Fili soared over the battlefield feeling as if he were in a nightmare.
He wished it were one he could wake up from.
Below, the ground was littered with the broken corpses of dragons and those riding them. He caught sight of Quinlan, clearly dazed and favoring a leg. He'd been on the lowest level of the tiered formation, near Xalanth, and must have been hit by a dragon falling from overhead. Other dragons had already landed around him, protecting him as he got his bearings. He wouldn't be able to fight on land but should still be effective in the air, a harsh but necessary evil and one Fili was sure the dragon was happy to take in lieu of the alternative.
The image of Quinlan's tiny son flashed through his mind and Fili breathed a silent prayer of thanks that the small creature wouldn't have to deal with the agony of a broken bond, or the pain of losing his father.
He had no doubt others were feeling such pain, even then. They'd lost the mental links again as they'd approached Mordor and the mountain within so it was always possible those back home hadn't felt the breaks, but he doubted they were that lucky. His uncle had mentioned people feeling soul bonds snap on the way from Rivendell to Erebor and he had no doubt those left behind had felt these now. Gothmog relished pain. He'd make sure they could feel it.
Plus, it was the only thing he could hold onto in light of the fact that he couldn't see his family anywhere. Couldn't see them, but hadn't felt any bonds break and surely he would have had they...had anything happened.
Surely.
Some distance from Quinlan, and farther down the slope, lay the still body of another drake, one of the younger ones he didn't immediately recognize. A young dwarven woman knelt next to it, fingers digging into the fabric of her trousers and mouth open in a scream he could practically feel if not hear.
I'm so glad it isn't me.
The words passed unbidden through his mind, followed closely by a rush of shame over their selfishness. It could yet be him. Syrath and his mother had been left behind but the rest of his family was there, and the battle was far from over.
It could be him, but he thanked Aule it wasn't.
Yet.
Sardin shifted beneath him, not the sharp twists and turns he'd made when avoiding falling dragons and people, but enough that it got his attention. He looked down and saw orcs advancing on the young woman. She was still kneeling, silent, eyes fixed on her hands.
"No," Fili growled. They'd lost enough. He leaned forward and patted Sardin on the neck, hoping to convey that he'd seen the same thing the dragon had and wanted to go.
Sardin must have gotten the message because he adjusted and suddenly was diving straight down, through the gaps in the formation everyone was too stunned to close. Only moments before those holes had been filled with friends and family.
Now...
Now they were simply gone.
Sardin landed behind the woman, roaring in rage and sending a burst of flame over her head to incinerate the first few ranks of orcs making their way up. The move gave Fili enough time to unstrap himself from the harnesses and slide off the dragon, drawing his sword as he did.
"Come on," he ordered, kneeling next to the young woman and grabbing her arm to pull her to her feet. This close, he could see she had dark blonde hair tied in braids around her head similar to how Bilba wore hers. Her eyes were a deep blue and she wore clothing that marked her as a member of the merchant's guild, which explained why he didn't recognize her. The guild was enormous, often boasting families with many children, dwarven and dwobbit alike. It also had a high number of dragon riders, due to the children of merchants being the ones to deliver food regularly to the dragon levels, by intent.
Regardless, the fact the guild was well represented didn't mean he was willing to sacrifice one of their own to the orcs. The young woman, who was probably his age if he had to guess, resisted, stubbornly staying in place, and he bit back a growl of frustration. Leaning in, he pointed past her face at the advancing orcs. "Are you really going to sit here and let the bastards that killed your drake kill you without putting up a fight? Your drake really meant that little to you?"
At that her head snapped up, eyes blazing fire at him. Fili grinned. "Much better." He grabbed the hilt of the sword strapped to her back and pulled it from its sheath to shove into her hands. "Get up."
She struggled shakily to her feet, and he grabbed her arm to help steady her. As she gained her footing she glanced at him to thank him, and then did a double take. "Your Highness?"
"Last I checked," Fili said with a grin, even as he internally grimaced. He was used to the lower classes, particularly the female members, making a fuss whenever he happened through, a scene they did not currently have time to play out. Sardin was still keeping the orcs back but there were far too many, spread far too wide for him to cover them all.
Her eyes narrowed. "So, are you actually going to be able to fight or am I going to have to protect both of us?"
Fili's jaw clenched, but he resisted the urge to snap back. She was in pain, it edged her words and practically bled from her expression. People in pain, he'd found, could often behave like wounded animals, lashing out at anyone who came near. He didn't know why. He'd done it himself in the past and couldn't have explained why if asked. Maybe it was a way to let some of the pain out. Maybe, by dropping it on someone else, it was a way to feel less alone in it.
