#azog x oc

[myers-meadow]

Azog the Defiler x OC: In which Gandalf learns that Orcs can love

Title: In which Gandalf learns that Orcs can love

Pairing: Azog the Defiler x female OC (Hadewych)

Fandom: The Hobbit movie trilogy

Summary: In this tale we follow the Companionship of Dwarves on a dual mission: reach and reclaim Erebor, and maybe rescue a friend they made in Laketown. The last quest leads to more hardship than expected, as Azog has his sights set firmly on the human, and isn't planning to let the Dwarves take her from him.

Warnings: rape/non-con, Azog is his own warning honestly, character death, non-consensual voyeurism, corruption, (mild) rape aftermath, language barrier.

Wordcount: 2147

Gorgeous dividers by @saradika-graphics

"She should be around here, somewhere," called Fili from over his shoulder, scouting ahead through the thick growth of the forest. It was a forest so thick, only little of the late afternoon sun reached through the trees. Thorin, Kili, Bilbo and Gandalf followed him. They were tired, especially now that their end goal seemed so close, yet so far away. After leaving Laketown, the kind friend of Bard, who sheltered them, followed them with provisions and weapons. That was a week ago. Immediately after she found the companionship of dwarves, they were ambushed by Azog's hunting party, and she was taken.

After five days of captivity, it was Bilbo, with Dwalin and Thorin, who rescued her from the orc camp as they all slept. She wasn't as grateful as they expected however, frightened beyond words. Her fear remained with her, even though she was safely away from the man-eating orcs.

"You don't get it," she said, keeping her voice hushed even while hours away from the site they rescued her from, "he will find me and it will be worse. You've put yourself in danger, too."

The dwarves waved her concerns away, but it gave Bilbo pause. Something felt off. Why would the orcs come for her? They were hunting the dwarves already. Despite his feeling of unease, their journey continued.

Balin convinced her, with his gentle reasoning, to come with them, and not head back: "We are less than four days march away from Erebor. Once we are there, you'll be safe inside. No orc could enter the mountain and live. Laketown is at least a week from here, on horseback. Don't be stupid and get yourself killed trying to go back."

Hope shone in her eyes at his words, a fearful hope. It was decided; she would come with them. Evening fell, and they set up camp. Hadewych remained withdrawn. As they wound down after their meal, which finally got some life back in her face, Gandalf took up his pouch of pipeweed, lighting his pipe. They sat, gathered in a circle around the fire, flames making their shadows dance.

"Hadewych, what happened to you out there?" asked Fili. None had dared ask before, as her panicked state had been enough of an answer. Kili, who sat next to her, moved her braid aside and gestured at the large bitemark on the side of her neck.

"It looked like they tried to eat you," Kili said, sounding somewhat impressed, his tone light. Hadewych slapped his hand away.

"It's beyond you," was all she said.

Gandalf took the pipe out of his mouth, and agreed with her. "Let the poor woman have her rest. We're not there yet. I have a feeling the worst is yet to come."

Later, when just Bilbo and Gandalf remained, unable to sleep, keep watch, did Bilbo dare to ask the wizard more.

"The orcs, they..." he started, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Why did they let Hadewych live? They would've slaughtered any of us as soon as they had the chance."

Gandalf, old eyes peering from beneath his wizard's hat, replied: "Hmm, it is certainly curious. I suspect we’ll find out soon enough, although I fear it won't be pleasant."

After a short silence, as the moon's rays illuminated the rocky landscape, he continued. "There isn't much we know about orc culture. So far, Azog has proven to be at the top of his tribe, with not just bloodlust, but also a great strategic mind. He's smart, Bilbo, that's what makes him more dangerous than most."

"You're saying he took her for a strategic purpose? But what on earth could that be?"

Gandalf shrugged, movements slow. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day."

In the morning as they set out on their journey, Hadewych found Gandalf and fell into step next to him.

"Gandalf," Hadewych started, uncertainty in her voice, unsure of how to ask what she had on her mind.

"Yes, my dear, what is it?"

"Do you know Black Speech?"

"What a curious question. I do understand it, yes. It is a vile language, created by Sauron and I prefer not speaking it."

"I understand if it's too much to ask, but could you maybe teach me? Every little bit would be a great help."

Gandalf halted and turned to her. His eyes bore into her soul and she sensed that he knew and understood a great deal more than any of the companions, more than even the wizard let on. "There may be a way to teach you that will help you more than simply translating words. You've tried it already, haven't you? To let the pale orc teach you."

Unsure, but aware that lies were useless, she nodded. "All I've managed to parse out are a few different words, and that's hardly enough to understand what they say. The dwarves may think I'm safe now, but they don't understand." She adjusted her cloak and hugged it around her. "It's only a matter of time before I'm surrounded by orcs again, and I need to know what they say - to know what is coming."

The wizard hummed. "I see." He paused and regarded her for a long moment. The companions walked on ahead, but it was no matter. They could catch up with ease, if needed. Then he nodded and grabbed his staff. "Then we shall see what we can do."

Another day passed, and Gandalf allowed Hadewych to learn and practice Black Speech. She had little trouble with it, aside from the grammar. During the second morning, she felt a bit more at ease and her normal self returned, and she joked with the dwarves the same as she did while they were in Laketown. Bilbo still eyed her warily - to him, the mystery of her behaviour was not yet solved.

Once they got going, the terrain opened up in front of them, and it gained in height. It would truly only be three more days until they reached their beloved mountain. The hunting party ambushed them from the side, driving them back with a cliff at their side. It was the worst possible road to be ambushed on, and even though Thorin sent Fili and Kili ahead as scouts, they hadn't seen nor heard a thing. Thorin barely escaped with his life. Hadewych wasn't so lucky, as she was slung over their leader's shoulder, defenceless without the weapons or skill the dwarves had. The dwarves hid in the mountains, and the hunting party took off just as swiftly as they came, disappearing into a thick forest, taking Hadewych with them.

Evening fell. The dwarves licked their wounds and regrouped properly that night, and discussed what they could do. Many seemed in favour of continuing their original quest, and not taking the risk of going after the hunting party.

"Is Hadewych not also one of our own?" argued Bilbo. "She went through the trouble to bring us the weapons and provisions, without her we would've been defenceless."

"That's just how it goes, laddie," said Dwalin. "She knew the risks when coming with us."

Bilbo, outraged, looked to the others.

Balin answered. "Aye... But we've been the ones who convinced her not to go back to Laketown. That Erebor would be safer."

"No way she could've reached Laketown on her own anyway," said Gloin, his voice rumbling.

"Perhaps, but a group is easier to track than a woman alone."

"We failed to protect her," agreed Kili. "We can look for her, just a few of us. The rest heads on to the mountain. With just a few, we won’t be easily noticed."

And so it was that now the few of them who went to track the hunting party down; Gandalf and Bilbo came with, out of concern, Thorin and his cousins Fili and Kili; laid low in a bed of ferns, hidden behind bushes and trees, looking on as the orcs set up camp for the night. The pale orc towered over them all. He fed his warg and pet her fur, Hadewych close at his side, one hand in the warg's fur just like him. Kili wanted to creep closer, but was stopped by Thorin.

"So this is why she wanted to learn Black Speech," said Gandalf, which the dwarves paid little mind to. Bilbo looked at his wizard friend with curious eyes. They exchanged looks, and with his voice soft, Gandalf pointed at the scene. "They seem to be talking."

"He's laughing," said Bilbo, surprised. "Gandalf, don't tell me they've become friends."

They watched as Azog lead Hadewych to the campfire, a firm hand on her upper arm. Once seated, keeping her close to him, although it was difficult for them to see, he reached for the grilled meat, steaming in the cold evening air, and took a large bite out of it. The orcs dug in similarly, feeding on what was probably small game they've hunted, or dried food they took with them. Then the pale orc did something Bilbo nor the wizard saw coming. With the dead animal speared on his hooked hand, he plucked off bits of tender meat, and fed them to Hadewych. After letting her eat it right from his hand, he licked off his fingers.

"I'd say she's still deadly afraid of him, not to speak of the other orcs around. Wouldn't you agree?"

"But an orc wouldn't hear reason! Do you really think she talked him into letting her live?"

"That seems... unlikely," said Gandalf, his voice falling grim.

Thorin decided to wait until night fell and everyone was asleep to attack, so they did. The orcs laid down to sleep not long after, leaving just two who kept watch awake, as well as the pale orc and Hadewych. When they got up to rest, they did so on the other side of the mighty white warg, and Hadewych pet her fur as Azog gathered the blanket and mat from a nearby pack. When he spoke to her, his voice was low, unexpected of an orc to speak so gently. The dwarves spread out, trying to scout out the area more now that they had less eyes on them and less ears to listen. Bilbo stayed with Gandalf, leaned against a tree, waiting for the others to regroup. Their friend and her captor had now finally laid down and all was quiet.

"It's taking so long," complained Kili. "When will they go to sleep already."

"Patience," bid Thorin, reigning his cousin in.

They regrouped at their spot, Thorin directed everyone to their positions. When Bilbo glanced over at the sleeping forms of his friend and her captor, he found a rather odd sight. It wasn't immediately clear what he was looking at, as Azog hovered above the ground, facing down, and moved his body rhythmically. Not like someone who is sleeping. Not like someone turning around in their sleep. Bilbo grabbed Thorin by the arm, wordless, and pointed. Then, staring hard through the ferns, he they saw Azog sit straighter up and pulled a leg - a human leg - to his side, changing the angle of his hips. Then his movements made sense. Hadewych laid underneath him, and he moved his hips, grinning sadistically down at her, low rumbles spilling from his throat as he fucked her.

The dwarves, Bilbo and Gandalf looked on, forgetting their cover, and stared at the scene in front of them with mouths open in shock. Kili pulled Thorin aside.

"I'm not risking my life for that," he said harshly, voice a little louder than it should've been in the quiet of the night.

Gandalf opened his mouth to say something, but refrained from interfering.

"What is happening, Gandalf, why is this happening?" asked Bilbo, who didn't want to look on, but couldn't tear his eyes away for longer than a second. The pale orc leaned down again, over his captive, and said something to her. The rasp of the Black Speech sounded almost doting. As the dwarves tried to figure out what to do - leave or attack - Gandalf observed the scene and thought of how to answer the hobbit. As he did, the orc snarled, and grabbed his captive close, ripped the fabric away from her shoulder, and bit down.

"It is what it looks like, my friend; Azog has claimed a mate."

Unfortunately for the unobservant dwarves, the pale orc had a short recovery time, and was on his feet within the minute. Quiet as a panther he moved through the thicket. He called out to Thorin, voice loud enough to wake the rest of the hunting party, and the dwarves were outnumbered quick. Hadewych looked on from the sidelines, leaning her back against the white warg, face in her hands, trying to ignore the screams of pain and sorrow as the line of Durin ended before her eyes.

[greenandsorrow]

MASTERPOST || HELLO MY OLD HEART (ongoing)

Pairing; mainly Thorin Oakenshield x fem!faerie!reader

Warnings; fighting scenes, descriptions of injuries, death & loss, sexual undertones at times, middle earth magic, angst & hurt, mean!reader, selfish!reader, immortal!reader, reader with fem anatomy, a not sugarcoated Thorin, I have read the Silmarillion and you should too

Summary; Thorin & company set out to reclaim the kingdom of Erebor from the claws of the cunning Smaug. On their way out of Hobbiton they come across something peculiar. Faeries in Middle Earth have gone extinct, but you have managed to survive against all odds. Your unique beauty and mischievous but still kind character captures the king's heart. His suspicions towards your magic will soon be replaced with a deep love for the real you. Are you ready to go on an adventure?

Author's note; I love the Hobbit. I have some issues with the movie adaptation but that hasn't stopped me from rewatching it relentlessly. The book is like a blanket of comfort to me and I've been smitten with the fictional character of Thorin for too long 🥹

You can ask to be added to this fic's taglist!

THE HOBBIT

An unexpected journey

soon

The desolation of Smaug

Battle of the five armies

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My masterlist

Resources-> @saradika-graphics, @xxbimbobunnyxx, @yeritos, my shifting script from 2022

Tag list-> @concernedcrisis @mrsdurin @meluiloth @fizzyxcustard @shinyshayminflower @how-dare-you @marsmallow433

DO NOT COPY, DO NOT REPOST, DO NOT USE ON ANY AI PLATFORMS EITHER.

[valyrra]

I’ve been insane about Azog The Defiler ever since like the first Hobbit movie came out. Our latest crack AU based on LotR/Hobbit films with @esolean inspired me to do some trad art.

[lathalea]

The White Raven 7/9

The next chapter of Thorin and Carra's story is here!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death/dragon sickness Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being a great, great, great beta reader and extra special thanks to Legolasbadass (again!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚

Khuzdul: Karkûnê - My Raveness 🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

The tint of Carra’s face closely matched the crispy white colour of the pillowcase beneath it, her silver-white hair scattered across it in disarray. Her eyes were closed, and Thorin held his breath for a heartbeat—before he noticed the slight movements of her chest. 

