-level with the shaking fingers of his good hand and encounters . . . skin. Soft skin.
Familiar skin.
“Oh, Thorin,” an equally pained, equally soft, equally familiar voice whispers. Bilbo's voice, and a warm gust of air ghosts past Thorin's fingers.
For long moments, Thorin cannot answer-though his mouth works to form one-only stroke a cheek that he cannot see. His mind is quite blank. But after a minute has passed, Bilbo Baggins appears in front of Thorin's surely ensorceled eyes and under his caressing fingertips. He's rumpled and dirty in his traveling clothes, his fur-lined cloak filthy, askew, and torn in places. His hair is messy, lank, and tangled with sticks and leaves.
He looks as if he's been dragged head-first through a briar-patch. He looks-
Lovely, Thorin's heart sighs, even as his mind finds its voice. “My love-is it truly you? What sorcery is this?” And before Bilbo can do more than open his mouth to answer, Thorin's kissing chapped lips searching for and finding hints of that sweetness he so loves. And upon finding it, he's dropping Goblin-Cleaver to pull Bilbo to him, breaking the kiss when the hobbit inhales and makes a rather agonized moan.
“Are you hurt, my gem?” Thorin asks, sitting back to look Bilbo over again more carefully. This time, he notices the way Bilbo is cradling his right arm to his chest.
“M-my arm . . . I think it's broken,” Bilbo says, blinking up at Thorin worriedly. Then he looks down, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I'm-sorry. I just couldn't let you go off alone. I meant to stay out of it-let you fight your own battle-but I couldn't. I just couldn't.”
This apology is follwed by a sniffle and the falling of a few tears. Thorin reaches out and once again brushes his consort's cheek.
“And it's a good thing you didn't,” Thorin murmurs, smiling wonderingly. “You saved me from Azog. Again,” he adds incredulously, then bows his head deeply, with the utmost respect. “This is a debt I can never repay, Bilbo Baggins.”
That flush increases till Bilbo is beet-red. “Sure, I saved you only after I distracted you in the first place by shouting your name. Days spent invisible and hiding, and I give it all away when it's most necessary to keep it a secret.” Bilbo snorts with self-derision.
“How were you invisible?” Thorin asks, suddenly recalling this very important fact about his consort's sudden appearance. And he remembers something else, as well. “For many were the times during this journey that I felt a benign attention on me, and I'd pretended, in whimsical moments, that it was you, but never had I dreamed that it actually was you . . . how is this possible?”
Bilbo sighs and opens his mouth-then glances around them at the still staring dwarves and orcs, before turning back to Thorin and smiling wryly.
“It is a long story. For now, my king, let it suffice to say that I burgled more than I bargained for on our quest for Erebor,” he murmurs, and Thorin glances around them, too, frowning grimly. He reaches for Goblin-Cleaver and takes her up, raising her as he gets to his feet.
And, as if a signal's been sent, a goodly portion of the orcs left in the clearing disappear into the underbrush and trees.
The rest continue their fights, but are now outnumbered two to one by dwarves, and the battle soon winds down.
None of those orcs still fighting attempt to take on Thorin, nor do they even approach Bilbo, who is sitting at his feet and staring at Azog's headless body with wide, wondering eyes.
When the last orc has been disembowled, Thorin lowers Goblin-Cleaver and offers Bilbo his hand up. The hobbit takes it and is instantly pulled to his feet, and held close against Thorin's good side. Bilbo finally tears his eyes away from Azog and looks up at Thorin.
“He's gone,” he breathes, tears springing to his eyes again as Thorin nods. “At last.”
“Yes, my love. Forever.” Justice has been done and you are at last safe. Now, we can move on, at peace with ourselves. . . .
“You said you'd do it, and you did.” Bilbo laughs a little, his awestruck gaze still on Thorin, shining and adoring. “You rid the world of him, my king.”
“Only with your help. It is as I said: Together, we are unstoppable,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's dirty, scraped forehead. Bilbo leans against him tiredly.
“Never again will I doubt that, my lord.”
A few moments later, Dwalin approaches them, his curious eyes on Bilbo. “So . . . Gandalf was certainly right about hobbits passing unseen whensoever they choose! How'd you do that?” he asks, and Thorin glances at Bilbo, who shrugs his good shoulder and smiles.
“Magic,” he says, simply, and Thorin and Dwalin both raise their eyebrows.
Then Dwalin's eyes drift down to Bilbo's cradled arm. “Broken?”
“I'm afraid so,” Bilbo replies with a sigh and a wince. “It hurts enough that it should be, anyway. But forget all that, it's Thorin I'm worried about. Azog stuck him a good one in the side with that bloody pigsticker-arm of his, and I saw blood.”
And with this, Bilbo glares up at Thorin accusingly, as if he'd gotten wounded just to make Bilbo mad. Thorin sighs.
“Indeed?” Dwalin turns a similar gaze upon his king and Thorin rolls his eyes.
“It's nothing, really. Barely even twinges,” he says, having forgotten about the wound, for the most part. At the moment, he isn't even in any pain. In fact, there's a warm sort of numbness spreading rather quickly from the wound. A numbness that's made his bottom-most rib, which had been screaming, finally fall silent. “Huh.”
Thorin sheathes Goblin-Cleaver and prods at the torn tunic, chinked armor, and sluggishly droozling puncture.
No pain, whatsoever.
And that's . . . rather odd.
Mildly worried, Thorin opens his mouth to say just that, when suddenly the world lurches, driving Thorin-and incidentally Bilbo-to his knees with a soft moan. His entire left side has gone numb and yet strangely warm. And that sensationless warmth is seeping very quickly inward.