He didn't know, but the last thing he was going to do was hold her responsible for words spoken minutes after her drake had been killed. Instead, hoping to distract her even if only a little, he stepped forward, ducking under Sardin's jaw. He came up on the other side, just in time to ram his sword through the chest of an oncoming orc. He twisted, using his body to pull the sword free, then continued the momentum into a full swing, easily beheading the next orc. He took out four more in quick succession before ducking back again to allow Sardin to send out another bout of fire.
Around them, other dragons were landing, ringing the base of the mountain and doing their best to drive the orcs back. Even with as many as they'd brought they had no chance to take on the entire horde which was why they weren't going to try. Instead they planned to block off the mountain, giving the wizards, and Galadriel, a chance to defeat Gothmog and retrieve the ring. Pulling in as close as possible would also prevent the trebuchets from being put in use, as it would be rather ineffective to fling rocks at them when the orcs would be hitting their own people at the same time.
Actually, on second thought, he almost hoped the idiots would use the things.
The young woman stepped up beside him, almost trancelike, absently swinging her sword in one hand as Sardin finished sweeping the area in front of him, flames meeting with the fire of other dragons ranged in front and to the sides.
"So," Fili said, unable to help himself. "Still think it's all just for publicity?"
She shrugged numbly. "Orcs are idiots. My little brothers killed more than that protecting our caravans on trade runs." Her voice sounded exhausted, and dull, but there was the tiniest spark of amusement in there, buried deep. She was trying.
"All right then," he said. "I guess I'll just have to make you eat your words." He frowned, eyes narrowing slightly as a thought occurred to him. "You don't think the stories about Orcrist are put out by the throne too, do you?"
The young woman rolled her eyes. "Of course not. She's bloody Orcrist."
Fili nodded, pleased. "Damn right she is."
A boom thundered overhead, vibrating through the stone beneath his feet, and he looked up in time to see Xalanth slamming into the mountain just below where a ledge jutted out from the side. Galadriel and the wizards had transferred onto him midflight and, even then, were scrambling off and onto the stone outcropping. It would have been helpful, Fili thought, if Xalanth could have used fire when he landed. It wouldn't have killed Gothmog or Morgoth but would have forced them to respond, and use power to do so. They were both strong, but not infinitely so, and certainly not with Morgoth supposedly bound by the ring.
"You planning to fight?" the girl drawled next to him in a near perfect imitation of both Dwalin and Bilba, "or you going to stand there and try to look pretty until the orcs run you through?"
Fili lowered his head and glowered at her. "Keep that up and I won't introduce you to Orcrist."
Her eyes widened. "You're joking. She'd never want to meet me."
Fili snorted. "Bilba's the kindest person you'd ever meet. She'd be thrilled to meet you, so long as you aren't an orc." Or a goblin, he added to himself, considering all the random mental reminders she gave herself, and accidentally broadcast to him and Syrath, and probably Dwalin; to remember she still needed to kill them. "Of course," he added casually, "you'll have to survive this whole thing first." As would he, and Bilba.
"You're on," the girl growled, hand tightening on the hilt of her sword until her knuckles went while.
It occurred to Fili he had no idea what the girl's name was. He opened his mouth to ask but, before he could, she charged past him and into the fray.
"Fair enough." He gave a short nod and ran in with her, where others who'd landed along with the dragons were already locked in battle. Mentally, he spared one quick thought for Galadriel and the others, as well as Bilba and his uncle.
And then his only focus was the orcs.
***
Frerin swore. "Is that Barahir?"
Bilba nodded. She hadn't particularly known the dragon all that well but she knew Syrath and Aragon, and knew both would be devastated by the loss. She saw no sign of Aragorn now and hoped that, wherever he was in the formation, that he had someone there to help him through the shock and pain of a broken bond.
In the next instant, her attention had shifted as the mountain vibrated under her feet. She stumbled as dozens upon dozens of dragons slammed into the mountain's base, unloading their riders and sending out bursts of flame to drive back the advancing orcs. Heat rose from the flames, a wave of it blowing strands of hair back off her face and raising a light sheen of sweat on her skin.
Morgoth turned back from the edge with a smug look at Gothmog who, as usual, looked unimpressed.
"What?" he said, sounding bored, "Couldn't manage them all? I thought you were a Valar."