She was breathing. Still.

Sitting on a makeshift wheeled chair, which Nari, the disgruntled healer, procured from somewhere, Thorin leaned closer towards Carra, biting his lip in an attempt to ignore the pain his protesting body evoked. Another spell of dizziness washed over him again, and his body pleaded for mercy, but he pushed those sensations away. Perhaps Balin and Nari were right, and he should have stayed in bed, but at that moment, Thorin’s own discomfort felt insignificant.

His fingertips brushed against the softness of Carra’s hollow cheek. Her skin was cool under his touch, but warmth still lingered within.

“Carra… Karkûnê…“ he murmured. There was no response. Her eyelids did not flutter to show the iridescent depth of her gaze; her lips did not open to utter his name. She was here, beside him, yet completely out of his reach.

“How long has she been this way?” he asked.

“Since she was brought in here on the day of the battle, Your Majesty,” the healer responded and cast a worried glance at Balin. “Most of her injuries are minor, but she has yet to regain consciousness. We do not know why it takes so long but then again, she is not a Dwarf.”

Thorin thanked him with a nod, and his eyes returned to Carra. Her face and arms were marked with multiple bruises and scarrings—mementos of her confrontation with Azog. He closed his eyes, attempting to get rid of the tightness in his throat. At least a fortnight had passed since the battle ended, and her body seemed to refuse to heal at its regular pace. Throughout the years, he learned how quickly she regenerated; one or two nights should have been enough to cure most of it, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, this did not happen. But…

She was still breathing.

He took her slender hand in his. So soft. So fragile.

“I want my bed moved here,” he turned to the older dwarf, not letting go of her hand.

“Thorin?” Balin raised his eyebrows.

Nari’s stifled cough of surprise reached him at the same time. Thorin chose to ignore it.

“She needs me, Balin,” he looked at Carra’s hand. So delicate in his palm, like a folded wing of a sleeping fledgeling.

The older Dwarf pulled at his beard and cast a meaningful glance at Nari. It was enough to make the healer bow and leave the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Balin speak again. 

“I assume that you are aware of what message this is going to send, laddie.”

“What message…? I told you, Balin, she is my wife.” Thorin’s eyes wandered to Carra’s peaceful, unmoving face. With his left arm bound up, he had to gently free his right hand and reach into her hair. He let his fingers run through the silver-white strands until he uncovered the marriage braid he had pleated himself. “She watched over us on our way to reclaim Erebor. Now I shall watch over her.”

His mentor sat down on a nearby bench with a grunt, his gaze resting on Thorin’s hand, once again clasped with Carra’s. Thorin could almost feel its weight.

Balin sighed heavily, “There will be trouble with the lords when they hear of it.”

“I have never supported any of their plans of political alliances via marriage as you very well know,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Indeed. I still applaud you for how you handled the situation with Lord Yngví and managed to convince Fili to marry Lady Tarja. You killed two birds with one stone!” A shadow of a smile appeared on Balin's lips. “The Firebeards are our strongest allies, and if Mahal blesses the couple with a babe, it will rule over the whole Blue Mountains.”

“It was not a great feat. They were already in love with each other,” Thorin tilted his head.

“But you saw the opportunity and took it,” Balin’s smile grew slightly. “And now it seems I will be the one on the lookout for an opportunity to explain the current situation to the lords. And Dain…”

“She is my One, Balin.” The rasp of his own whisper sounded hollow in the silence of the stone chamber. He had said these words only once before and only to Carra. They were meant to be said not more than once in a lifetime, and it felt wrong to repeat them in this stuffy, dimly lit chamber and not under a star-studded sky with his Raveness in his arms.

His old friend remained silent for a long while. Silent and unmoving, like a stone statue. Thorin avoided looking into his face by turning his attention to Carra’s hand, which he still held. He felt the warmth of his own body seeping through her skin, but it remained cool despite his best efforts.

But she was still breathing. There was still hope, he reminded himself.

“How can it be? She is not a Child of Mahal.” Balin frowned. “She could not have been made from the same piece of stone as you.” “I do not know, Balin,” he shrugged and presented their joined hands to him. “But I do know this: she saved me. Twice. Once—at Rivendell. And the second time… Do you remember my feather, Balin? That is how I overcame the curse. In the darkest hour I took it in my hand. And so I recalled my One—and my true self.”

Thorin glanced at Carra’s face, but it remained unmoving; her eyes closed. 

“My blood sings in my veins whenever she is around. Even now.  It feels almost like when you sing to the stone and it sings back, showing you the hidden veins of ore in its depths.” His voice was but a whisper. “I shall not attempt to understand Mahal’s mysterious ways, but I am certain beyond doubt that she is my Other Half.”

His mentor pulled at his beard once again. “Let us only hope that this explanation will be enough for our people to accept her as their queen. Our kingdom is about to be rebuilt. We need unity, not dissent.”

“You told me once that I have done honourably by our people. That I had a choice… This is my choice. She is. If Carra cannot be accepted, so be it. We have never planned for our secret to see the light of the day and it can remain hidden,” Thorin admitted with conviction. After taking a brief look at her pale face, he addressed Balin once again. “And before you mention the issue of succession, we both know that I have already named Fili as my heir. The lords have no leverage here. I will do all in my power to unite the Seven Kingdoms again, but I will not be parted from Carra. That is my final word on the matter.”

Speaking of a future with Carra, regardless of the shape it would take, felt like a fresh waft of hope. She would wake up—and soon. And then they would keep meeting in hidden forest clearings, secluded valleys, and forgotten caverns, just like they had done for years.

Thorin never noticed when Balin stood up with a grunt. He barely felt his hand patting him on the shoulder.

“Very well, laddie. I will see what I can do about this matter. And now—allow me to leave you be. You have your wife to take care of.”

Thorin’s eyes met Balin’s in an instant. It was impossible to miss neither the softness of his gaze under those white bushy eyebrows nor the warmth in his smile.

“Balin, I…” he began, his voice faltering. Instead, he covered his mentor’s hand with his.

“I know, laddie, I know.” The old dwarf nodded. No other words were needed between them.

At that very moment, something brushed along the inside of Thorin’s palm, as if a butterfly opened its wings.

“Carra!” He brought her hand to his face, hoping to see the repeated motion of her little finger. Gently pressing his lips against the back of her hand, he breathed in the faint scent of snowdrops.

Her face was as expressionless and pale as before, but when Thorin was about to look away, Carra’s eyes darted about once or twice under her eyelids.

It took him one heartbeat to lean closer toward her; before he knew it, he gave her forehead a soft, lingering kiss. The pain and exhaustion he felt did not matter any longer. Everything besides Carra was of no consequence. His One was still there, and this knowledge imbued him with a new strength.

“Fight, Karkûnê. Do not give up,” Thorin whispered into her ear. “I am here, beside you. Do you hear me, amrâlimê?”

He pressed his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture they exchanged whenever they met. Her skin pleasantly cooled his burning hot forehead while Thorin whispered, “Come back to me, Wings of my heart.”

***

The butterfly circles above the rock basin. Its orange wings flutter gracefully a hairbreadth above the still surface of the water, yet its wings never touch it. Carra cannot seem to tear off her eyes from the afterimages of the spectacle she has witnessed a mere moment ago. More blurred shapes appear in the water, but they are distorted and barely recognizable, fading away quickly.

“Do you see now, Silver One?” The Weaver’s voice fills Carra’s ears. “There are countless possibilities for the thread to run through the loom.”

“But the taint is spreading in the pattern,” the white-haired man, the Water Bearer, says; his words sound hollow. “Everything withers in its wake.”

“There is still hope. Not everything is lost.” The Great Mother walks towards a nearby apple tree. Both its leaves and her gown shimmer in the sunlight. Something tells Carra to follow her creator, and so she does, her legs unsteady.

“Not everything? What about… ” The White Raven’s voice trembles. “Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

The Great Mother does not reply. Instead, she plucks a large, ripe apple from the tree and smells it with an approving hum.

“Curious creature.” The Water Bearer approaches them from ahead; Carra could have sworn he was behind them merely a moment ago. “Is it the silver dust in your wings speaking or your heart?”

Carra lowers her head—in shame or embarrassment? She does not know which one burns stronger.

She wants to seek redemption—to show that there is still a part of her that is worthy. In fact, she wishes to explain that her question was born solely out of her sense of duty, that her feelings are insignificant, but then her own faint whisper reaches her.

“I speak from my heart,” she says. Always my heart, she thinks.

The Water Bearer and the Green Lady exchange a boundless glance. An eternity seems to pass, as long as one blink of Carra’s eyes.

The Great Mother turns back to her and speaks; a shadow of a smile blooms on her lips, “Then you should already know the answer to this question, my child.”

“I do not understand, Great Mother.”

“Was it not you who alarmed us of the threat to his life?”

Carra recalls the very moment when the Pale Orc attacked Thorin and finds that she does not have the strength to speak. She simply nods as the sense of foreboding tightens its fingers around her throat.

“Your croak echoed so strongly across the tapestry that I almost lost several useful threads!” The Weaver’s voice seems to come from afar, but when Carra turns towards its source, she sees the Weaver standing only a few steps behind her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Carra says faintly. “It was not my intention to cause trouble.”

“Child, you did no such thing. You fulfilled your duty.” The Great Mother shakes her head gracefully, the apple still in her hand. “He is still among the living.”

Something hums in Carra’s ear, and the dread that has been gnawing at her mind finally leaves her; her legs fold beneath her, and she finds herself on the grass, supported by trembling arms. Her heart beats fast, as if after a long run.

Thorin lives. Thorin lives. Thorin lives.

“Thank you, Great Mother.” The world blurs before her, and she needs to wipe away the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You should be thanking yourself, dear child—it has come to pass through your sacrifice.” The Great Mother extends her hand, and Carra takes it tentatively, lifting herself from the ground on unsteady legs.

The Water Bearer steps towards them. His hands are empty. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.

“And so the line of Durin remains unbroken,” he says. “So does the pattern.” The Weaver’s elegant fingers move along a thick piece of thread. Its colour makes Carra think of the waters of the Long Lake at dawn. “I was almost certain that this thread would be lost to the tapestry forever.”

The three of them exchange a lengthy glance in silence, and Carra wishes she could understand its meaning.

“Forgive me, Great Mother.” Her throat constricts at her own boldness.” But who will watch over Thorin Oakenshield and his kin now that I am gone?”

“The mettle on this one!” The Water Bearer chuckles, but Carra can barely hear him. A strong gust of wind picks up suddenly, making the leaves rustle in the trees around them. As she looks up, the wind brings another sound with it. A low whisper that reverberates in her ears with longing.

“Carra… Please…”

“Thorin?” Her eyes search the beech grove ahead in hopes of seeing her son of Durin, but there are only tree trunks and shrubbery, and the rustling of leaves. Has she imagined hearing his voice?

“Is that…?” There is a hint of amusement in the Water Bearer’s voice. His white hair dances in the wind.

“That silver in her wings…” the Weaver adds, but before she can finish her sentence, another figure appears in the garden, as if out of nowhere. With a few measured strides, he approaches the Great Mother, who offers him the apple she picked before. He takes it, reverently kissing her on her hand. Even though the newcomer is taller than his companions, there seems to be something dwarven about him. Perhaps it is his robust figure or muscular arms, his long hair, brown as elm bark, or perhaps his thick, braided beard; Carra is not certain.

“Husband mine, it is good to see you here,” the Great Mother says.

“I would not have missed it for the world, my dearest.” The man’s voice is as deep as the deepest mines of Erebor.

The wind picks up again, and the rustling intensifies, but the Great Mother’s spouse remains unmoving; even his hair and garments remain still, as if carved out of stone.

“Karkûnê… Come back to me…”

Carra’s searching eyes frantically move from one tree to the next, from one patch of shrubbery to another, but he is not there.

“Thorin!” Helplessly she exclaims towards the sky. “Where are you?”

“You will not find him here, Winged One,” the Great Mother’s husband addresses her. “He is under his Mountain.”

“But I hear him as if he was here!” Carra does not dare to lift her eyes and look into his radiant face.

“The bond between you is as strong as mithril,” he explains.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she hears the Weaver’s voice.

“So it is mithril, not silver… What are you up to, Smith?” With her brow furrowed, the ethereal lady glances at her loom. “You are not hammering out a new pattern, are you?”

He gives out a short chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, Spinner. This pattern does not need any adjustments on my part.”

“Because you have already made them,” the Water Bearer interjects, once again standing by the rock basin, the silvery jug resting at its edge. When his all-knowing gaze meets hers, Carra wants to disappear.

“A pinch of mithril has never done any harm to anyone.” The Smith takes a step towards Carra. “Has it, Winged One?”

“My lord, I do not comprehend…” she speaks shakily. “I only wish to know if Thorin is going to be safe now.”

There is something benevolent in his expectant gaze. Is he smiling? He has heard her, surely, but he does not address her. Carra does not understand what is expected of her now. A glance passes between the Great Mother and the Weaver, but Carra remains oblivious to it, her attention caught by a new occurrence. The orange butterfly appears in front of her, its wings fluttering, and then it flies off to rest on the folds of the Great Mother’s robes, as if on a flowery meadow. Standing by her husband, she gives a shallow nod.