“THORIN?!” Bilbo-all three of him-shout when Thorin begins to sway. Then he's grunting as he bears up under Thorin's sagging weight.
A moment later, Dwalin's yelling something and Bilbo just keeps saying Thorin's name as he lays Thorin down. Meanwhile, Thorin's heart is skipping beats, as ever it does when Bilbo Baggins touches him. Only instead of beating faster, it's beating slower . . . and slower . . . and slower. . . .
Until finally, with a last, labored beat, it seizes in his chest, causing him to gasp. Or at least his body tries to gasp, anyway. It doesn't succeed very well, not even managing to inhale.
The last things Thorin sees are Bilbo's frightened eyes-They've always been the color of the evening sky, except for that one time when they were not, Thorin thinks, and does not understand what he means by this-before the world goes quite suddenly dark. . . .
*
. . . and he is drifting through that darkness aimlessly . . . for an eternity, before he sees a light, at the end of a seemingly long tunnel. It flickers and changes, like the fire of a hearth or . . . a forge.
He travels toward it, neither walking nor crawling nor running, yet somehow moving.
When, after another eternity, he reaches the light, it is to discover that it is the light of a forge, alright. And there is a smith working at it, shaping what appears to be a sword, the like of which he has never before seen, so cunningly curved and scored is it.
Surely, he thinks, amazed. No smith of men, or elves, or even dwarves could make such a blade. . . .
Thus he is moved to take a closer look at the smith-no, the Smith-who works this Forge.
Tall, he is. Markedly taller than a dwarf, and yet neither man nor elf. His thick brown hair waves to broad, bare, brawny shoulders, and his beard is braided and hangs to just below the top of his leathern apron. Dark, ancient eyes in a square, handsome face are focused solely on the sword being hammered into readiness, and yet . . . he has no doubt that his presence is noticed.
That, his presence has been expressly requested.
Glancing back down the tunnel whence he came, he can see only darkness . . . though for a moment . . . distant and almost drowned in the lack of light, he can almost make out a familiar figure, small and lost. He can hear it calling his name in tones of hopelessness and bereavement that break his heart. . . .
Turning away from that figure-for it is beyond him, now, bound to a place that is now denied him-he focuses once more on the Smith performing his Art.
Finally, after only half an eternity, the Smith pauses in his work to glance at him with those curious, coal-dark eyes. And he smiles kindly, this Smith, displaying square, even white teeth.
“Thorin II, called Oakenshield,” the Smith says in a surprisingly soft and mellow tenor. “Son of Thrain, son of Thror. Heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain. Wielder of the great blade Orcrist, Bringer of Justice to the Usurper of Gundabad and Khazad-Dum . . . and last, but certainly not least, beloved of Bilbo Baggins.”
He blushes to hear his names and titles said-with no small amount of amusement and wryness-in that moment caring nothing for any of them, save the final one. The one his broken heart-both halves of it-still clings to. . . .
He shakes his head to clear it of desires he cannot now fulfill and wishes he could do the same to the pieces of his heart. But since he cannot, he distracts himself with the riddle of the Smith. And in so distracting himself, realizes in the next instant not only where he is, but with whom.
All else forgotten for the moment, he does not know what to do in this august Presence. What to say to this Smith of smiths. So he does the only thing he knows to do: He bows, and addresses the Other with the only titles that matter here.
“Father,” he says, straightening and meeting that dark, divine gaze with his own. “*Mahal.”
*
*And mad ups to Badskippy of AO3, from whom I “borrowed” the idea of using Mahal in a fic. It's a good read, The Divine Series. It rocks.
Click here for previous parts!
Dawn of a New Age (23/25)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit (Movies AU)
Pairings: Bilbo/Thorin, mentions of Bofur/Fili and Kili/Tauriel
Rating: NC-17 for sex and violence. MAJOR character death.
Word Count: Approx. 6900
Disclaimer: So not mine, it's criminal . . . perhaps literally. . . .
Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. MENTIONS MADE OF PAST NON-CON. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::
Summary: See the rating for this chapter and the notes/warnings. Plenty of stuff happens, but there is a major character death.
Three days hence, on the morning Thorin and his troop are to set out from Erebor and off on several days relatively easy ride to the edges of Thranduil's kingdom-straight into the Defiler's trap-Thorin awakens just as the tip of his prick is engulfed in slick, clutching heat.
At first he doesn't even open his eyes-cannot, not even for the sweetly wanton and determined look that is no doubt on his consort's face-the sensations are so intensely pleasurable, as Bilbo slowly and with many a stuttered breath, impales himself on Thorin's eager prick.
But Thorin's hands find Bilbo's thighs once the hobbit is seated and Thorin's prick is all the way in. He opens his eyes to Bilbo gazing back at him, hot-eyed and half-lidded. His hands, with which he'd been bracing himself on Thorin's thighs as he tried to catch his breath, come up to settle on Thorin's hands. His own prick is, though untouched, hard and erect and flushed.
Squeezing Bilbo's thighs, Thorin struggles part of the way upright. Bilbo leans forward and meets him half-way in a kiss that's slow and gentle. Thus, Thorin does not roll them both over and simply take his hobbit hard and fast-which Bilbo seems to enjoy as much as Thorin does-or even make love to Bilbo gently and lovingly, till tears run from his wide-open eyes and his whispered I love you, Thorins color the air like a perfume.
No, instead, Thorin aides Bilbo's obvious desire and grasps his hobbit by his waist. Bilbo raises his body a little off of Thorin's prick, then makes a frustrated huff. “Help me, love,” he breathes, meeting Thorin's gaze once more, his own steady and direct.
