#amralime

You had gone with Bilbo after he had finally confronted Thorin. You said nothing as you left, merely clapping Kili on the shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile as he went to protest your leaving. You turned to Thorin, your eyes filled with sadness and despair but not regret. Wordlessly, you slipped over the side of the wall and went with Bilbo to Thranduil, Bard, and Gandalf.

Yours was among the first swords to meet the orcs in battle. Tirelessly you fought on, orc after orc you slew in a seemingly neverending river of blood. You had not made it unscathed, but when the mountain’s horn bellowed across the land you were still standing tall enough to see the bell hit the rubble and blow out the door, still seeing clear enough (in one eye at least because your forehead above your other eye had been hit by an elbow and was bleeding profusely) to see your friends charging into battle, still feeling strongly enough to bring tears to your eyes as you realized who was leading them. Along with Dain’s army, you were filled with a renewed vigor and you screamed a bellowing battle cry before charging back into the battle.

It was by chance that you had noticed the rams making their way up the mountain, but immediately you knew who was riding them. Without hesitation, you fought your way to the hilltop ruins and began to climb your way to the top.

As you reached the peak, the sound of swords clanging met your ears. You quickened your pace through the building in search of the others. You stifled a scream as you came across Fili’s body, tears spilling down your face, and a choked sob escaped your lips as you saw Bolg impaling Kili across the way. Hyperventilating, you scrambled through the winding halls, getting lost twice before you finally burst through a door which lead outside to the lake. You breathed a small sigh of relief upon seeing Thorin, alive and well, but gripped your sword as you noticed Azog. The two were facing one another, Azog gaping at Thorin while holding some sort of giant mace, Thorin smirking at Azog before he took a single step back. Azog fell beneath the ice and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Thorin didn’t notice you, focused intently on watching Azog float down river. You walked towards him, each step more urgent than the last, the need to hold your king in your arms overwhelming every cell in your body.

Your step faltered when Thorin let out a pained scream, and your eyes widened as you saw the blade protruding from his foot. For a moment, you were frozen in place as though the ice from the river had taken hold of you. You watched Azog burst through the ice, watched as Thorin fell on his back, watched the struggle.

And then suddenly you were running, and then you were on the ground, a huge pale orc atop you, your swords buried in one another’s stomachs. All sound left your ears, all feeling from your body, all thought from your mind. To some degree, you were aware of what had just occurred–you had tackled Azog and rolled with him a few feet from Thorin, and just as your blade had pierced the orc so too had his pierced you. Thorin was safe.

This revelation brought a small smile to your lips as the cold from the ice began to seep into your body. You were almost totally unaware of someone pushing the orc off you, of strong, warm arms lifting your torso into theirs, of the deep, booming voice whispering in your ear. “Please, Amrâlimê, do not go where I can not follow. Stay with me, please.”

You rolled your head back to look at him, his face going in and out of focus, and you knew you were smiling. You reached up and buried your hand in his hair, in the braid you had given him. You looked into his clear blue eyes, all the Dragon Sickness gone from them, and tears fell from your eyes and his. “You came,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than a breath. “My King Under the Mountain. My Thorin.”

A choked sob escaped his lips as he pressed his forehead to yours. “Why? Why did you do it?” he breathed.

A soft chuckle came from somewhere in your chest. “Because I love you.” You dropped your hand from his hair and, in a burst of clarity, you pulled a dagger from your boot and cut a braid from your hair. You took Thorin’s large hand and placed the braid within it, clapping your hands over his. You looked back up at him and smiled softly. Tears streamed down his face and he looked up for a moment, swallowing dryly before he looked back at you. “You are my world,” he whispered shakily.

You touched his face again and he leaned down to kiss you. Your hands fell to your lap. “Remember who you are, Thorin, my love,” you breathed against his lips.

Your head fell back in his hands and your body went limp against him. He looked down upon your face for a while, his body wracked with silent sobs. After a few moments, he screamed his agony into the sky and clutched your body to him, rocking back and forth with you in his arms.

Thorin sat with you for a long while, hours probably, before Bilbo and the others gently goaded him to let you go. They buried you alongside Fili and Kili on a hilltop which overlooked a valley of wildflowers. Thorin opened Erebor and its wealth to everyone, to Dain’s people, to the people of Lake Town, to the elves of Mirkwood, and even to the people of Rivendell and Beorn. Once those who desired it had taken a fair share (a moderate amount to each people so the effects of the Dragon Sickness would never overpower anyone again,) Thorin and the dwarves of Erebor were left with a modest treasury. Thorin destroyed the entrances to the mines to dissuade others from trying to delve deeper into madness.

One evening, before Bilbo had left, he ventured to Thorin’s chambers. He cleared his throat softly and the King turned to look at him. “Master Baggins,” he acknowledged.

“I, erm, Thorin. I wanted to ask you… well, I suppose I wanted to ask you what ever became of the Arkenstone, after I, well after I gave it back.” The Hobbit shuffled his feet nervously, fiddling with a string on his vest.

Thorin looked out the window, tears misting his eyes before he turned back to Bilbo. A small smile lightened his face. “Truth be told, Master Baggins, it is safe.”

Bilbo’s shoulders fell and disappointment filled his body. Thorin wasn’t free after all. “Oh, I see,” he said. Thorin beckoned the Hobbit closer and pointed out the window. Bilbo went to it and looked. “Their graves?” he asked with confusion.

Thorin nodded softly. “You know I built their tombstones myself?” he whispered. Bilbo nodded. “The Arkenstone will forever lie with her… As a reminder to myself as to why I lost them, why I lost her.” Tears threatened to fall from his eyes and Bilbo turned to look at him. It was then that the Hobbit noticed the lock of hair Thorin clutched in his hand, thumb stroking it gently. Bilbo reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The two looked at one another and smiled sadly.

Bilbo left a few days later. Thorin sat at his desk, writing, endlessly writing. He stopped after a while and looked out at your hilltop. The familiar rock swelled in his throat as memories of you filled his senses. He took a deep, shuddering breath and watched the sun set slowly behind where you lie. He wiped his eyes with his rough hand and walked to the window.