“So be it, Smith,” the Water Bearer says. 

Carra blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she stands by the rock basin once more. This time, the water is black and impenetrable, like the sky on a winter night. An image starts forming, but it feels like a mere shadow of the visions she has experienced before.

*** Thorin sits on a gilded stone bench on a high terrace carved out of the slope of the Mountain. A beautifully ornamented walking cane rests against the wall behind him. A thick fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, adorned with golden embroidery. His breath turns into mist in the cold air, and several stray snowflakes find their way to his hair, adorned with braids and golden cuffs. His sunken cheeks and pale skin are in stark contrast with the opulence that surrounds him. A guard passes by and salutes him, only to disappear in the bowels of the Mountain.

Time passes as Thorin gazes into the horizon. Although his left arm remains motionless—his left hand clothed in a glove—his right hand reaches under his tunic. Soon, his ringed fingers emerge, holding a silver-white feather. Thorin presses his lips against its tip and closes his eyes for a moment. He whispers something, but his words escape on the wind.

When an elderly Dwarf clad in burgundy robes approaches him, the feather is still in his hand.

“The delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived, Thorin,” the Dwarf says. “It is time.”“Time, Balin? It feels like mine has already passed,” Thorin replies.

“And yet they say it is time that heals all wounds,” Balin gestures towards the feather.

Thorin rises from the bench with a pained hiss, helping himself with the walking cane. There is a heavy limp in his walk, and as they enter the Mountain, his solemn voice echoes in the corridor.

“But will it heal mine?” ***

“Your Dwarf rules over his kingdom. There is peace and safety for him and his people,” The Green Lady speaks. “Why the tears, my child?” 

Carra brings her fingers to her cheek. It is wet.

“I failed him, Great Mother. He needs me. I should be by his side, not here!” With her vision blurred, she can barely see the four luminous silhouettes standing around her, the expressions on their faces unreadable.

“You are on the path to the Timeless Halls of your winged kin where the reward for your deeds awaits you. You have earned it, Carra.” The Great Mother’s voice is like a sturdy nest shielded from the elements, like a warm blanket on a stormy night.

“I cannot draw joy from such honours. Not when my mate—the one I love—suffers. I’d rather…” She stops, terrified by her own insolence. Nevertheless, Carra has had to speak out. The vision of the terrifying king on the throne of Erebor, cloaked in darkness and blood, has been haunting her since the moment she saw it in the water. But this image was not as horrifying as her sudden realisation. Thorin’s gaze in her most recent vision, bitter and devoid of hope, was disturbingly similar to the darkness in the dragon king’s eyes.

The Smith gives out a lengthy hum. It sounds like a rumble of a distant avalanche.

“What is it that you are saying, child?” The Great Mother stands before Carra now. 

“I do not have the right to ask, Great Mother, but there is no greater reward for me than seeing Thorin contented and at peace,” Carra explains, and there is no doubt nor fear in her voice now because she speaks for Thorin, not for herself, for the one she has been watching over since she can remember. “His past has been filled with hardships. And now he needs joy, not grief, to heal. I will do anything you ask of me, I will serve you for as long as you wish… Please, Great Mother, do not let the darkness consume him. Does he not deserve a long and happy life now?”

“You would relinquish your place in the Timeless Halls for the sake of this Dwarf?” The Weaver inquires. There are several threads in her hand, but Carra does not see their colours.

“For Thorin’s happiness, I would, my lady. As my last gift to him.” Carra swallows. She has just sentenced herself to oblivion, and yet it does not terrify her in the slightest. Only Thorin’s future matters to her, just like it always has.

“Shall we grant her this reward, husband?” The Great Mother turns to the Smith, who looks at a little pebble in his palm, and then tosses it up, catching it in a blink of an eye later.

“Your devotion reminds me of my own children, Winged One,” he declares. “Know that the path you chose is a path of no return. If you take it, the Timeless Halls will not welcome you. You will become like this stone. Stones do not have wings nor do they dream. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she speaks quietly. “This is the path I want to take.”

“Very well,” the Great Mother grants her a smile as warm as a spring day. In her open palm, a flower blooms. Its countless petals are orange, and it smells like fire.

“You have fulfilled your duty as the White Raven, dear child. We shall bestow upon you the reward you have chosen,” she offers Carra the flower in her outstretched hand. “Accept it, if that is truly your choice.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” She touches the flower with her trembling fingers. It feels hard, like a piece of stone. “Thank you, Great Smith…”

As Carra closes her hand over the silky petals, a curtain of darkness falls over her, and it is as if the air disappeared from her lungs. She cannot move; she cannot speak. This must be the end, she thinks, and in the cold stillness of oblivion, a familiar sound reaches her ears.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

The loom resumed its work.

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[delicatenightfury]

Star of the Mountain Chapter 24

Warnings: fluff, angst, canon-level violence, spoilers for the Hobbit films

Pairing: OC x Thorin Oakenshield

Beta'd By: @mistys-blerbz

Author's Note: please do not steal my work! I do not own the Hobbit or the characters, but I do own my OCs and the parts of the plot that are not part of the movies. I have worked very hard on this fic. Please be respectful and do not steal.

Please comment, reblog, and like!

Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Pleasantries with Gandalf were short-lived. The wizard seemed very anxious and dove right into what he wished to say.

“You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves,” he said. “War is coming. The sepsis of Dolguldor have been emptied.” Thranduil cast a lazy look over at Bard, indicating that he was not truly taking the Grey Wizard seriously. “You’re all in mortal danger!”

“What are you talking about?” Bard asked.

“I can see you know nothing of wizards,” Thranduil replied before Gandalf could. The elven king stood to pour a glass of wine. “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from the distance, breaking hard in alarm.” He handed Bard a glass. “But sometimes a storm is just a storm.”

“Not this time,” Gandalf said. “Armies of orcs are on the move. These are fighters that have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Gandalf,” Oreliell said, stepping forward slightly. “Are you sure of this?”

The wizard nodded gravely.

“I have seen them with my own eyes.”

“Why show his hand now?” Thranduil questioned.

“Because we forced him! We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor.” He led the elves and human out of the tent to look at the mountain. “Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again… Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire… even Gondor itself will fall.”

“These orcs armies you speak of, Mirthrandir, where are they?” Thranduil asked.

Gandalf sighed heavily, unable to give an answer. Thranduil rolled his eyes and returned to his tent. Oreliell and Vedis looked at Gandalf.

“Are you all right, Gandalf?” Oreliell asked quietly. He looked rather beaten up. “Perhaps you can have Vedis take a look at your wounds-”

“I am fine,” he said. “Truly. Besides, we have much larger things to worry about than a few cuts and bruises, don’t you think?” He paused and looked between them. “How is the company?”

Oreliell sighed.

“They are all alive. But the dragon sickness has taken root in Thorin’s mind.”

Gandalf nodded gravely.

“Then we must think of a way to get through to him.”

“Gandalf, I’ve tried. He is my One and even I struggled to speak with him.”

“I understand. Nevertheless, we mustn’t give up.”

Oreliell smiled a little.

“You’re crazier than I thought to believe I would give up.”

Gandalf smiled back at her before returning to the tent. Vedis placed a comforting hand on Oreliell’s arm.

“All will be well, muinthel.”

Oreliell nodded and followed her sister to the tent. Gandalf was back to trying to convince Thranduil.

“Since when has my council counted for so little?” he asked. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

“I think you’re trying to save your dwarvish friends. And I admire your loyalty to them. But it does not dissuade me from my course.” Thranduil rose from his chair. “You started this, Mirthrandir. You will forgive me if I finish it.” Oreliell exchanged glances with her sister as Thranduil approached one of his guards. “Are the archers in position?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give the order. If anything moves on that mountain, kill it. The dwarves are out of time.”

Gandalf stormed out of the tent, clearly angered. Oreliell looked at the elven king, who still stared out at the mountain.

“You said that you would attack at dawn,” Oreliell said. “Would you be so heartless as to shoot while they are not expecting it?”

“They have been given their warning,” Thranduil said.

“And what about the warning Gandalf has given you? We have traveled many months with him. If what he says about the orcs is true, then I think we must at least consider his words.”

“Oreliell.” She glanced over her shoulder at her sister, only to realize that Vedis was no longer standing there. “You’ll never believe who just showed up.”

A moment later, Vedis entered the tent with Bard, Gandalf, and Bilbo in tow.

“Bilbo,” Oreliell said with a smile.

“I’m glad to see you’re all right, Oreliell,” Bilbo said.

“Who is this?” Thranduil said.

“Bilbo Baggins, the official burglar of the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“If I’m not mistaken, this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.”

Thranduil sat down in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly at Bilbo. The hobbit shuffled in place.

“Yes,” he said under his breath. “Sorry about that.” Oreliell glanced at Vedis, who was also smiling. They watched as the hobbit stepped forward, pulling something out of his pocket. “I came to give you this.”

He placed the item on the table and pulled away the cloth. Everyone stared in shock and awe.

“Oh my gosh,” Vedis murmured.

“The Heart of the Mountain,” Thranduil breathed, standing slowly. “The King’s Jewel.”

“And worth a king’s ransom,” Bard said. He looked down at Bilbo. “How is this yours to give?”

“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure.”

Oreliell almost laughed in disbelief. She was stunned by his courage. But she couldn’t help but worry about what Thorin might do if he found out.

“Why would you do this?” Bard asked. “You owe us no loyalty.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Bilbo told them. “I know that dwarves can be obstinate and pigheaded and difficult. They’re suspicious and secretive, with the worst manners you could possibly imagine. But they are also brave and kind and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can. Now, Thorin values this stone above all else.” Oreliell noticed that he glanced her way. “In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you are owed. There will be no need for war.”

Oreliell glanced at the two leaders. Bard turned to Thranduil, still in shock at the hobbit’s actions. Thranduil looked at him for a moment before looking back at Bilbo.

“We will take this into careful consideration,” Thranduil said. “Someone will show you a place to rest for the night.”

Bilbo nodded. Gandalf ushered him toward the entrance, but the halfling suddenly stopped.

“I nearly forgot!” he said. He turned around and pulled a sheath far too large for his body. He handed them to Oreliell. “You left your swords back at the mountain. I figured you’d want them back.”

Oreliell looked down at the swords then at Bilbo. She was surprised that he had noticed and that he had brought them with him to give to her. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Bilbo. You did not have to do that, but I greatly appreciate it.”

Bilbo smiled at her then stepped out of the tent with Gandalf. Oreliell looked back at her blades. She had not really realized that she had left them in the mountain; her haste to leave made it slip her mind. But Bilbo had brought back both her swords and her pair of daggers.

“He is a brave hobbit,” Vedis commented.

“Yes. Much different from when we first met him. I just hope he stays safe tomorrow if war breaks out.”

Vedis put her hand on Oreliell’s shoulder. The two exchanged small smiles.

“The halfling is quite impressive,” Thranduil said, regaining their attention. 

“Indeed he is. You also need better guards,” Oreliell replied, barely casting him a glance.

She heard Bard half choke on a laugh, but he tried to cover it with a cough. Oreliell smiled to herself. She didn’t need to look at Thranduil to know his eyes had narrowed. 

“I noticed that both of you are without armor. If you are interested, I can provide both of you with sets for tomorrow.”

Oreliell wanted to roll her eyes. She wanted to ask why on earth he thought they would need armor if they were going to confront Thorin. But she knew better.

An army of orcs were on the way.

And she recalled something Thorin had told her long ago: “never underestimate dwarves.” She hated to come before the man she loved dressed for battle, but she wasn’t sure what kind of plan he had come up with to handle Thranduil’s army.

Oreliell sighed and glanced at Thranduil. She nodded.

“Then I shall make sure that you have it.”

He stepped aside to deliver the orders to one of his guards. Bard looked at the Arkenstone then at the sisters.

“What do you make of it?” he asked. “The stone.”

“Bilbo is right about it,” Oreliell said after a moment. “Thorin craves this stone more than anything. It is sacred to the dwarven people, the crowning glory and symbol of their house and power. Thorin will not be pleased to see it in your hands.”

“Our hands? Would you not carry this?”

“I barely want to look at it,” she admitted. “That rock has taken away more from me in the past few days than I ever wanted to lose. And that says a lot, for I have lost much in my long lifetime. Simply seeing me siding with you will create a reaction. I do not want Thorin to think that I have betrayed him further by taking that stone.”

Bard nodded.

“I understand. I shall speak with Thranduil to see what we shall do with it.”

“Before we get to that,” Thranduil said as he stepped back inside the tent, “I would like to have a word with Oreliell.”

Bard glanced at her before going outside. Vedis stayed a minute longer. She studied Thranduil for a long moment before looking at her sister.

“I will go inspect the armor we are being given. If you would like, I can take your swords with me?” she said. 

“Thank you,” Oreliell said, passing her blades over.

“Let me know if you need me.”