And Thorin does help. By easily lifting Bilbo by his waist until only the tip of his prick remains inside Bilbo's body . . . then he's pulling Bilbo back down neither fast nor slow, and as steady as the gaze that still holds him.
Bilbo hums happily. “Again, love,” he sighs, and Thorin is more than happy to oblige. And oblige. And oblige. Until Bilbo's head is hanging and his eyes are closed in concentration for several minutes as he shifts and swivels his hip incrementally while Thorin raises and lowers him.
Suddenly he gasps, his eyes flying open wide and unseeing. Thorin smiles, squeezing his consort's waist. “There?” he asks, rather unnecessarily, and Bilbo nods, his evening sky-eyes meeting Thorin's hungrily as he licks his lips.
“Right there, my king.”
Grinning, now-as he has done for much of the past three days-Thorin clutches Bilbo's hips and now he begins to thrust.
*
After such a lovely assignation, Thorin is loathe to get up and prepare for this hunt.
But get up he does, slipping from Bilbo's gently restraining arms.
“Don't, my lord. Please . . . don't go,” his hobbit whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears. This is the closest they've come to acknowledgeing their imminent parting during the past three days, and Thorin's heart breaks not for himself, but for his consort, whose heart he swore to never break. Whom he would deny nothing.
Except this. For this, he would break both their hearts and see them possibly separated for the rest of this lifetime.
A lifetime spent alone in the Halls of Waiting . . . without his lovely burglar. . . .
And Bilbo is so very lovely, even in his fear and dread. Simply lovely . . . so thoroughly debauched and yet still sweetly innocent, sprawled amongst the scattered pillows and askew sheets. Thorin wants nothing more than to climb back into their comfortable bed and do as he has done for the past seventy-five-odd hours: love his hobbit as fiercely and frequently as possible.
“I understand why you feel you must go,” Bilbo goes on lowly. “But I cannot be happy that you are going. You are a mighty and skilled warrior, my king, but I fear for you, nonetheless. I fear for myself . . . that Azog will take from me the joy that I have wrested back from him at such great pains.”
Thorin says nothing till all that's left to don is his boots. He crosses from guarderobe to bed and sits on the edge, dropping the boots in front of his bare feet, and burying his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted and near tears himself.
How can he possibly go? Even though he needs must, how can he?
Because I am not simply a dwarf in love, I am also a king with a duty to perform. A duty that will, incidentally, at last render my love safe. I must do this for him and for all whom Azog has wronged. I can go. I will go.
“Do not make this leave-taking any more difficult than it already is, my love. I beg you,” Thorin whispers shakily into his hands, as a few tears do, indeed, escape his imprisoning eyelids. Bilbo is instantly wrapping panic-tight and desperation-strong arms around him. Thorin sits up to accept the embrace, reaching back to run his fingertips over Bilbo's soft cheek.
“Forgive me, love?” Bilbo asks contritely, and Thorin sighs.
“There is nothing to forgive. Only a terrible circumstance that must be corrected. And will.”
“I just wish someone else could do the correcting,” Bilbo says and laughs miserably. Thorin sighs again.
“I will never let Azog take anything from you ever again, my gem. Especially not myself.” He leans back in Bilbo's arms, sighing again when Bilbo kisses his hair tenderly. “He will be accorded the king's justice and when he is at last shuffled loose of this mortal coil to join his wretched forebears in the Abyss, we will both at last know peace.”
“Will we?” Bilbo is the one to sigh, this time, leaving a trail of kisses from Thorin's temple to his shoulder. “Just promise me you'll return to me. That you won't leave me to face all the long years of my life alone.”
And Thorin means to.
Thorin wants to.
But . . . Thorin cannot.
Bilbo must surely realize this, for his breath hitches and the hitch turns into a near-silent sob.
“I mean to see justice done, my love. But there is a chance that Mahal may still call me to the Halls of Waiting-”
“Then know that I will surely follow you there, as night follows day. For now that you are mine and I am yours, I cannot and will not live without you,” Bilbo says solemnly, and with an earnestness that frightens Thorin, and makes him fear for his love's life more than he fears for his own.
“Say not such things, my beloved,” Thorin murmurs soothingly as Bilbo lays his head on Thorin's shoulder. Thorin, for his part, can only stare into the suddenly blurred orange light of the fire. . . .
“I speak only the truth of my heart, husband,” Bilbo whispers, and that whisper is choked out around a throat full of tears. “If the hunt goes ill for you, my lord, I will see you interred and entombed with all the honor and dignity and pomp due Durin's greatest heir . . . but the night of the final ceremony will find me following you to your Halls of Waiting. And Yavanna help the god that tries to keep me out.”
This is said so grimly, and with such determination, Thorin finds himself chuckling even as he cleaves closer to his precious burglar, pulling Bilbo's arms tighter around him.
“Don't laugh at me, Thorin. I'm not being funny,” Bilbo says angrily, starting to pull away. But Thorin turns and captures the upset hobbit in his arms, pulling him close, and as tight as can be, despite Bilbo's token resistance.
“It is not you I am laughing at, beloved, but at the god or gods foolish enough to take you on. I laugh at the idea that anything could separate us for very long.” Thorin kisses Bilbo's hair. “I would gladly have you by my side wherever I am-presuming I don't wind up in the Abyss-”
“Never!” Bilbo says, as if personally offended at such an idea. Such faith in him makes Thorin feel . . . as if he could never leave the arms wound so tightly around him.
But he will.
