Heart of Embers (Thorin Oakenshield Love Story)

Chapter 44

Thorin could not stop the tears that slid down his smoke-smudged, blood crusted skin as he reached for his mother's face. It was ice cold, and ice pale. He bowed his head, his hair falling over his face to hide the tears.

Freris was dead. His mother was dead. His mother, who had done so much for him, who had cared for him and loved him when it felt that no one else did. Who he had thought of as a rock, unmovable, unchangeable. Forever by his side.

Everything around him seemed to shrink, narrowing on that face that would no longer move, would no longer smile at him with the fondness and love that only one other had ever looked at him with.

She was gone. She would never again be there for him.

And it was his fault. He should have been there, should have saved her. He swallowed down his sob.

Swallowed it, because there was still a dragon in this mountain, and they had to get out.

"Father," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. Steady. Forcing it not to break. "We have to get out."

Thrain nodded numbly. To his surprise, when Thorin looked up Thror stood with his hand on Thrain's shoulder. His son. Thrain was Thror's son. Thorin had never though of it like that before.

It was so quiet. Inside him, and in this hallway. So quiet, and empty.

Thorin forced himself to rise, offering a hand to help Thrain up. His father stood. And staggered slightly, leaning on Thorin for support. He was forced to almost completely hold his father up as they began to stagger out of the gate, the last of the fleeing dwarves starting to overtake them by the time they reached the stone bridge. Thror shoved past two dwarves and began running ahead of them. Thorin gritted his teeth, panting with the strain of holding up his father, who was clinging to him.

"Can you..." he panted. "Can you walk by yourself now?"

"Yes," Thrain said, standing up. "I'm sorry."

His father began running after Thror, and Thorin scanned the fleeing dwarves. Soldiers, miners, women, even one soldier carrying a child, but no sign of his sister or his nephew. His seventeen day old nephew, Durin save him, who could now very well be dead. If he was dead, if... Thorin prayed they were safe.

"Run for your lives!" he roared at the fleeing dwarves, though they did not need his encouragement.

And that's when he saw them.

The line of golden-armoured soldiers, sunlight glinting off their silver hair, their pointed ears. More and more and more, a great line spreading across the crest of the hill. And before them, a hand raised to bring his army to a halt, spiked crown wreathing his head like flame...

Before them, riding upon a brown moose, was Thranduil.

Thorin did not give himself time to think about why the elf king was here, why he had brought an army, as if he had been planning this arrival since he left them. Because right now, his people needed help, and he was prepared to swallow his pride and ask the elf king for aid, prepared to do it to ensure his people survived. So he raised his head and bellowed to the elven king, to the army that was their hope and salvation

"Help us!"

The elf king did not move.

Only stared at him coldly as Thorin took a step forward, chest heaving as he gasped for air.

Still the elf only watched him.

Thorin's breath burned in his chest.

Thranduil would not forsake them. Despite what Thror had done, Thranduil could not be so heartless as to abandon Thorin's people to suffering and death. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

As Thranduil cocked his head at him, looking eternally bored, and turned his moose –– and his army –– around.

Turned away from Thorin.

Turned away from his people.

Turned away from their suffering.

Thorin took another step forward as the golden-armoured warriors disappeared behind the line of the hill, the marching of their feet fading into the distance, their flaming armour, a beacon on the hilltop, receding from his vision.

He gritted his teeth, now almost utterly alone as most of the dwarves had passed him.

Rage began to build up in his veins.

Thranduil was a bastard. Had always been.

And he'd just abandoned Thorin's people.

Thorin hated him.