“I will, muinthel.” 

Vedis nodded and stepped out. Oreliell took a breath before looking at Thranduil. The elven king had remained standing and was watching her.

“{You risk a lot going with us tomorrow,}” Thranduil said after a long moment. “{Why do it?}”

“{Because I have already lost so much. And I do not wish to lose my betrothed as well.}”

“{Even after everything he has put you through?}”

“{Do not pretend you know him better than I do.}”

Thranduil motioned for her to follow him. They stepped outside once again to look at the mountain. The braziers were lit above the gate, but otherwise everything appeared normal. Oreliell couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside.

“I want you to know that I truly do not want this,” Thranduil said. “While the heirlooms of my people are of great importance to me, this was not the outcome I had hoped for. I tried to avoid this when your company passed through my kingdom, but Thorin turned me down.”

“Because he still holds a grudge against you for what you did when Smaug first took the mountain. Or rather, what you didn’t do.”

Thranduil sighed. He turned to look at her.

“I want you to understand what it is you are risking going into this, what this could potentially do to you if things do not go smoothly tomorrow.”

“I am well aware what could happen, Thranduil. And that is why I must be present tomorrow. If something were to happen to Thorin, I would never be able to live with myself. I will protect Thorin with my very life.” She looked at the mountain again. “No matter what happens to me, he will live.”

[luna-writes-stuff]

CHAPTER XXXVII

A Kili X OC fanfic

Previous chapter // Next chapter

Tw: Blood, battle, detailed descriptions of pain, wounds, losing consciousness. Gore. Like, serious gore. Took my horror fan knowledge out of the closet for this one. Drowning, hypothermia/description of hypothermia. Angst. Exhaustion. Seriously heavy stuff. Don’t send hate mail

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The chapter where I show you I can write gore

The hill seemed almost empty after Bolg was slain. Dwalin dealt with the last orcs, as Legolas and Tauriel could be seen in the distance, aiding the relentless dwarf. Raewyn, Fili, and Kili had found themselves near the frozen lake above the waterfall, watching their king fight the orc who had started it all. How long the pair had been fighting already, they could not tell. But they saw the fatigue of the dwarf, and the blind hits of the enormous creature.

All three were still suffering from their injuries, but refused to show it as they stood there, waiting on their opportune moment to jump in. Neither had decided to halt each other, knowing that if one should stand down, all three should. But the anxiety still hung heavy in the air.

Turning her head towards Kili on her left, she gave him a short nod, her eyes falling back on the white orc rushing towards Thorin. Upon her nod, an arrow shot through the air, halting the orc dead in his steps. Raewyn's eyebrows raised in surprise as she followed the weapon, forming her lips down in an impressed nod.

Azog's head spun to the three in the distance, a Dwarvish arrow imbedded in his right eye. A pained roar escaped him as he reached for the dart, ripping it out in anger, blood spurting angrily from the wound.

"Didn't know you had it in you." Fili teased, a playful smile on his face as he watched his younger brother lean his shoulders back in self-accomplisment.

"Azog!" The Asha shouted, successfully drawing his attention to her alone. "You took something from me!" She began, raising her arm in suspense, showing the orc the decapitated head of his only kin, before throwing it towards him, the part rolling over the ice until it came to a halt in front of Azog's feet. A trail of blood was left where the head had rolled, and Thorin looked at the three in bewilderment.

"So I took something from you!"

Slowly, the orc's head rose up to meet the violent eyes of the Asha, his gaze darkening immediately. A short grimace passed through Raewyn's features as she watched the dark blood of the creature drip down his chin due to the arrow in his eye, but she washed the look off quickly. Instead, she reached for the axe in Fili's hands, who had lifted it for her for the time being.

"Any other clever attack plans from that beautiful brain of yours?" Kili whispered, watching the giant Gundabad orc run towards the three.

Swallowing harshly, Raewyn adjusted her look on her axe, as Fili now used both his hands to wield his sword. Her eyes quickly met Kili's as she shrugged absentmindedly: "Don't miss."

With a ferocious swing, a large rock landed between Kili and Raewyn, separating the ranger and the blonde from the youngest prince.

"Where did he get that?!" Fili exclaimed in surprise, watching in horror as the stone slowly retreated, forming cracks in the ice as it went. Beneath them, the frozen lake began to tremble, tiny cracks forming where the boulder had lain.

"The ice..." Raewyn mumbled, still aware of their enemy nearing the three. Raising her head in alarm, she yelled: "Get off the ice!"

Almost immediately, all three ran away from the growing ice hole, sliding over the floor as they narrowly missed the swing of Azog's blade. Noticing his plan hadn't worked, the orc stopped running, now turning around quickly to spot the four now grouped together.

"Fili..." Thorin uttered, seeing his nephew lean his weight on one leg, blood streaming down the other. At the call of his name, Raewyn's eyes fell on the wounded leg, cursing inwardly as she realised the binding hadn't been strong enough.

"Try not to use it too much." She settled on, instead of commenting how he should abandon the field. She knew he wouldn't; not now. And he seemed grateful for her words, for a tiny nod came from him in response.

Then, the orc struck again, throwing the chained boulder towards the four, causing another - smaller - sinkhole to land in front of them. Abandoning tactic, Thorin ran at the larger creature sword wielded in his hand. It took a while for the three to process that the sword their king was wielding was Orcrist: the blade he had lost in Mirkwood. They had no time to wonder when he'd regained it.

"Cover him." Raewyn mumbled to Fili, referring to his brother, who had raised his bow again. He could have argued with her. He wanted to. But he chose to remain silent, merely nodding his hand, knowing bickering would be pointless.

With that, she took off running after the older dwarf, axe held tight in her hands. She watched how Azog had already attacked Thorin, rendering the poor dwarf off balance. As he stumbled back, she jumped up, swinging her axe towards the orc, slashing him just slightly at the top of his breastplate. Her back muscles tensed with every move she made, but she refused to yield or even show her struggle to the opponent.

As the orc recovered from the blow, Thorin was given time to regain his balance, standing next to the Asha as he offered her a nod of gratitude. From behind them, an arrow came, and lodged itself just above the blade in Azog's arm. Raewyn couldn't suppress the smile on her face as she watched the creature reach for it and tear it out in frustration.

In a fair fight, she would have given him time to recover. To stand up properly and give him a decent change. She would have given him the opportunity to decently rid of the arrow and attack him when his attention was back on her. She wouldn't attack while his eyes were scanning the wound angrily.

But this wasn't a fair fight. The blade of her axe lodged just above the knife stabbed into Azog's arm. Her strength wasn't enough to cut it off, but it left a deep mark, red pooling down the blade as it became visible through the skin.

Then, Thorin struck below his knees, forcing the orc to buckle slightly. Unfortunately, he did not fall, only utter terrifying wailings as he stared at his severed arm, nearly severed again. Taking their distance as a precaution, Thorin and Raewyn awaited his next move anxiously.

A second arrow flew, now missing its mark due to the sudden movement of Azog. His arm was raised threateningly, pointed straight at the two who had caused this damage. His eyes had darkened and his teeth were bared. It didn't scare Raewyn anymore. She had seen it in Bolg, and he was gone now. Azog would soon follow.

A roar like none she heard before echoed over the hills, all originating from the orc she and Thorin had maimed so badly seconds ago.

Azog ran at Thorin first, not even giving Raewyn the time to respond appropriately. His blade hit Thorin's as the dwarf struggled to protect himself. Azog's other arm was too free for the ranger to advance safely, and she found herself struggling to find an open window.

Again and again, Azog's blade beat down on Thorin's, each one with more pressure and strength until the dwarf was kneeling on the floor to keep the sword away from his body. Arrows flew poorly, trying to hide the relentless orc, but his movements had become too unpredictable, and he had become a difficult target.

It wasn't until Azog managed to hit the dwarf on his shoulder that Thorin's blade finally fell. There, defeated, the king lay on the ground, staring up at his terrible foe as his protection had now faded. A malicious grin appeared on Azog's face as the blood from his arm and eye slowly dripped onto the dwarf. This was the opponent's win. There was nothing else Thorin could have done in that exact moment. It would've been his room, had he stood there alone.

But he hadn't.

Temporarily distracted by his victory, Raewyn yanked the chain from Azog's hands with strength she hadn't even known was hers to wield. Instead of wielding the entire boulder, she merely grabbed the end the orc had held, using it as a chain whip to distance Azog from Thorin. Dragging the rock over the ice behind her with every step she took, she forced the orc back, hitting him hard in his chest, knocking him down successfully.

Behind her, she could hear the ice break, and she could feel the stone was now heavier than ever. It was then that the horrible realisation dawned upon her that the rock was sinking. And it would take Raewyn with it if she was not quick enough.

Suddenly ceasing her movements, she took slow steps back, her face set in a teasing smirk as if she wanted the orc to attack her. She swallowed down the anxiety of the cold water below, and kept her feet stepping back.

Standing up in frustration, Azog looked at the Asha with a look she could not quite decipher. All she knew was that she did not like it. But her taunts seemed to work, for the orc had now set his eyes on the ranger. Taking a running start, he engaged her. An arrow suddenly embedded in Azog's left calf, causing him to grip as he set down his foot.

Would she have had the time, she would have protested the arrow. But she didn't. It was only a matter of seconds before the chain would disappear under the ice and take her with it if she would not let go. Quickly nearing the orc, she hit his head with the chain harshly, making sure he was disoriented before she bound it to his hand quickly.

Not even properly registering what was happening, the orc was dragged over the ice, trailing blood with him from his wounds as the chains forced him to disappear through the ice hole.

A heavy silence fell over the frozen lake as Raewyn panted harshly, staring at the sinkhole with a hint of self accomplishment. Sinking to her knees, she held her hands out in front of her, resting them against the ice as she tried to regain her breath. The wounds on her back had felt frozen, yet they burned with every tiny move she made. Her muscles had nearly atrophied under all the stress they had been under, making it nearly impossible for her to sit up straight anymore. From a short distance, she could hear Thorin clambering up to assess the situation.

"Is he gone?" She heard him ask. She didn't respond. She was exhausted. The adrenaline had begun to wear off permanently, and pain had seeped into her system too high for her to properly process.

Her eyes fell on the ice below her, squinting in suspicion as she saw something move. She was vaguely aware of Thorin nearing her and remarking something along the lines of the back of her tunic, but she tuned the noise out.

Her eyes widened upon a horrifying realisation. Her head shot up quickly, panicked eyes meeting the dwarf's confused ones.

"Get back!"

Pushing the dwarf aside while leaning her weight back, she watched as that familiar blade was pushed through the ice in the place Thorin and Raewyn had occupied mere moments ago. A hot searing pain rushed through the ranger's system as her back roughly collided with the frozen floor. She couldn't move. The feeling in her legs had disappeared all together and it took everything in her to move her arms away from the sword skewered through the ice.

As the blade was retracted, the orc surfaced from the same sinkhole he had disappeared in earlier. Thorin raced towards Raewyn's side, trying to help her get up, but when he figured her legs were rendered useless, he gently retreated his hands.

From their distance, the two brothers couldn't properly see what had happened, so as they saw their friend laying on the ground with their uncle beside her, a newfound panic seeped through their systems.

"Raewyn!" Fili shouted over the fields, daring to risk an anxious glance to his brother. As his eyes fell on him, he noticed Kili had already dropped the bow, his quiver with arrows also discarded on the floor. In his hand was now the sword that had hung on his back, his face set in shock and anger.

Before the blonde could say anything on the matter, Kili's feet already carried him to the other side of the lake, avoiding the ice holes littering the floor. With a leap, he threw his body on Azog's back, successfully steering him away from his kin. The orc tried to reach for the dwarf blindly, but Kili refused to let go, making sure the bladed arm could not harm him.

"Kili!" His uncle shouted after him, running after the orc.

Despite his bleeding wound, Fili had found himself running towards the ranger, kneeling down beside her rather uncomfortably. A hiss escaped his mouth as the cold snow on the ice came in contact with his wound.

"We've got to get up." He announced as his hands reached her shoulders, trying to pull her up. Something near a whine escaped Raewyn's throat as one of his hands came to close to the wounds. Immediately, the dwarf pulled back, using his other hand to hold her upright.

Again, his hands reached under her armpits, pulling her entire weight up until he was standing. In her exhaustion, Raewyn's head lulled forward, quickly stopped by one of Fili's hands, his other gently brushing her lower back to hold her against him.

"Mahal, you're burning up." He muttered under his breath, pushing her head back before his hand returned to hold her weight. She seemed unresponsive to his words, instead leaning her head against his shoulder as she struggled to keep her legs straight.

"Raewyn, can you even hear me?" Fili tried again.

A moment of silence passed as panic slowly began to build in the pit of Fili's stomach. That was when a low hum was heard. Sighing louder than he maybe should have done, he closed his eyes in relief. She was still conscious.

"We've got to get out of there." He voiced aloud, making sure his friend was aware of what they were doing. Nearly carrying her with him, Fili slowly made his way over the lake, away from the fight.