“I would not have you end your life before your time, my love. I would have you live each day you are given to its fullest, enjoying them for us both. Promise me this, Bilbo Baggins. Promise me that should the hunt go ill, you will at least try to carry on. To live and love and . . . hold to the dreams we have for Erebor, for you alone know my heart and mind as no other, and would, I believe, help guide my heir and my Council in the days following my passing.
“Promise me you will do this,” Thorin asks, and Bilbo sighs again, looking up to search Thorin's eyes.
“Only if you promise me I won't need to,” he at last retorts, his eyes as stubborn and determined as ever.
And to that, Thorin has no answer he can in good faith make. So he receives no answer in kind.
*
Thorin's troop leaves shortly afer sunrise.
Riding with him out to the last of the northern foothills are his consort, his heir, his sister, and the rest of the fellowship, minus Dwalin.
Next to him, riding to his right, is Fili, looking pale and wan. To Thorin's left rides Bilbo, looking much the same, but for his red nose and eyes. Behind the three of them ride the rest of the fellowship and Dis. Not a word passes between them, nor the troop of warriors at their back.
The breath from all their mouths still plumes out faintly white, despite the melting of the ice and snow around them. The ground underfoot is a slushy, muddy morass from which the first brave bits of green poke curious, careful shoots. Those shoots have been rewarded with an unusually sunny, unseasonably warm day.
Spring, though only recently arrived, has a definite foothold on the land, and despite the harshness of this winter, that foothold is both early and strong.
When at last the foothills have been left behind and Mirkwood can be seen in the distance as a dense line of green that beggars the small woodlands and bits of forest in between it and Erebor's foothills, Thorin brings his pony to a stop. Everyone else follows suit, but only Dis and the fellowship dismount with him.
Bilbo is immediately in Thorin's arms, shivering, but kissing all the awkward and likely unreassuring words from Thorin's lips. His own lips are, as always, honey-sweet, but a bit chilled because of the lingering cold of the early morning in early spring. But his mouth itself is warm and welcoming, as always, and Thorin explores it with his customary zeal and abandon. Till Bilbo breaks the kiss to whisper in that choked way: “Be careful, husband. And be canny.”
“Always,” Thorin replies, pulling Bilbo close and leaning his chin on the hobbit's head. His eyes then tick to Fili, who is standing nearby with Bofur. The pair are holding hands, and while Fili stares unhappily at the ground, Bofur only has eyes for Fili. And the love and affection and worry that shines out of Bofur's changeable eyes would be obvious even to a blind person.
Well, Thorin thinks with equal parts dismay and relief. It looks as if Fili's patience has paid off, after all . . . I wish him joy of his love, and a long life in which to enjoy it.
“Fili,” he says aloud, gruffly, and his nephew looks up, normally merry blue eyes grim and uneasy. But they meet Thorin's steadily. He squeezes Bofur's hand once, before letting go and stepping forward.
“Yes, your majesty?”
Thorin almost flinches at the honorific. For though proper under the circumstances, he realizes he will always prefer Uncle.
Unwinding one arm from around his hobbit, Thorin reaches out to clasp Fili's shoulder. He can think of nothing to say . . . nothing other than: “Should this hunt go ill for me, wisely and justly may your reign begin and end.”
“As yours will be remembered for its wisdom and justice, my king.” Fili bows his head respectfully.
Thorin smiles, his hand coming up to cup Fili's cheek briefly . . . then he's turning to Kili, who steps forward almost defiantly.
“Have you any further orders for me, my lord?” he asks rather stiltedly and in a resigned manner, no doubt still put out that Thorin will not only not allow him-Captain of Erebor's archers and family, no less-to come along on this hunt, but that Thorin had sent Tauriel off as a scout with Dwalin's flanking troop.
Now, Thorin sighs, clasping his younger nephew's shoulder. “No, Kili. No further orders. But have you no kind word to send me on?”
Kili's angry eyes meet Thorin's finally, and some of that anger is replaced by concern.
“Take more archers. At least one more,” he says at last, and, relenting: “Barring that, come back alive, Uncle. Fili's years away from being fit to rule.”
“Won't catch me disagreein',” Fili says fervently from a few feet away, leaning back in Bofur's arms.
Thorin squeezes Kili's shoulder again and lets go. Kili bows and backs away to stand with his brother, who throws an arm around him.
Thorin turns next to Balin, extending his hand. Balin takes it with a sigh. “You don't have to do this, laddie,” he says softly and without hope. Thorin simply smiles and says: “Lead the Council wisely in my absence, old friend.”
“Aye, my king.”
And finally, Thorin's sister steps forward, and Thorin receives the surprise of his life when she abandons her usual stoicism and hugs the side that Bilbo isn't pressed against. She shakes under his arm like a leaf in an autumn zephyr.
“Come back, brother,” she pleads gravely. “We need you. And we love you.”
“Yes, we do,” Bilbo adds, still shivering almost violently in Thorin's arms. Dis and Thorin glance at each other with identical expressions of worry. Then Dis leans in to whisper in Thorin's ear: “Worry not overmuch, for I will look after him in your absence.”
Thorin had been worrying. Quite a bit. But now he feels some measure of relief. “I thank you, sister.”
With that, Thorin lets Dis go and she steps back, her eyes slightly reddened, but dry of tears.
“Don't go, Thorin,” Bilbo hitches suddenly, so low it's barely audible, and squeezing Thorin tighter. “Stay with me, husband. I beg this of you.”
Rather than say no yet again, Thorin merely kisses Bilbo's hair and murmurs back: “I will return shortly, my beloved.”
“I fear you won't.”