"One that you have confined," Morgoth replied. He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you complain?" He nodded toward the ring on Gothmog's finger. "If you wish for me to destroy them, then give me the means."
"Somehow, I doubt they are the ones you'd destroy," Gothmog replied dryly.
A shadow fell over them and Bilba felt her heart jolt in her chest at the sight of Xalanth flying straight toward them. He slammed into the mountain just below the ledge, head arched over the rock and appearing to stare straight at her.
For a second Bilba thought her every dream had come true. She pictured her father bursting onto the scene, singlehandedly taking out Morgoth, Gothmog and Azog and taking her and Frerin safely back to Erebor.
Then, in almost the same moment, she realized he wasn't riding on Xalanth's back and her heart sank just as quick.
"Don't think for a minute he isn't here," Frerin said from beside her, eyes compassionate. "If he could have been on Xalanth he would have been." He nodded toward the ledge. "He's probably down there now, fighting his way up."
Bilba managed to give him a shaky smile and nodded. She briefly wondered how he'd known so clearly what she'd been thinking, only to remember he'd been a slave in Moria as well. Surely the dream of one's family or friends coming to the rescue couldn't have been unusual.
She tensed as she saw Gothmog and Morgoth turning toward the huge dragon, cold fear rushing through her at the thought they would hurt him.
Before they could do anything, the figures she'd seen on Xalanth's back were coming forward, leaping off to land on the ledge. She recognized the wizard, Gandalf, though not the man standing next to him, and then an impressive looking woman dressed in full battle armor.
Xalanth growled and she realized he had been looking at her. There was no way to know what he wanted but she smiled at him. He responded by letting out a grunt and then dropping out of sight. The act immediately released a vise that had been wrapped around her heart, as she'd still worried one of the monsters would do something to him the longer he stayed in their view.
As the three advanced, Morgoth simply smirked and walked to another side of the ledge, not so conspicuously leaving Gothmog to face the three alone. As Galadriel drew a sword, and the two flanking her raised staffs, Frerin gabbed Bilba's arm and pulled her back, toward the edge farthest away from the oncoming battle. Behind them, near the entrance into the mountain, Azog was busy watching the rest of the action and didn't appear to notice their movement.
Gothmog reached over his back and then he was drawing what looked like a long sword made of flame out from seemingly thin air.
"Where in Durin's name do you suppose he was hiding that?" Frerin asked and Bilba snorted, shaking her head as she raised her hands to sign.
I don't want to know.
"Probably for the best," Frerin agreed sagely. "There are some things we mortals are simply not meant to know."
The first clash of blade on blade sent a burst of light so intense it was imprinted on the back of Bilba's eyelids when she shut her eyes. The elven woman drove Gothmog back, a fact which caused Bilba's eyes to widen in shock even as her heart jumped in excitement at the first sign of anyone being able to set him on his heels.
The two wizards, meanwhile, split to move past the two and head toward where Morgoth was standing near the edge again, his back to them. As they neared, Morgoth almost casually looked over his shoulder.
A sheer wall of force, similar to the one he'd thrown out before but less intense, rippled out from where he stood. It slammed into the wizards and knocked them back onto the ground. They slid several feet, nearly ramming into the elven woman fighting Gothmog.
She stumbled, forced to looked down and dance out of the way of the two wizards. This left an opening for Gothmog who raised his sword in both hands and slashed it down in a blow that, while it lacked elegance or skill, held a terrifying amount of raw power.
The woman, still trying to avoid the wizards, looked up and twisted to try and avoid the blow. She stumbled, one foot hitting Gandalf, and fell over him, barely managing to get her sword up in time.
Gothmog's blow slammed into hers and she grunted, face tight with exertion as she struggled to hold the blade back. She had to be insanely strong, Bilba thought, to be able to hold that kind of power, especially at the angle she was at.
Past the woman, Bilba caught sight of Morgoth smirking over his shoulder. He turned to face out again, and raised his arms. Bilba made a strangled sound and grabbed Frerin's shirtsleeve, tugging to get his attention.
His eyes narrowed and he started to rise to his feet, only to hear a low growl from behind them. Apparently, Azog hadn't forgotten about them after all. To Bilba, the orc seemed slightly panicked, eyes darting back and forth between the combatants as if slowly realizing he might have taken on forces far out of his league.
Power started to crackle at the end of Morgoth's fingers and Frerin wrapped an arm around Bilba's shoulders, pulling her close against him. Bilba curled against his side, nearly shaking with the effort to not try and do something.