"Kili," Raewyn mumbled, the notion barely audible, but Fili picked it up. An unnerving feeling settled in his throat, as he tried to push the lie out. She would never go with him if he told her he was fighting Azog. But for her own sake, she needed to get away from the battlefield. And so, he swallowed the lump down, not stopping his movements.

"He's getting Balin."

That seemed to work, for she remained silent after that, doing her best to keep her legs moving. Fili was now carrying both their weights,moving over to the rocks at the side of the lake, opting to keep Raewyn there whilst he returned to battle.

Gently, he lowered the Asha on one of the rocks, making sure she did not fall off. In the distance, he could see Azog swinging a dwarf wildly, and for once, Fili wasn't able to tell if it was his uncle or his brother.

"Don't move." He commanded softly, holding his hands down to keep Raewyn there. "I'm gonna search the area."

He knew better than to use her barely conscious state to his advantage, but he also knew the ranger a little better than she might have liked. 'She would have done the same' were the words echoing through Fili's brain as he threw her one last glance. Then, he took off running to aid his kin take down the terrible orc.

Raewyn was faintly aware of the battle still lingering around her, but for a short second, she had whole heartedly believed Fili's words. If anything, she had, until she suddenly heard a new voice.

"Raewyn?"

Slowly, her head spun to the source of the noise, her vision spinning with it as a light feeling entered her head. Bilbo had appeared in front of her, seemingly woozy himself too, but he looked better than she did at the moment.

The hobbit climbed on the rock in front of her, his features morphing into one of concern as he observed her bruised and bloodied face.

"What happened to you?" He couldn't help but wonder, grabbing the end of his sleeve with one hand, extending it slightly, before wiping off the dried blood above her brow. Raewyn didn't object the gesture.

"Where is Fili?" She finally asked, her voice soft, almost whispered.

Momentarily, Bilbo's scrubbing halted, looking at her with confused eyes: "Fighting Azog?"

"And Kili?" She continued, her voice now more urgent. And that is when the hobbit realised what had happened. He saw the blonde running from her, but he wasn't clever enough to puzzle the pieces together. There was only one way Fili could make her stay here; lying.

"Where is he, Bilbo?" Raewyn repeated, more sternly this time, giving him a pointed look, for how far she could.

Almost toppling over or not, Bilbo knew better than to pick a fight with her. Simply because Fili dared to lie to her didn't mean he had the nerve to. And thus, he retreated his hand, giving her a sincere look.

"Fighting Azog."

Another moment of silence as Raewyn pursed her lips, closing her eyes. Without being aware of it, her head lulled forward again. This time it was Bilbo that stopped the movement, catching her forehead with one of his hands.

"Foolish hay-heared dwarf." She cursed silently, regaining her balance as she sat upright. Pushing herself off of the rock, she uttered a grunt of pain as her feet came in contact with the floor below. Swaying slightly, her hands reached towards the boulders in front of her, keeping herself steady.

"Are... Are you sure you should be fighting?" Bilbo tried, hopping off of his rock as well, studying his friend with an uneasy look.

"No." Raewyn merely stated, digging in her pockets before fishing out a tiny whistle. She handed it to Bilbo, pushing down the nauseating feeling in her stomach. "Just in case."

Accepting the whistle, he looked at it in confusion, studying the markings on the side. "In case of what?"

As his head rose, he found his friend stumbling over the ice, away from him. For someone who was close to passing out two seconds ago, she sure was stubborn.

"In case of what, Raewyn?!" He called after her, clutching the whistle tightly.

Everything in her body was screaming for her to drop to the floor and take a long and good nap. Her back refused to let her move easily, her legs were protesting with every clumsy step she took, her head was yelling at her to stand still and process her surroundings carefully. But she ignored all the pleas. No weapon in hand, no fully conscious mind, no ranger-like athletics; only a woman carrying herself to the source of danger with nothing but anger in her head.

The closer she came, the louder the scream became. She could hear the blade impact upon blade. She could hear the roars of Azog. She could see the wounds on all three Durin son's faces. These weren't there when she sunk the orc.

She wouldn't announce herself now. Azog had yet to see her. Thorin was busy facing his foe and Kili's face held nothing but anger. She figured they would look very much alike in that moment. Fili, on the other hand, had seen the woman almost crawling over the ice. A remorseful look crossed his features, but she didn't give him a second look.

Kili's knees were buckling underneath him, the extend of his injuries probably worse than what she could see on his face. Thorin looked close to collapsing and Fili was struggling to wield his sword any longer.

Casting her eyes over the lake in a dizzy manner, she spotted Kili's discarded weapons. She couldn't aim to save her life at the moment, but the arrows were sharp nonetheless. And thus, she took a handful of arrows with her, clutching them tightly as she pointed all sharp ends outside.

The closer she came, the more the three others finally noted her presence. All of them were clever enough not to mention her name. Azog's back was still turned towards her, so she could take her time. Yet, she noted the cracks in the ice where Azog had walked. Again; those hadn't been there when she was.

Thorin struck again, his blade knocking Azog back a few steps, huffing loudly in exhaustion. Fili followed his uncle, striking the orc against his stomach as it tried to hold its balance. Angrily, Azog reached out, his blade knocking against Fili's. Surprised at the sudden strength, his sword fell to the floor, his body being thrown feet away.

Shouts of his name echoed over the lake as Raewyn stood there, almost falling over at the sudden overwhelming emotions. She was going to fall; she could feel it. Stubbornly, she took another step. And that's when her legs gave out again. Where once was pain and fatigue, there was now nothing. No feeling in her legs. Her breath stuttered upon the realisation.

The sound her knees had made bounced off of the ice, alerting Azog. Turning around maliciously, the orc smiled darkly, trailing his blade over the floor. Knowing she had now been spotted, Kili shouted her name, his voice scratching as he watched his opponent walk away. Towards her.

"Azog!" Thorin tried to call, but to no avail. His path had been set.

That is when a shrill whistle filled the air, causing all four on the ice to halt for a moment. For just a few seconds there was nothing. And then, a figure appeared from the clouds. She wasn't gigantic nor intimidating, but Raewyn's dared to utter a sigh of relief as she watched Farris respond to Bilbo's tone.

The owl descended at a rapid speed, her claws extended. Azog had no time to respond before the owl latched onto his face, clawing away bit by bit, giving Raewyn time to use her arms in an effort to crawl back.

Wielding his nearly demolished, but still standing arm, he reached out for the owl, trying to skewer it with the blade. Flying off at the sight, Farris circled the group, not leaving, but keeping her distance. Azog roared at the owl, his attention momentarily distracted.

Raewyn used this time to stab the ice next to her with the arrowheads. Cracks already formed and though she couldn't attack as she wished, she could trap the orc again. With the extend of his injuries now, he wouldn't be able to survive another ice bath. Slowly tracing a line, she found the floor cracking with each move she made. Swallowing harshly, she continued her work, head swimming as her back made it harder and her to move her arm.

Loud footsteps were heard and the ranger could see little specks of ice moving at the noise. He was nearing her again. Thorin and Kili would never be there in time. She didn't stop her movements, regardless of how much her body told her to rest. Tiny indents were made everywhere as she continued to crawl over the floor.

And then a long blade landed point down directly in front of her. That was when she halted. Looking up, she saw Azog looming over her, a menacing grin on his floor as if he was expecting for her to plead for her life. Instead, she smirked back, slamming the arrows down harder than she had done before, screaming in agony as pain rippled from her back through her arm, urging her to let go of the arrows sooner than she would have liked.

Yet, her excellent thinking and experience with ice seemed to work: the impact caused ice to ripple through the indents she had made, until it toppled completely. Azog weight pushed the floor away under them, a sweeping freezing feeling washing over both of them.

The ice cold water of the lake moved underneath her tunic, soaking her bloodied wounds, the salt stinging the nerves and causing her arms to spasm as she tried to process the pain. Trying to claw her way out of the cold lake water, she regained control of her body. Her hands tried to reached towards the surface, breaking water. Instead, they reached the other side of the ice on the floor. Blind panic settled in as Raewyn tried to swim up, hitting her hands against the ice desperately, trying to punch her way out, or find where she had broken the surface on the other side.

Through the mirky water, she could see a figure appearing directly above her, pounding on the ice as well. A brief moment of hope swam through her mind as she continued to pound, hoping to punch her way out. Then, a hand grasped her ankle, pulling her further down. She tried to scream, but found nothing but oxygen bubbles escaping her mouth, wasting her breath. She tried to pull herself back up, lacking air at a rapid pace. Some way to come back to the cold winter air, or some escape from the monster below her, but her body wouldn't let her.

It was done fighting.

Slowly, her hands stopped clawing, her body rapidly focused on her breathing. Looking for some way to protect herself, her body seemed to forget where she had found herself and she inhaled deeply. Water flew freely through her throat, making its way into her lungs. She felt herself chocking on it, incapable to get any air whatsoever.

She had always imagined dying to be peaceful, feeling nothing. To lay there, void of pain and worries fading from her mind at the thought of no longer having to deal with them. This was not peaceful. The nerves in her back felt as if they were burning, there was no feeling left in her legs and her arm muscles had tightened incredibly, a heavy feeling filling them each time she tried to move them. Her head was light, her stomach was filled with bile and her lungs were filled with water. There was no breath, no rest, no peace.

And then everything faded to black.

——

Taglist: @errruvande @writingawaymylife @justnerdystuffs @spidergirla5 @fallenangeloflight @bianavacker-is-bi-as-hell @lxdymormont @deathofafangirl01 @the-cranck-hobbit @chaoticpaintsplatter @zaddyluvr @bxtchopolis @derangedcupcake @radbarbariancupcake @gay-destiel

[birboon]

Nymmril the Gold - A LoTR Fanfic

Pairing: Legolas x lion-shifter male!oc (Nymmril) Spans from: The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug - Lord of the Rings: Return of the King Synopsis: Nymmril, a young skin-changer from the far deserts, has been under the care of his Keeper Beorn for centuries. With the dragon present, it was deemed too dangerous for him to leave. But what happens when Gandalf and his company of mischievous dwarrow stumble into the Carrock asking for help? Only one thing is for certain: A lion's loyalty is a powerful weapon.

act 1 - chapter 2: "Company"

read it on: ao3 & wattpad [read chapter 1 here!]

The young man woke for the second time that day when the sun was bright and awake, rays riding bright and strong onto the ground below. He was reluctant to open his eyes, for his little awakening hours before had drained him somewhat and the rest of his night was full of fitful, frightening dreams of fire and gold and blood. But with the promise of an adventure on his mind, Nymmril dragged himself from his pallet and shook himself to rid the weariness, washing his face in a wooden basin and taking several moments to glance at and perfect his reflection in the cool water.

By the time he had dragged up the courage to leave his room and meet Beorn, Gandalf and the rest in the dining room, he was the last to arrive. All thirteen dwarves were seated around the large wooden table, seated upon an oddity of chairs, stumps and logs. At the head of the table sat an extremely grim looking dwarf, regal and powerful and the only one (save Gandalf) who seemed unphased by Beorn's lumbering figure loitering around with a jug of creamy goat's milk. Also at the table, somewhat hidden by the piles of fresh bread rolls with homemade butter, soups and honey cakes, was a halfling. Nymmril started at the tiny creature with wonder. He had never seen one before, outside of the scripts and scrolls of his people's documentations of Middle Earth's residents.

The young man was glad Gandalf had managed to introduce the fourteen to Beorn successfully, for he had been fearing the Bear would swallow them all whole and thus there would be no adventure for him to go on. Nymmril ran a hand through his shaggily-shorn, golden hair, nervousness buzzing through his entire being as he stood out of view around the corner, debating on whether to interrupt or not. He did not have to strain his ears to catch the words fluttering around the table; talk of Azog the Defiler and his horrific ways. Nymmril remembered the terror the Orc caused all too well. Subconsciously the young man rubbed at his wrists, pale skin tainted with pale scar tissue from where the bonds and shackles had been bound too tight.

"There are others like you?" The halfling asked suddenly, drawing the man out of his pious stupor, away from the confines of his memories. Nymmril's ears twitched at the creature's voice, noting its temp and pitch and the earthly tone of its tongue. The halfling was used to comfort, it seemed, but also liked to get his hands dirtied in the soft soils back home. The young man smiled at the thought as he listened to the halfling speak.

"Once there were many," Beorn replied sullenly, replenishing the mug of a particularly rotund dwarf.

"And now?" At the halflings queries Beorn's shoulders stiffened sadly, and he turned back towards his small guest.

"Now... There are only two."

The walls of the wooden building seemed to expand, as if it had inhaled just as sharply as those that it encompassed. Nymmril could hear the boards creak and stretch as it did so, much like he could hear the beating hearts of the company - of every dwarrow (save the pretentiously regal, handsome one at the table's end) and of the halfling and even of the wizard that was guest in his home, who was sat leaning against the wall much in the same position Nymmril had left him in that morning chewing on the same pipe. The stuffiness of grief settled upon the group and weighed heavy on his own heart.