Thorin holds Bilbo back a little to look him in those reddened, tear-wet, but still lovely eyes. When the tears spill over, Thorin brushes them away with his thumb. “No more tears, my love, my own. For I will return within a fortnight. Possibly less. Look to the north for my coming.”
Bilbo searches Thorin's eyes and sighs, himself, bobbing up on his toes to impart a sweet, chaste kiss that's nonetheless passionate and yearning, on Thorin's lips.
“Return to me,” he says, gazing soberly, pleadingly into Thorin's eyes. Thorin nods once, wanting to make promises he has no real control over keeping.
In the end he does not. Merely brushes his fingertips across Bilbo's smooth cheek and supple lips. . . .
Then he's letting go, and turning back to his pony and mounting up.
His consort's gaze burns upon him until distance smothers that fire. And Thorin knows that Fili-or likely Ori-will have, if necessary, dragged Bilbo back to the Mountain.
Thorin does not glance back.
*
Over the next several days, Thorin's party moves north, making no attempts at stealth or concealment.
They rest frequently and send ahead the occasional scouts who return with nothing more pertinent to report than a feeling of being watched and followed.
Thorin could tell them that of course that is all they would find: nothing but a fleeting sense of being scouted right back. He could tell them that, until they reach the open maw of Azog's trap, they are as safe as houses despite the feeling of malevolence that lingers about their party.
He could, but he does not. Part of Dwalin's trap depends greatly on Thorin's troop acting as normally as possible. And that means sending out the occasional scouts and riding if not quickly, then consistently toward their goal.
More than once, Thorin has the feeling, during the long, sleepless watches of the night, that they're being watched by something besides Azog's scouts and minions. Watched and followed, and by something or someone that means them no malice whatsoever.
This feeling, however, Thorin is certain that only he feels because it is directed, he is almost completely sure, at himself.
And he cannot shake that feeling. Not that he has tried . . . for some reason, this latter feeling of being watched puts Thorin in mind of his beloved consort-his Bilbo-and being watched by those beautiful, steadfast eyes.
Try as he might, Thorin cannot, once he's had it, set such a thought free of his mind.
He cannot sleep, barely eats, and when his captain spots definite signs of a warg that Thorin should have spotted first, Thorin can only nod his still-absent approval and remark: “It is well, then.”
We are for it, now, my love, he thinks to the so far benign presence that has followed them since early on the second day. The one that worries and frets for Thorin. Close to doom.
Azog's.
*
It is early on the fifth day, and Thorin's troops have just made careful inroads into Mirkwood, when they hear the sudden, and not far distant sounds of fighting, and the sound of wargs.
Azog's warg-riders have, rather earlier than intended, been surprised by Dwalin's troop. Or perhaps the other way around.
The plan had been for Thorin's troop to distract Azog and his warg-riders for long enough for Dwalin's troop-having come the long way around and through nearly a full week of hard marching and stealth-to ambush them.
Unless ordered by Thorin, Dwalin would never deviate from his own plan. Not when there are lives at stake, and one of those lives is Thorin's. This is Thorin's very thought as his pony paces nervously in the limited space just under the green awning of the trees and behind him, his captain and troop await orders.
Never would Dwalin flout my orders unless . . . unless he had no choice, Thorin thinks grimly, worried. Unless his attempt at stealth failed or . . . was expected. . . .
And, oh, Thorin suddenly has a very bad feeling-worse than previously felt-that he and Dwalin and the troops haven't just ridden into a trap, but ridden into a trap within a trap.
“Dismount!” he orders, doing the same, himself, for the ponies will be all but useless in fighting the warg-riders in such close quarters-will spook and throw their riders in their haste to be off and away. In fact, there is no guarantee, even with three guards posted to watch the ponies, that the ponies will be there when the troop-should the troop-get back.
So, as one, Thorin's troop creeps into Mirkwood. Throughout their creeping, Thorin feels that sensation of being watched once more-rather, he notices it for the first time in two days. It has been so constant throughout that he'd ceased to notice or be alarmed by it. In fact, it had been comforting, for he sensed the benevolence of the watcher and was content that who- or whatever followed him meant him no harm.
Guard and guide us, gentle spirit, he thinks quickly as the sounds of fighting and howling grow louder and the sense of his doom grows ever stronger.
*
Thorin needs only a glance into the large clearing to see that though there are many orcs and a few warg-riders-enough that Dwalin's troop may even be overwhelmed, shortly-there aren't nearly as many as expected. And that of that number, none of those orcs are pale and with an arm made of knives and blades.
Most of Dwalin's stealth-troop are not dead, though there are several bodies around the glade that are not wargs or orcs.
Quietly drawing Goblin-Cleaver, Thorin wades into the fray, mentally prepared to face the doom of his time.
Again.
*
Having managed to fight his way to Dwalin's side-the older dwarf is clearly in his element-fighting three different orcs at once. He's even egging them on-Thorin nearly grins at the other dwarf's running commentary on the orcs' parentage and lack of fighting prowess.
Despite this lively engagement of the enemy, Thorin takes an orc off Dwalin's hands-by relieving the orc of its head-and sends it to the Abyss and the waiting arms of its comrades.
“Where is Azog?!” Thorin demands when Dwalin's taken care of another one of his dance partners. For none have spotted a pale warg-the original having been so bravely dispatched by Bilbo-with a pale rider.
Without taking his stone-green eyes from his final opponent, the captain of Thorin's personal guard answers tersely: “We've not seen the coward, yet!”
Swearing-Do not let this journey and these deaths have been in vain, he thinks desperately-Thorin turns, taking in the clearing once more. With the arrival of Thorin's troop, though not large, the battle has most certainly tipped in favor of the dwarves. In fact, some of the orcs are even running from their individual fights, disappearing into the depths of Mirkwood, where Thranduil's guards will no doubt have them.