The female elf was still laying across Gandalf's chest and, as Bilba watched, the wizard managed to get his staff in his hand and raised it up. The wizard dressed in brown robes, now crouching behind them, had his as well and, simultaneously, they shoved their staffs forward. A wave of power of their own surged out, driving Gothmog back, not far but enough to let the three regain their footing.
It wasn't fast enough to stop Morgoth.
Power shot from his fingertips, straight upwards. Overhead, thick, dark clouds began to gather, swirling in a thick, ugly maelstrom. The temperature plummeted and a stiff wind kicked up, causing Bilba to shiver as it sliced through her thin clothing. A few seconds later the first drops of rain began to fall, intensifying quickly until it was coming down in sheets, a pounding deluge of heavy, fat drops splashing down across the battlefield.
Frerin swore. "So much for dragonfire."
Bilba grimaced. The dragons could still produce fire but it would be less intense, would travel a shorter distance, and, in general, would cause less damage. The water would turn the dirt into mud and raise the risk of slipping and falling and, in the heat and chaos of battle, a mud splattered friend could easily be mistaken for a foe.
The woman returned to her battle while the wizards headed back toward Morgoth who was now turning to face them.
"I think," Frerin said slowly, "this is going to very quickly be the worst place for us to be."
Movement came from behind them, and then Azog was suddenly moving past them, vanishing over the ledge and running down into the battle below.
"Huh," Frerin said. "Guess he thought so too." He stood up and almost leisurely stretched, before grinning at her. "What do you say we go remind them who Orcrist and Frerin, son of Thrain, are?"
Bilba raised an eyebrow, taking his hand when he offered it and getting to her feet. We don't have armor, she signed, or weapons.
He gave her an incredulous look. "You need armor now? And weapons?" He scoffed and widened his eyes dramatically. "So much for the legend of Orcrist, greatest arena fighter of all time." His eyes cut back toward her. "They had been saying I was second best," he mused. "Maybe--"
His voice trailed off, and Bilba glared at him. I could still kick your ass.
"Sure," Frerin said flippantly, "if you had armor."
Bilba considered punching him, but didn't. Mainly because he had a point. She'd never used armor in the Arena, and had a minimal set that she rarely wore after that. It wasn't until she'd gotten to Erebor that people had started getting picky about what she wore when she fought.
As for weapons, it was a battle after all. There were plenty of blades to be had and it'd be little different than how she'd gotten them in the Arena.
She had gotten soft, she realized, and it pissed her off.
You want to make a wager, Lord Second Best? she signed. Who can find and get to Azog the fastest?
Frerin's eyes narrowed. "Fine," he growled. "Winner gets to kill him."
Bilba shrugged. The battle between the elven woman and Gothmog was getting worse and Morgoth and the wizards seemed to be trying to use bursts of power on one another. It was definitely time to leave, before she or Frerin became an unintended victim.
Not to mention she was now thoroughly drenched thanks to the rain and was freezing. Fighting would take her mind off it, and warm her up at the same time.
Fine, what's the loser get?
Frerin gave her a brilliant grin that belied how he must have felt with his hair plastered to his face, water dripping off his chin and his body shivering from the cold. "Loser has to take responsibility when your father asks who in Durin's name decided it was a good idea to go into battle without armor or weapons."
Better start working on what you're going to say then, Bilba signed. Fighting in the Arena had been terrifying but, once she'd left, she couldn't say she'd minded fighting. It was the main reason Primula had sent her to Bofur and the other dwarves and to the rangers after that. The rush of adrenaline, the freedom of soaring through the air on Syrath's back, it had lit a fire in her veins, different from the terror of the Arena, that she'd come to love.
She hadn't felt it as much in Erebor. She didn't miss it enough to wish she'd never gone there. What she'd gained in Erebor more than made up for anything she might have lost, but that didn't mean she wasn't excited at the thought of getting to experience the thrill of it all again.
That familiar fire began to rush in her veins, and she saw the answering light flickering in Frerin's eyes.
There was nothing to be said after that. In silent, mutual agreement the two of them spun and ran toward battle.
As they both leapt off the edge, hit the slope and began to slide down, Bilba knew three things with absolute certainly.
One, her father was going to kill her, or Frerin.
Two, she was kicking Frerin's ass for questioning her abilities, even if he did have a point.
Three, the orcs were going to rue the day they'd chosen to cross her.