"Two you say?" came the words of a particularly northern-sounding dwarf, "But here there is only one!"

"Aye, there are two of us. There is me, and then there is Nymmril."

"Are you much alike?" Asked another dwarf, sounding young and keen to learn. He had in his hands a thick journal, and had opened it to one of the back pages, scribbling notes beneath a quick, well-drawn sketch of Beorn himself. The Bear opened his mouth to respond, but Nymmril hopped quickly from his hiding spot, winking at Gandalf as he leaped into view.

"You may see for yourself, Master Dwarf, and then make up your own mind on the matter," the young man said loudly, standing tall and lean at the far end of the company, opposite to where Beorn was standing with a frown etched on his forehead. Golden beams of light glanced off Nymmril's flaxen hair and his emerald eyes glittered as he laughed at the stunned faces before him, for even the stone-faced, black-bearded dwarf who seemed to be the chief of his companions was shocked at the arrival of the second shifter. Whatever they had been expecting, it certainly wasn't him.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister! I hadn't seen or heard you enter, so I was-"

Nymmril silenced the young dwarf with a loud, musical laugh. His shoulders shook as he did so and the sound caused everyone in the vicinity to smile, whether they felt like smiling or no. That was the beauty of Nymmril, so joyous and jovial that it felt like an offense not to join him in his childlike happiness.

"Speak no more of it, my young friend! Such mannerisms matter not to me." The young man strode forward boldly, grabbing a honey cake from the plate of a hatted-dwarf and dancing around the table to kneel before the anxious journalist, to whom he asked: "What is your name?"

"Ori, Master Nymmril."

"Oh, we'll have none of that here, young Ori. I am Master of none. Nymmril shall suffice," he tore apart the honey cake, offering the largest half to the dwarf, who accepted with shaking hands and a gracious bow. "Now tell me: Do Beorn and I look alike?"

Uproar swept through the company and Nymmril straightened to his full height, standing shoulder-to-breast with the Great Bear beside him. He sent a confused glance towards Gandalf, who shrugged and laughed along with his dwarvish friends. The young man looked up towards Beorn.

"I guess we don't," he said with a grin, causing the other shifter to push him away forcefully with a grumble that almost sounded like amusement. As the clutter died down, another young dwarf with blond hair and beard spoke up: "Are you sure you're related?"

"Oh, we aren't rela-"

"We may both be shifters," Beorn cut off his younger friend with a raised voice and sharp look, "but we are not of the same family. In fact we aren't even of the same tribe."

"Same... Tribe?" There the halfling spoke again and Nymmril sent a wide smile his way. But before he could answer, Gandalf cut him off.

"They are different Radags. Nymmril is not a bear like Beorn is here."

"Then what is he?" The blond turned his eyes back towards the young shifter. "What do you change into?"

"A different animal," Nymmril replied with a devilish smirk, much to the dismay of almost everyone in the room. Beorn rolled his eyes, pushing his ward out of his way and nodding his head towards the empty seat besides the wizard. The young man took his place, leaning back against the wall with his cheeks stretched happily. There were many dwarrow in the room and he made it his own personal goal to learn each and every single one's name - and he had already started, with young Ori. Beorn hummed to himself.

"So you need to reach the Mountain before the last day of Autumn?" He asked.

"Before Durin's Day falls, yes," Gandalf replied.

"You are running out of time," Beorn said steadily, gaze drawn towards the miserable leader of the company.

"Which is why we must go through Mirkwood."

"A darkness lies upon that forest. Fell things creep beneath those trees. There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and the Necromancer of Dol Guldur. I would not venture there unless in great need," the Bear warned, casting his gaze out upon all the dwarrow. The halfling, Nymmril noted, seemed to slump down in his chair when the Necromancer was mentioned. Curious indeed, the young man thought to himself, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the small creature.

"We will take the Elven road," Gandalf replied, nodding and taking a puff of Old Toby. "That path is still safe."

At the mention of Elves one of the dwarves turned aside, face sour and disbelieving. Nymmril bit his lip, wringing his hands. "Gandalf, the-"

"The wood elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin," Beorn once again cut the younger shifter off. "They are less wise, more dangerous."

"That matters not," Nymmril finally spoke once more, not taking his eyes from the dwarf as he turned sharply on his heel.

"What do you mean?" He asked fearlessly.

"This land... Its crawling with Orcs. Their numbers are growing-"

"And you are on foot," Beorn finished off. "You will never reach the forest alive. I don't like dwarves, they are greedy and blind - blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. But Orcs I hate more... What do you need?"

Gandalf rose to his feet, cloak billowing at the movement, and Nymmril's brows shot up. The wizard walked towards Beorn, staff tapping at the floor with each step. The old man craned his neck backwards to meet the eyes of the Bear.

"Ponies, Beorn. Your finest animals. I assure you they will return to you safely," the wise one said. His eyes made the mistake of drifting towards the younger shifter as Beorn turned aside with a fearsome growl, looking down at the Gandalf. His eyes strayed towards Nymmril, who met his gaze with faux-confidence, kissing his teeth nervously.

"Hmm... I see that look in your tricky eyes, Wizard. You mean to take my Nymmril with you!" the Bear allowed his voice to raise, narrowing his eyes angrily as he turned to the grey-clad man. The young shifter jumped up defensively, even as those in the company flinched back, many reaching for their weapons and one almost falling from his chair. Nymmril grabbed for Beorn's arm, but was shrugged off the first time he clasped his hand around the man's bicep. He watched in terror - not for himself but for the others beneath their roof - as thick black fur sprouted from the pores on the back of the larger man's enormous hands, which were beginning to mould and change, slowly coming to resemble enormous paws.

"I do not wish for any harm to come to him, Beorn. I have known Fleetfoot since he was a cub and poor would my life be had I never met him-"

"You cannot sweet talk with the Black Bear, Gandalf. It would be best if you all left quickly. I shall meet you outside once I have calmed him down," Nymmril said softly, ushering the dwarrows out and pushing the halfling towards the door gently. As they left, with Gandalf casting one last annoyed look towards Beorn, the words of the company could be heard. Specifically one rich voice slandering the Grey wizard for not conferring with them before inviting another along into the company. A huff was all the dwarf received in reply as the wizard strolled through the exotic gardens of Beorn.

Nymmril reached again for the Bear, taking him by both arms this time and guiding him towards a long bench that had been previously home to the backsides of many dwarves. The young man took him by the paws, which were now fully transformed, eyeing the black fur spreading along the man's forearms with a crease in his brows.

"Beorn, calm down."

"They wish to steal you away," Beorn growled, eyes never once leaving the heavy, wooden door that acted as the only partition between his wrath and the lives of their guests.

"Nay, I wished to go with them. If anyone should be angry it is Gandalf, for I have forced myself upon that company without thought to whether they would want my companionship or not."

"It is too dangerous for you to leave, Nymmril. You are young-"

"Four-hundred and seventy-eight is hardly young, Black Bear," said shifter huffed, removing his grip from Beorn.

"Not for most, maybe, but you're barely of age by our standards. The world is much changed since you last ventured out. The one you love is gone, taken from us with the fire drake's coming to the Mountain."

"But-"

"If you truly wish to leave then I can't stop you. But heed my warnings, Golden One. It is dangerous, even for the likes of us. It is my wish that you remain here, safely, with me," Beorn spoke seriously. His hands, with his anger released now back to normal, came up to the side of the younger man's face. "I am responsible for your safety. I cannot protect you if you leave my side."

Nymmril flinched back, both his hands gripping tightly onto Beorn's own even as his eyes watered. He sent the Bear a tight-lipped smile.

"You never used to be like this. You and I, we used to go on our own adventures - you could come with me!" Nymmril's words were hopeful, yet even as they were spoken the young man knew in his heart what the answer would be:

"Times have changed, and with them so have I. If I went with you I would forsake this land - the one thing that is truly ours. I cannot go with you."

"I am going with them either way."

"I know you are. I do not wish to see our guests again, not in this state. You have my blessing to leave on this quest with them. But it is bound to fail, do not come running back to me upset after it is all over. I will be of no comfort to you," Beorn stated seriously. He was frowning down at where Nymmril's hands lay overtop of his. "You have grown up quickly. Too quickly for my liking. Go, then, before I change my mind. Fetch them fourteen ponies and a noble steed... We shall see if Gandalf keeps his promises."

Nymmril nodded, pressing his forehead against his keeper - the only parent he'd known since Orcs stole away his borne ones - closing his eyes.

"Thank you, Beorn. I will return to you, I swear."

The Bear smiled grimly, shooing the younger man away. "If you call for aid, I shall come. May any enemies you find in your path turn to shreds beneath your claws."

Nymmril grinned at the parting words, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and drying it on his red tunic. He bowed deep and long, winking half-heartedly as he snuck away to his room to gather supplies. There he grabbed a linen bag and stuffed it with his bed-roll, spare clothing and water-decanters. He wrapped up sticky buns and seeded loaves in cloth and added them to his luggage, too, for though it was perishable Nymmril wanted to bring along a taste of his home, no matter how long (or short) it would last. Nothing could beat Beorn's honey cakes, and if he ran out of food... well, the man was a hunter in his own right. Beorn may not eat meat, but he did.

He sat there silently for several minutes, staring down at his pack with a heart brimming with both grief and adrenaline. He didn't wish to leave his keeper behind, but he craved his own freedom. Excitement bristled down his spine and tingled his fingertips as he slung the bag over his shoulders, relishing in the comforting weight as it rested at his back. Memories poured fresh into his mind, of days where he and the Bear would go traipsing off in the mountains together, of joining bands of merry men as they journeyed and hunted creatures in the fell hills. Nymmril's hands clutched at the leather straps and he felt a smile slip into place. He would make many more memories, he reckoned, on this new venture.

The young man tiptoed back into the dining room, relief washing through him as he spied that Beorn was no longer there. If he were, the man was not sure he would be able to leave, so bitter was the sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt almost sorry, for leaving the Great Bear behind. But never he minded it, and Nymmril shrugged the feeling away quickly and left their home altogether, letting the heavy door slam behind him. [Chapter 3]!

[ao3feed-tolkien]

Even Autumn Can't Compare

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/0pa2BFD

by Mossy Oak Tree (A_Mossy_Oak_Tree)

A gay one shot about Legolas and an OC because I'm terrible at x readers. But I have only ever found like 2-3 gay/queer shots (not even stories) for any of the The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings characters.

Our favorite dwarven bloodline is still alive because the boys dying destroyed me. Fuck yourself Azog (Azog is my worst hear me out character-).

Honestly this will probably be all over the place because I am, so let's just ride the roller coaster together shall we?

Words: 2394, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Hobbit - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil (Tolkien), Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien), Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Fíli (Tolkien)

Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Original Male Character(s), Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)

Additional Tags: Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Is Gay, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Tauriel and Kili are Bi bc I says so, Legolas doesn't know how to emotion, Thranduil gave Legolas daddy issues, Bilbo and Thorin are the best enemies to lovers trope, They're In Love Your Honor, Autistic Character bc I'm autistic and projecting

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/0pa2BFD

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Fluffuary 2023 Day 9: Sunset- Thranduil x OC

Thranduil x Aster

Description: After the Battle of Five Armies Aster attempts to search for her husband, ultimately finding him on Ravenhill as the sun begins to set.

Word Count: 1.3k

Challenge made by the lovely @darthglitterfanfiction

A deathly sort of silence was all that remained on the forefront of Erebor and in Dale after the Battle of the Five Armies. It was just eerily quiet as everyone attempted to gather their bearings and look for their friends and comrades. 

Or perhaps Aster’s ears were just ringing too loud to actually hear much. Her heart pounded as she raced through the streets, eyes eagerly searching for her dear husband. She hadn’t seen him since before he and Bard marched the gates of Erebor. Then, of course the other two armies showed up and chaos ensued. Aster wouldn’t have been able to find her love if she tried during the battle - and she did try. 

As soon as she realized the battle was over she spent hours going between Dale and the forefront of Erebor in search of him. She was happy to see that quite a few of her soldiers were still alive, and she took several minutes to mourn the still large number of soldiers that died in battle. Eventually she found one of their generals, Feren. There, she instructed him to get the wounded on horses to get back to the kingdom as quickly as possible and find all their dead so they could receive proper burials. Once he walked away she continued her search, ultimately ending up back in Dale again. 

“Queen Aster,” she heard Bard call, making her turn around. He stood beside a large stone pillar with his children surrounding him, all with smiles on their faces. 

“Bard,” she greeted breathlessly (albeit hurriedly). “It is a relief beyond belief to see you and your children alive.” 

“The same could be said for you. Thranduil was searching for you and his son earlier-“ 

“Wait, Thranduil,” Aster accidentally interrupted urgently, her mind going into overdrive at the mention of her love’s name. “Do you know where he is?”

“I believe I saw him riding towards Ravenhill, Your Majesty,” he said, pointing out the location for her. “I have not seen him since.” After he finished speaking Aster followed his finger until she saw Azog’s wooden signaling machine, now abandoned and quite a few pieces of the tower broken. Her brows furrowed in worry and confusion. What in the world would draw him up there? Almost as if sensing what she was thinking, the Man continued.  