Perhaps, Thorin thinks wearily, but with a pang of homesickness that nearly floors him. Of love-sickness that nearly enervates him. Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps it is good that Azog has chosen not to show himself. And perhaps-
Thorin does not get to finish his thought, for just then his name is called from behind him and across the clearing, all gravel and grating. That sense of preordained doom settles upon him once more, as when the fellowship went to face down the armies beseiging and battling about a newly-won Erebor.
Thorin turns, raising Goblin-Cleaver . . . he turns to face Azog . . . the Defiler.
*
Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin and King Under the Mountain, meets Azog, the Defiler, King of Mount Gundabad, in the center of the body-littered glade with a great clash of death-dealing metal. Sparks fly from a ceaselessly glowing Goblin-Cleaver and from the giant ebon sword wielded by the King of Gundabad.
This time, there is no white warg, no fiery pine cones, no Bilbo-no distractions and no saviors to interrupt this battle of diametrically opposed forces.
The King of Erebor is sent reeling back, stumbling to save himself a fall. He catches and rights himself as the King of Gundabad presses his advantage. Erebor then rallies, blocking a mighty blow from Gundabad. But Gundabad merely laughs and turns the repelling blow from Erebor into a spin and follow-through swing of his arm of blades and knives. He catches the King of Erebor glancingly across the chest, but the king is saved by his armor. Nonetheless he is sent reeling back once more, and Gundabad gargles out more orc-laughter, throaty and cruel.
“I will take your head and toss it into the dirt like rubbish, as I did your forefather's,” Gundabad declares in Westron, his chilly blue eyes pinning the King of Erebor. “Then I will take your kingdom, and your gold, and finally your precious halfling. Again.”
Erebor's king pales and his body goes utterly still, but for his sword arm, which trembles. Not with fear, but with a great and cold rage.
“You will not speak of him!” Erebor grits out, color returning to his pale cheeks as a hectic crimson flush. He shifts into a ready stance, obviously trying to calm himself. “Nor will you speak of Erebor! For sacred are they both, and pure beyond your understanding and beyond your diseased touch!”
Gundabad smiles, his scarred, moon-white face creasing among many seams and scars.
“Oh, but I will speak of them, son of Thrain. Most especially of your halfling . . . shall I remind you of his lovely screams as I took him? As I broke him open?” Gundabad's smile turns gentle and almost fond, in its utter mercilessness. The arm that is blades and knives-heretofore aimed at the King of Erebor, as is his sword of black steel-now drifts up to rest over his heart in a mockery of sentimentality. “I wonder if all halflings are so sweet and delicate . . . so pretty and innocent? Or is it just yours?” Now, that smile turns into a smirk. “When I've used yours up, I shall have to take another to find out.”
Erebor snarls and begins to circle Gundabad, who returns the favor, still mocking Erebor. “After I've taken your kingdom, and placed your head atop your own throne, the first thing I will do will be to reintroduce myself to your little halfling . . . who will very shortly become my little halfling . . . for as long as he lasts, anyway. And I guarantee you that won't be for long.”
Now vermillion, Erebor rushes Gundabad. “Never again will you touch him!”
His needling of Erebor having obviously worked, Gundabad's smirk becomes a smile once more as he blocks Erebor's powerful, but hasty blow. But this time the King of Gundabad is driven back, growling and sneering. He, too, rallies, attacking the King of Erebor with sword and arm.
Erebor is, indeed, fast, parrying each swing or weathering each blow. He acquits himself well-despite having been put on the defensive by Gundabad's strong, relentless offensive-Goblin-Cleaver a ceaseless blue blur in his skilled grasp.
Around them, the Ereborians are steadily beating back the Gundabadian horde, cutting down their numbers and driving quite a few more of them off into the dim mirkness of Mirkwood. Every being is engaged in their own personal battle. No one has eyes for their king, be it Erebor or Gundabad, except for one. . . .
After long minutes, Erebor has fought Gundabad to a draw. It is now speed against might, respectively. And so the stalemate holds without giving. Until all the battles around them have stilled, and even the captain of the Ereborian king's guard has left off fighting to watch this historic battle between kings, his great war-hammer still raised, but gone quite still.
But for the great clash of swords, the world is one silent, held breath. . . .
Until the King of Gundabad, with a terrific lunge, drives through the King of Erebor's speedy, but faltering defense. And he does so not with his sword, but with his arm of blades and knives. These blades and knives are sharpened to fine edges and points, and one such blade parts not only the leather and wool of Erebor's device and tunic, but also drives apart the rings of his mail armor, razing the skin and puncturing the flesh of Erebor's side.
The King of Erebor grunts and goes to one knee, that blade dragging up his side . . . and lightly across one rib, but scoring it deeply, before Gundabad draws back slightly, while swinging his sword forward, meaning to cleave the King of Erebor in twain the long way.
But Erebor dodges, rolling away and to his knees, slowed slightly by his injury and the pain of his nearly severed rib-bone. At the same time a voice, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once calls his name in tones of fear and horror.
Glancing around, startled and afraid, himself-but not for himself-the King of Erebor mumbles as he struggles to his feet: “Bilbo?”
And in his moment of distraction, the King of Gundabad swings on him again, laughing. Erebor barely gets his sword arm-which happens to also be on his damaged side-up just in time to block it: a blow that would have severed arm from body.
However the strength behind that blow is enough to stun his arm and wrist, and the mighty sword Orcrist, called Goblin-Cleaver in the common tongue, falls to the ground with a loud clatter.
At last, complete silence reigns in the glade, and Gundabad smiles.
Raising his jagged black sword, he kicks the Goblin-Cleaver away from Erebor's sudden lunge for it as if it's trash; then he steps on Erebor's wrist, pinning the dwarf-king in place.
“Prepare to meet your fathers, son of Thrain,” Gundabad says smugly, swinging his sword down in one smooth motion, toward Erebor's face-
-only to have that sword stop mere inches from its target with the ring of steel on steel and a shower of sparks. So surprised is the King of Gundabad that he does not instantly follow through with the blow which, had he done so, would have killed the King of Erebor, anyway. There is nonetheless the clatter of a fallen sword once more, and a pained cry that yet again comes from everywhere and nowhere, leaving almost everyone, even Gundabad, looking around for it's source.
Everyone except for the embattled King of Erebor, who's freed his wrist and is scrambling for the Goblin-Cleaver. Recalled to his purpose, the King of Gundabad is but a moment behind him, but that moment is all it takes for Erebor to retrieve his sword and swing it upward in a blow that relieves the orc-king of his right arm at the elbow.
Too stunned to do anything for long moments, Gunadabad sinks to his knees and merely gazes at the blood spurting fom his missing arm as Errebor gets unsteadily to his feet and swings once more. Gundabad turns that stunned gaze to Erebor just in time to see the Goblin-Cleaver take his own head.
His head falls from his body and rolls away into the dust and dirt, like the rubbish it is, and his captainless body slowly crumples forward to the ground. The King of Erebor, breathing hard, lurches out of its way
And thus Azog, King of Mount Gundabad-called the Defiler by many-is done.
*
Panting, Thorin does not pause to follow the trajectory of the head he'd so valued, once upon a time, not too long ago.
Instead, he immediately turns to the seemingly empty space nearby from which pained moans and hisses have begun to emanate.
“My love?” he says quietly, going to his knees when his toe bumps something solid-something which grunts softly and withdraws. Thorin reaches out at about chest-level with the shaking fingers of his good hand and encounters . . . skin. Soft skin.
Familiar skin.
“Oh, Thorin,” an equally pained, equally soft, equally familiar voice whispers. Bilbo's voice, and a warm gust of air ghosts past Thorin's fingers.
For long moments, Thorin cannot answer-though his mouth works to form one-only stroke a cheek that he cannot see. His mind is quite blank. But after a minute has passed, Bilbo Baggins appears in front of Thorin's surely ensorceled eyes and under his caressing fingertips. He's rumpled and dirty in his traveling clothes, his fur-lined cloak filthy, askew, and torn in places. His hair is messy, lank, and tangled with sticks and leaves.
He looks as if he's been dragged head-first through a briar-patch. He looks-
Lovely, Thorin's heart sighs, even as his mind finds its voice. “My love-is it truly you? What sorcery is this?” And before Bilbo can do more than open his mouth to answer, Thorin's kissing chapped lips searching for and finding hints of that sweetness he so loves. And upon finding it, he's dropping Goblin-Cleaver to pull Bilbo to him, breaking the kiss when the hobbit inhales and makes a rather agonized moan.
“Are you hurt, my gem?” Thorin asks, sitting back to look Bilbo over again more carefully. This time, he notices the way Bilbo is cradling his right arm to his chest.
“M-my arm . . . I think it's broken,” Bilbo says, blinking up at Thorin worriedly. Then he looks down, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I'm-sorry. I just couldn't let you go off alone. I meant to stay out of it-let you fight your own battle-but I couldn't. I just couldn't.”
This apology is follwed by a sniffle and the falling of a few tears. Thorin reaches out and once again brushes his consort's cheek.
“And it's a good thing you didn't,” Thorin murmurs, smiling wonderingly. “You saved me from Azog. Again,” he adds incredulously, then bows his head deeply, with the utmost respect. “This is a debt I can never repay, Bilbo Baggins.”
That flush increases till Bilbo is beet-red. “Sure, I saved you only after I distracted you in the first place by shouting your name. Days spent invisible and hiding, and I give it all away when it's most necessary to keep it a secret.” Bilbo snorts with self-derision.
“How were you invisible?” Thorin asks, suddenly recalling this very important fact about his consort's sudden appearance. And he remembers something else, as well. “For many were the times during this journey that I felt a benign attention on me, and I'd pretended, in whimsical moments, that it was you, but never had I dreamed that it actually was you . . . how is this possible?”
Bilbo sighs and opens his mouth-then glances around them at the still staring dwarves and orcs, before turning back to Thorin and smiling wryly.
“It is a long story. For now, my king, let it suffice to say that I burgled more than I bargained for on our quest for Erebor,” he murmurs, and Thorin glances around them, too, frowning grimly. He reaches for Goblin-Cleaver and takes her up, raising her as he gets to his feet.
And, as if a signal's been sent, a goodly portion of the orcs left in the clearing disappear into the underbrush and trees.
The rest continue their fights, but are now outnumbered two to one by dwarves, and the battle soon winds down.
None of those orcs still fighting attempt to take on Thorin, nor do they even approach Bilbo, who is sitting at his feet and staring at Azog's headless body with wide, wondering eyes.
When the last orc has been disembowled, Thorin lowers Goblin-Cleaver and offers Bilbo his hand up. The hobbit takes it and is instantly pulled to his feet, and held close against Thorin's good side. Bilbo finally tears his eyes away from Azog and looks up at Thorin.
“He's gone,” he breathes, tears springing to his eyes again as Thorin nods. “At last.”