“He heard word that the Prince had gone up there with Tauriel after Thorin and his kin for reasons I do not know,” he explained. “I believe that would be your best bet.” The Elf knew that it would only be the next logical place to go, so she nodded and faced him again. 

“Thank you, Bard,” she muttered before letting out a high whistle. It only took a few moments before her elk Arelel rode up to her. She wasted no time in mounting him and grabbing the reins. 

“Norrindë, Arelel (Ride swift, Arelel),” she muttered before riding off 

“Good luck,” Bard called just before she rode off, to which she waved in response as she was too far to call back. She rode through the soldiers mourning their friends and comrades, trying not to let her thoughts linger too long. She desperately tried not to think of her husband in that same state as she dug her heels into her elk’s sides to get him to continue on. She had no idea what she would do if she saw him in such a state. 

She rode as quickly as Arelel would run, yet it still felt like an eternity before she finally reached the top of Ravenhill. The sky was beginning to turn orange as the sun began its descent beyond the horizon just as she reached her destination. She barely waited for her elk to stop on the other side of the frozen river right across from the tower before she hopped off, sprinting through the first doorway she saw. After searching through every corridor she came across she finally spotted two familiar heads of blonde hair, making her stop mid step. It was Thranduil and Legolas. A relieved smile appeared on her face, but just as she prepared to walk over to him she stopped when Legolas spoke. 

“I...cannot go back,” he said softly, which made her brows furrow in concern. 

She turned, then saw the reason for his sorrow. Tauriel sat beside the brunette Dwarf’s (she unfortunately never had the chance to learn his name) dead body, looking as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest. Aster’s heart went out to her. After learning that the redhead had left to follow the Dwarves she knew that it was more than just to find their prisoners. There were more powerful feelings at play, and it broke the Queen’s heart to know that Tauriel would not get the luxury of having a life with the one she loved. 

“Where will you go?” Thranduil questioned in the same gentle tone, making her turn back to him once again. 

“I do not know.”

“Go north, find the Dúnedain,” his father instructed. “There’s a young Ranger amongst them- you should meet him. His father, Arathorn, was a good man. His son might grow to be a great one.”

“What is his name?” The Prince inquired, intrigued. 

“He’s known in the wild as Strider. His true name you must discover for yourself.” The two nodded at each other then Legolas turned to walk away, but paused when his father called after him. 

“Legolas, your mother loved you,” he said softly, which made the Prince turn to face him yet again. “More than anyone...more than life.” For a moment the duo stared at each other thoughtfully, then made a gesture of farewell before Legolas continued on out of the corridor they stood in. Aster quickly stepped back so as to not be in his way, then before he got too far from her she called to him as well. 

“Your father loves you too,” she informed him. He paused for a moment, then looked at her with a weak smile. 

“I know,” he whispered, lifting a hand to press against her cheek with an affectionate and gentle touch. She smiled weakly and rested her hand against his. 

“Please, stay safe,” she whispered. “For me.” 

“Of course,” he nodded before dropping his hand and finally walking away. Once he was no longer in view, Aster looked at Thranduil. She watched relief flood his eyes as he stared at her. She understood the feeling. 

They were walking towards each other before she could even process it. Once they were within arm’s length he swooped her up into one of the tightest hugs he’d ever given her. It took all Aster had not to cry at the familiar embrace as she clung to him. Her relief about finding him unharmed was impalpable. 

“Meleth nin (my love),” Thranduil whispered, pulling back with a small smile. His smile quickly dropped when he looked her over and was replaced with concern. 

“You’re hurt,” he muttered worriedly, gesturing to a large slice in the sleeve of her tunic. She’d gotten it during a rather nasty fight with an extremely headstrong Orc who didn’t know how to stay down. Thankfully she’d just barely been able to dodge its attack before finally taking it down once and for all. 

“It is shallow,” she reassured him with a small smile. “It bled only a little and is already on the mend.” After taking a moment to make sure she was telling the truth he pulled her into another hug. As she rested her head against his chest she looked through the doorways leading outside, watching as the sun continued to set, almost halfway gone by that point. Thranduil noticed her line of sight and turned the both of them so they could watch it set. 

Despite all that had occurred that day, they found themselves in a state of peace as they watched the sky change colors. The setting sun meant that they were one day further from this horrible day. They continued to hold each other in silence, relieved to be with each other once again. And they knew that things would be okay.

[ao3feed-thehobbit]

Even Autumn Can't Compare

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/gWM58hQ

by Mossy Oak Tree (A_Mossy_Oak_Tree)

A gay one shot about Legolas and an OC because I'm terrible at x readers. But I have only ever found like 2-3 gay/queer shots (not even stories) for any of the The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings characters.

Our favorite dwarven bloodline is still alive because the boys dying destroyed me. Fuck yourself Azog (Azog is my worst hear me out character-).

Honestly this will probably be all over the place because I am, so let's just ride the roller coaster together shall we?

Words: 2394, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Hobbit - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil (Tolkien), Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien), Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Fíli (Tolkien)

Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Original Male Character(s), Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)

Additional Tags: Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Is Gay, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Tauriel and Kili are Bi bc I says so, Legolas doesn't know how to emotion, Thranduil gave Legolas daddy issues, Bilbo and Thorin are the best enemies to lovers trope, They're In Love Your Honor, Autistic Character bc I'm autistic and projecting

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/gWM58hQ

[braungirl]

First posted in 2013 but removed because I really didn’t think it was a good fanfic. But I’m finally finishing it and it is just two chapters away from completion!

Wandering dusky Mirkwood is a quiet creature who catches the eye of Prince Legolas. And peering from his lofty gaze, King Thranduil, also cannot seem to escape a swirling pair of green eyes that mysteriously appears in the Elvenking's Halls. The creature is bewitching, Tauriel observes her only ambition succumb to its power. The only way to stop the creature is The Truth.

Thranduil x OC

Legolas x OC

Azog x OC

OC x OC

TW: Rape, violence, sexual assault.

[darka-art]

I kinda blame a friends, and someone else for all this ( they like mermaid a lot XD ). So I decided to do some mermaids too. LOTR of course, becoz I miss drawing those characters too.

So, the first pic is my OC Melle, who is a Lion fish, and the second is Azog the Defiler who is a Wolffish. These are not my fav fish, but I still think they bboth really great.

(c) Lord of  the Rings belong to Tolkein Estate

Melle is mine

[anaveragebibliophile]

All is Well (Part 2)

Thranduil x Young!Legolas x OC 

Summary: We return to a meeting between Thranduil’s wife and Bilbo Baggins, specifically regarding a position that he has accepted on behalf of Gandalf the Grey and the queen herself. However, problems arise with the prince’s health, leading to a very chaotic conference with the king and queen highlighting their exceptional parenting capabilities. 

“My Queen, Master Baggins has accepted the position that you’ve so graciously offered to him,” Gandalf began, watching (y/n) rock the young prince in the ivory rocking chair adjacent to the bassinet that was kept in her and her husband’s chambers. 

Unlike most royals within the Woodland Realm, the king and queen prided themselves upon being readily available to their son at the drop of a hat. Rather than rely on maids and wet nurses to raise their elfling, they viewed the responsibility as a privilege that had been bestowed upon them to indulge in and appreciate to the utmost degree. As such, they were only ever seen without their sweet leaf on the rarest of occasions. As can be noted, this was indeed not one of those times. 

The queen couldn’t seem to hide both her surprise and pleasure from the wizard upon hearing this news. “I am quite happy to hear this, Gandalf. Unfortunately, as circumstances would have it, this expedition to Gundaband is just not something I can commit to at this time.” 

The “circumstances” that she was referring to could easily be deduced upon looking at her son.  Legolas, the 1-year-old son of Queen (y/n) and King Thranduil, had fallen ill only a few days ago. While his parents (his mother really) initially presumed this to be only a minor ailment that would dissipate in time, his fever had only worsened over the last few hours. And as a result of his extreme discomfort, he only desired to be held by his mother or father, the latter sadly battling the same illness in the bed adjacent to his wife and child. 

“Fret not, My Queen. You will not be disappointed with the hobbit that I’ve recommended to facilitate this mission.” 

“He’s right, darling,” Thranduil interjected. “Master Baggins is quite the experienced investigator. Furtive, prudent and intelligent.” 

At that response, (y/n) quickly diverted her attention from Gandalf to her husband, shocked to find him awake. He’d been sleeping most of the day, the excessive fatigue hitting him like a bag of rocks would. Painfully. 

“How are you feeling?” (y/n) queried, trying to settle Legolas down from her sudden movement. 

“I’m alright. Still quite fatigued and sore but I have to believe I’m on the mend,” he responded, coughing into his elbow. “How’s our little leaf holding up?” 

Gandalf took this time to analyze the dynamic between husband and wife. Slowly, oh so slowly, (y/n) stood up from the rocking chair, cooing at Legolas as he began to whimper. Sitting on her edge of bed and turning her body to face Thranduil, she watched as her husband prepped himself to take the precious cargo that laid before him. As she passed Legolas off into her husband’s waiting arms, everyone could hear the exhalation of relief from both father and son. It wasn’t long until (y/n) sidled up next to her husband, both of them attempting to coax their little one back to sleep with soothing words and gentle touches. 

It appeared that the rumors still stood true from where Gandalf stood. 

The king and queen were exceptional parents.  

“He’s been sporting a pretty nasty fever for the past few hours,” the queen continued. “The healer has come to see him twice to administer a few medicines that she believes will help. However, due to the ferocity of the illness, it will take more time for the remedies to take effect.” 

The king only nodded, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my friends, but—” 

(Y/n) raised a hand. “No, it is me who should apologize. I am being very discourteous. Please, Gandalf, continue.” 

“(Y/n), please. There is no need for that. The only other matter I wished to discuss had to do with meeting the hobbit in the flesh. Would that be something you would be interested in?”

At that question, Legolas’ lip began to quiver. Obviously, he knew what that meeting would entail. The separation of him and his mother. 

“My little leaf, everything is alright,” (y/n) began, reaching past Thran’s arm to smooth her son’s golden hair back from his little head. “Maman isn’t going anywhere.” 

The king took that time to pass his son over to his wife, fully aware of the fact that the elfling needed to be reassured that his mother was nearby. And would remain nearby for the foreseeable future. 

“Perhaps we could consider a meeting within our chambers? I understand that it might be uncomfortable for Master Baggins, but I’m afraid I’m a bit incapable of departing from this spot.”

“Not to worry, Your Majesties. I think an explanation will assuage any fears or reservations regarding this particular situation.” 

“Very well then, Gandalf,” the queen replied. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Are you absolutely positive that I won’t be intruding?” Bilbo asked, completely uncertain about entering the sacred chambers of two esteemed leaders of the realm. In his mind, if he made one false move, then—

Honestly, he didn’t even want to think about all of the ways those two could carry out his death.  

“What do you take me for? A novice? I’ll have you know that I’ve been friends with these two for centuries. Granted, it’s true that Queen (y/n) is much easier to get along with than the king, but it must also be made known that they are both genuinely kind people. Consider yourself lucky this time. His wife will be in close proximity and his poor elfling is fighting a nasty bug. He’s a bit softer today. Never mind the fact that it’s her reconnaissance detail and not his. He knows not to get involved in her affairs, especially ones of this caliber, unless it’s necessary.” 

As Gandalf kept pleading his case to Bilbo, he did notice the hobbit’s features begin to become a bit more consoled the more he talked. Hopefully this meant that he would be able to mediate between the two parties and allow this conference to commence. 

“If you’re sure—-”

“I am. You have to trust me. Have I ever led you astray before?” 

“No, you haven’t. So I guess that means I have no choice but to say yes.” 

At that comment, a small smile appeared on the wizard’s face. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the wizard and burglar entered the rooms that the king and queen shared, they were greeted to the sight of King Thranduil blowing raspberries on his son’s bare tummy, causing a surplus of delighted giggles to erupt from the little elfling and even his wife. 

After Gandalf left to retrieve Master Baggins, Legolas started to get a bit restless. In other words, he was miserable. He was still running a fever and was even starting to sound congested. Rocking him, singing to him, and even reading to him were not captivating his interest nor calming him down.

It wasn’t until (y/n) recommended removing his onesie that Legolas seemed more at ease. Allowing him to cool off was definitely a mood improver. What made that idea even more successful was her husband planting kisses on their son’s belly. Legolas thought it was the most comical thing ever. The more messy the sound, the funnier it was. 

Queen (Y/n) was the first one to notice that they had visitors. 

“Well, hello to you Master Baggins.” 

“Your Majesty,” Bilbo bowed. 

“My sincerest apologies for requesting your presence in such an intimate setting. Unfortunately, we are dealing with a sick elfling right now. As you can understand, his well-being is our utmost priority. My hope is that we’re not making this too uncomfortable for you.” 

“No, not at all.” 

Giving his son one more kiss to his belly, the king looked up and nodded to his visitor. “Hello, Master Baggins. A pleasure to see you again.” 