“Yes, my love. Forever.” Justice has been done and you are at last safe. Now, we can move on, at peace with ourselves. . . .
“You said you'd do it, and you did.” Bilbo laughs a little, his awestruck gaze still on Thorin, shining and adoring. “You rid the world of him, my king.”
“Only with your help. It is as I said: Together, we are unstoppable,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's dirty, scraped forehead. Bilbo leans against him tiredly.
“Never again will I doubt that, my lord.”
A few moments later, Dwalin approaches them, his curious eyes on Bilbo. “So . . . Gandalf was certainly right about hobbits passing unseen whensoever they choose! How'd you do that?” he asks, and Thorin glances at Bilbo, who shrugs his good shoulder and smiles.
“Magic,” he says, simply, and Thorin and Dwalin both raise their eyebrows.
Then Dwalin's eyes drift down to Bilbo's cradled arm. “Broken?”
“I'm afraid so,” Bilbo replies with a sigh and a wince. “It hurts enough that it should be, anyway. But forget all that, it's Thorin I'm worried about. Azog stuck him a good one in the side with that bloody pigsticker-arm of his, and I saw blood.”
And with this, Bilbo glares up at Thorin accusingly, as if he'd gotten wounded just to make Bilbo mad. Thorin sighs.
“Indeed?” Dwalin turns a similar gaze upon his king and Thorin rolls his eyes.
“It's nothing, really. Barely even twinges,” he says, having forgotten about the wound, for the most part. At the moment, he isn't even in any pain. In fact, there's a warm sort of numbness spreading rather quickly from the wound. A numbness that's made his bottom-most rib, which had been screaming, finally fall silent. “Huh.”
Thorin sheathes Goblin-Cleaver and prods at the torn tunic, chinked armor, and sluggishly droozling puncture.
No pain, whatsoever.
And that's . . . rather odd.
Mildly worried, Thorin opens his mouth to say just that, when suddenly the world lurches, driving Thorin-and incidentally Bilbo-to his knees with a soft moan. His entire left side has gone numb and yet strangely warm. And that sensationless warmth is seeping very quickly inward.
“THORIN?!” Bilbo-all three of him-shout when Thorin begins to sway. Then he's grunting as he bears up under Thorin's sagging weight.
A moment later, Dwalin's yelling something and Bilbo just keeps saying Thorin's name as he lays Thorin down. Meanwhile, Thorin's heart is skipping beats, as ever it does when Bilbo Baggins touches him. Only instead of beating faster, it's beating slower . . . and slower . . . and slower. . . .
Until finally, with a last, labored beat, it seizes in his chest, causing him to gasp. Or at least his body tries to gasp, anyway. It doesn't succeed very well, not even managing to inhale.
The last things Thorin sees are Bilbo's frightened eyes-They've always been the color of the evening sky, except for that one time when they were not, Thorin thinks, and does not understand what he means by this-before the world goes quite suddenly dark. . . .
*
. . . and he is drifting through that darkness aimlessly . . . for an eternity, before he sees a light, at the end of a seemingly long tunnel. It flickers and changes, like the fire of a hearth or . . . a forge.
He travels toward it, neither walking nor crawling nor running, yet somehow moving.
When, after another eternity, he reaches the light, it is to discover that it is the light of a forge, alright. And there is a smith working at it, shaping what appears to be a sword, the like of which he has never before seen, so cunningly curved and scored is it.
Surely, he thinks, amazed. No smith of men, or elves, or even dwarves could make such a blade. . . .
Thus he is moved to take a closer look at the smith-no, the Smith-who works this Forge.
Tall, he is. Markedly taller than a dwarf, and yet neither man nor elf. His thick brown hair waves to broad, bare, brawny shoulders, and his beard is braided and hangs to just below the top of his leathern apron. Dark, ancient eyes in a square, handsome face are focused solely on the sword being hammered into readiness, and yet . . . he has no doubt that his presence is noticed.
That, his presence has been expressly requested.
Glancing back down the tunnel whence he came, he can see only darkness . . . though for a moment . . . distant and almost drowned in the lack of light, he can almost make out a familiar figure, small and lost. He can hear it calling his name in tones of hopelessness and bereavement that break his heart. . . .
Turning away from that figure-for it is beyond him, now, bound to a place that is now denied him-he focuses once more on the Smith performing his Art.
Finally, after only half an eternity, the Smith pauses in his work to glance at him with those curious, coal-dark eyes. And he smiles kindly, this Smith, displaying square, even white teeth.
“Thorin II, called Oakenshield,” the Smith says in a surprisingly soft and mellow tenor. “Son of Thrain, son of Thror. Heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain. Wielder of the great blade Orcrist, Bringer of Justice to the Usurper of Gundabad and Khazad-Dum . . . and last, but certainly not least, beloved of Bilbo Baggins.”
He blushes to hear his names and titles said-with no small amount of amusement and wryness-in that moment caring nothing for any of them, save the final one. The one his broken heart-both halves of it-still clings to. . . .
He shakes his head to clear it of desires he cannot now fulfill and wishes he could do the same to the pieces of his heart. But since he cannot, he distracts himself with the riddle of the Smith. And in so distracting himself, realizes in the next instant not only where he is, but with whom.
All else forgotten for the moment, he does not know what to do in this august Presence. What to say to this Smith of smiths. So he does the only thing he knows to do: He bows, and addresses the Other with the only titles that matter here.
“Father,” he says, straightening and meeting that dark, divine gaze with his own. “*Mahal.”
*
*And mad ups to Badskippy of AO3, from whom I “borrowed” the idea of using Mahal in a fic. It's a good read, The Divine Series. It rocks.