‘Wow,’ Bilbo thought as he watched King Thranduil wipe his son’s nose while simultaneously give him a lingering kiss on the forehead, ‘he is definitely not what most people presume him to be.’ 

Watching her husband and son, the queen said, “I was very pleased to hear that you accepted my offer to stand in as the mission leader for the expedition to Gundabad. As you know, Gandalf is a dear friend of mine, so you can imagine that I’ve heard a lot about you over the years. I was very impressed with the experience you’ve acquired. And in such a short time too. I think you’ll fit in well here.” 

“That’s very kind, Queen (y/n).”

“Oh please, call me (y/n).” 

“Of course. So, I know that Gandalf mentioned that you wanted to speak to me about a few things.”

Before the queen could respond, Legolas crawled out of her husband’s lap and made his way over to hers. Smiling brightly, she picked him up and embraced him. 

“And just what are you up to, my sweet boy?” (y/n) questioned, rubbing the backs of her fingers down his cheeks. “You feel cooler, which is a good sign. The medicines must be working.” 

The prince just took that opportunity to cuddle into his mother’s neck. 

While his wife was consoling their son, King Thranduil decided to step in. In this case, he knew (y/n) wouldn’t mind. “Like my wife mentioned earlier, Legolas is our priority at the moment. You’ll have to forgive her for appearing a bit distracted, but that is the life of a parent in difficult times. We tag team the best we can, but he has been circulating between the two of us with remarkable frequency.”

“It’s no trouble, King Thranduil. I understand. If it’s more convenient for you two, we could schedule this meeting at a later date.”

“Since your departure is in a week’s time, I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the queen added while rubbing the elfling’s back gently. “There are only three things that are truly of the utmost importance. But given the circumstances that have arisen on my end, I will be brief.”

Bilbo could only nod his head. 

“Our first matter of business has to do with the members you would like to include. Of course, the elven guard will be at your disposal, but I’m also allowing you to pick 5 other individuals. In fact, I recommend it. People that would be willing to follow you and protect you if harm comes your way. People who have fighting experience. Who you choose is completely up to you.” 

Bilbo thought on this while the mother surreptitiously passed her son off to her husband. It was obvious he was eager to have his child back in his arms. But one would be a fool not to want that little elfling around. He was extremely adorable with sky blue eyes and massive dimples that ate up his cheeks. His calm, charming demeanor was just the icing on the cake in the hobbit’s mind.  

“So the dwarves would be an option then, yes?” 

The queen merely nodded her head.

“Right then, with that settled, let’s move on to the second matter. In good conscience I cannot send you without some formal training. Although you can fight, as I have been told, you have never been in quarters quite like this. I have asked Gandalf as well as a few other trusted advisors to prepare you for a potential onslaught. How to strategize, how to attack, methodologies of that nature. They will be the ones that will alert me of your progress. But please know that if they’re not satisfied with what they see, the mission will be delayed until you’re ready. Your safety, and the safety of my guard, is of the utmost priority.” 

When (y/n) didn’t receive any inquiries regarding her expectations, she then proceeded to the third and final matter. 

Glancing over at her son curled into her husband’s chest, she began. “The last issue I would like to discuss primarily deals with the capture of an Orc named Bröcen. As of right now, he appears to be one of the leaders of a sub-group of Orcs that permanently resides in Gundabad. We have reason to believe that he is orchestrating the creation of an army at the request of his overlord Azog; a request that would certainly destroy a significant portion of Middle Earth’s population if it came to fruition. As such, the main goal of this mission is to bring him back here, alive. Without him, we will never be privy to the Overlord’s plans. Essentially, we will never be able to stop him.” 

And just like that, a sudden, tiny sneeze interrupted any potential response from Bilbo. 

Queen (Y/n) and Bilbo himself immediately turned their heads to look down at the little elfling. He sniffled, raising his arms out to stretch in his father’s embrace. After receiving yet another kiss from Thran, Legolas then cuddled back into his chest, paying no mind to the dangers that were being talked about right in front of him. 

“Nai eru tye mánata (God bless you),” (y/n) and Thranduil whispered at the same time. 

Once the queen was certain that her child was fast asleep, she faced the hobbit again. “Again, I can only apologize Bilbo. I’m quite distracted today. My hope is that everything was clear and comprehensive. If you do have more questions, I’ll be happy to answer them in due time.” 

“Of course, My Queen. Please don’t feel any rush right now. You explained everything in a concise manner that I was able to comprehend,” Bilbo qualified. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions, but for now you deserve to focus on your family.” 

(Y/n) smiled brightly. “Thank you for being so accommodating Master Baggins. We’ll be in touch, I’m sure.” 

With that, Bilbo bowed and moved himself towards the door. Yet, as his hand lightly grasped the doorknob, the soft babbling of Legolas made him turn back to see what all the commotion was about. 

Queen (Y/n) was standing, hugging Gandalf tightly while her husband appeared to be walking into their bathroom to run a bath for the baby. He knew that because Legolas was once again curled against his chest as he made his way to a large oval tub that had a baby bath seat sitting on its edge. 

As Thran turned the faucet, his low timbre began to hum a tune to his son who was lazing in his arms, yawning every so often. There wasn’t a doubt in Biblo’s mind that Legolas adored his father. He gazed up at him, entranced by every movement he made and every act of affection he gave. At least it was nice to know that the king’s harshness didn’t actually extend to his immediate family. Rumors be damned. 

Bilbo was soon brought out of his trance by his fellow comrade. 

“You know the rules, (y/n). If that little guy isn’t feeling better in two day’s time, send for me. I’ll bring Athelas as soon as I can.” 

“Of course, Gandalf. See you soon. And you too, Bilbo,” the queen said, waving. 

“Likewise,” was the response she received from both of them.

[daughter-of-arda]

WM2022: Day 26--Scream

Summary: Orcs are nearby.

Word Count: 100

Warnings: none

Author’s Note: back to masterlist HERE. Move to day 27 HERE.

——————————————————————————

On watch with Branna, Ingrid is startled by a wild scream from the plains of the Wilderland. It’s silenced, as if muffled by something else, and though it sounds like a wolverine she knows Azog’s scouts are close behind. After a lengthy silence, however, she’s ready to write off her reaction as paranoia.

But then little dots of light spring to life, forming a line that moves their direction. No Orc, not even those of Gundabad, can see well in the dark. They need torches.

“Get up!” Ingrid whisper-shouts, shaking the nearest lump awake. Branna does the same. “They’re coming!”

[lathalea]

The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ...

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had  pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs. 

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier. 

“Look at his back!” 

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said. 

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.” 

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop. 

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice. 

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. 

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

 The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body. 

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal. 

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.  

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that  joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups. 

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with  wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice. 

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.  

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain. 

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head. 

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…” 

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin. 

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

 “We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

 A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again. 

“Help me understand this, laddie.” 

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes. 

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

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[delicatenightfury]

Star of the Mountain Chapter 27

Warnings: fluff, angst, canon-level violence, spoilers for the Hobbit films

Pairing: OC x Thorin Oakenshield

Beta'd By: @mistys-blerbz

Author's Note: please do not steal my work! I do not own the Hobbit or the characters, but I do own my OCs and the parts of the plot that are not part of the movies. I have worked very hard on this fic. Please be respectful and do not steal.

Please comment, reblog, and like!

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Fili watched his uncle as Thorin slowly approached him. Kili was following him and the rest of the company stepped back to give the family space. Fili could see the difference in his uncle’s face. He still looked tired, but there was life in his eyes now. Fili smiled.

“It’s good to see you, uncle,” he said, his voice soft.

“You as well, Fili.” Thorin pressed his forehead to Fili’s, much like he had done with Kili moments earlier. “I am glad to see you both safe.”

Kili nodded, but Fili had another thought at the front of his mind.

“Thorin, what about Oreliell?” he asked.

His eyes softened further and Fili could see his worry.

“Have you seen them?”

“Not for some time. It got hard to keep track of them.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Kili said. “They’re both capable of taking care of themselves.”

“Indeed they are,” Thorin agreed. “But I believe we would all feel better when we see them again.”

Thorin signaled to the company, who began moving quickly. Bombur climbed the gate once more with a horn in hand while the rest readied a large bell, pulling it as far back as possible. When they were ready, Thorin signaled Bombur again. The horn echoed loudly; Fili was sure that it could be heard from Dale. With another signal, the dwarves released the bell.

The bell swung forward, knocking into the stone wall they had built and destroying it.

Thorin led the charge, sword drawn and shield at the ready. Fili and Kili were quick to follow him, the company close behind them. The Iron Hills dwarves that had gathered in front of Erebor parted to allow the company through.

“To the king!” Dain shouted to his men.

The dwarves cheered and joined the charge.

“Du bekâr!” Thorin shouted, sword raised. (translation: /To arms!\)

In moments, they clashed with the orcs. Fili swung his sword, taking down whatever orcs he could reach. He was determined to press on and follow his uncle through the battle.

The sea of orcs seemed to be never ending. Fili would take out one orc, only to be greeted by another one when he turned. He was glad to have his brother by his side. They knew to take care of each other. It was something they had promised their mother before joining Thorin on the quest. Even during the heat of the battle, they were watching each other’s backs.

“Lads!” Dwalin called.

He motioned for them to join him and Balin, who had managed to wrangle up several goats despite the heat of the battle. Balin’s smile was visible beneath his beard.

“Azog is commanding his army from Ravenhill,” he said. They all knew that Thorin meant to kill Azog. “You’ll need these to get there.”

Fili and Kili nodded their thanks to Balin, giving Dwalin a moment to say his farewell to Balin. Then, Dwalin mounted his own goat. He kicked it into action, the princes following close behind. They approached Thorin, who had found his own goat and was talking with Dain.

“Lead on!” Dwalin shouted to Thorin.

Thorin nodded and urged his own goat forward.

Together, they tore through the front line of a new wave of oncoming orcs. It was hard to see through them all, but the four cleared enough of a path that they were able to break all the way through. Kili gave a cheer, raising his sword. Thorin, still in the lead, felled any orc in his path. Fili, Kili, and Dwalin cleaned up behind him, killing the ones that he missed.

Thorin led the way up Ravenhill, their goats scaling the cliffside almost effortlessly. They quickly reached the ruins of Ravenhill. With only quick looks exchanged, they broke apart, taking different routes to the top. Fili swung his sword whenever he got the chance, killing orcs left and right.

When he reached the top, he saw that both Thorin and Dwalin had dismounted and were fighting once again. Fili leapt from his goat, slicing the leg off an orc before killing another. Kili was beside him in moments. Soon, the orcs were dead. Fili looked around quickly to make sure of that fact, breathing a small sigh of relief.

Thorin stepped up to the edge of the stone platform and looked across the frozen water. Fili followed his gaze. The watchtower appeared abandoned through the mist. It sent a chill of unease through Fili.

“Where is he? It looks empty,” Kili said. “I think Azog has fled!”

“I don’t think so.” The dwarves quickly turned around at the new voice, their eyes widening. “Azog is far too smart for that.”

“Oreliell!” Kili said.

He dashed forward and wrapped his arms around her. Oreliell stumbled ever so slightly, but smiled. Fili and Dwalin also approached her.

“It’s good to see you, lass,” Dwalin said.

“We weren’t sure what had happened to you,” Fili said. “We lost sight of you.”

“I am fine,” she said. “I am glad to see that you four are all right as well.”

Fili quickly remembered his uncle. He glanced back at Thorin. His eyes were wide and trained on Oreliell. He seemed stunned to see her.

“Oreliell,” he breathed.

She looked up, eyes immediately landing on him. 

“Thorin.” Her voice sounded almost softer than his.

Fili stepped back from her, pulling Kili to do the same. Dwalin seemed to have disappeared. Thorin walked toward her. His steps were slow, as if it were an effort. Fili supposed it was. The two had not been in the best place over the last several days.

Thorin stopped only a few steps from Oreliell. His eyes would not leave her. Thorin lifted his hand, his fingertips touching her golden braid. Fili glanced away from the intimate moment. He sent a silent prayer to Mahal; he wanted his uncle and future aunt to find the happiness they both deserved. He also hoped that someday he would also find his One like his brother and uncle had.

“You’re here?” Thorin asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I could not leave you to fight Azog on your own.”

Thorin’s hand fell away from her.

“Despite-”

“Thorin. I am here. That is what matters. We can talk about things once Azog is dead and this threat has ended.”

Thorin nodded, a look of determination washing over him again. He looked out over the water for a moment before looking at Fili and Kili.

“Fili, take your brother,” he said. “Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage. Do you understand?”

“I will go with them,” Oreliell said.

They looked at her.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Another set of eyes will not hurt.”

Dwalin suddenly appeared again, ax gripped tightly in his hand. 

“We have company,” he said. “Goblin mercenaries. No more than a hundred.”

They turned to see that goblins were indeed coming over the walls. Fili adjusted his sword in his hand.

“We’ll take care of them. Go! Go!”

Oreliell nodded to the brothers.

“Let’s go,” she said.