Of Dragons, Dwobbits and Dwarves

Chapter Thirty-Five

"We must march on Mordor, immediately."

To his credit, Thorin didn't burst out laughing but Fili imagined it was less from self-control and more a mix of exhaustion and grief that stayed him.

"We have spent days fighting for the mountain," his uncle said, voice flat with fatigue. "And more have fought longer. My people have nothing left."

Fili swallowed, his own rush of grief passing through him at the words. The combined forces of Rohan and Lothlorien had succeeded in turning the tide of battle, breaking through the remaining ranks of orcs and routing them to so great an extent that they'd fled the field in droves.

It was a great victory, but the price had been far too high for celebrating. After the initial relief, and joy, at seeing their salvation riding in, reality had quickly set in. Eyes had turned toward the field, and the obscene number of dead. Exhausted dragons littered the landscape, heaving sides the only signs of life, while a steady stream of equally worn out soldiers wandered in a dull trance toward Erebor's gates.

Thorin, Fili and Kili had met Thengel, Gandalf and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien in the center of the field. There had been no time, or desire, to set up any sort of table or tent, and only the barest effort made to find a relatively untouched patch of earth over which to meet. Aragorn, Elrond, Lord Bard of Dale and Varr, Master of Lake-town, had made their way over, looking as tired and battered as the rest of them. Fili had no idea when Lake-town had arrived but spared a moment of worry for the small town, and his brother's friend, Cassie. The orcs hadn't come from that direction so they should have been safe, but then everyone who currently lay dead inside Erebor's upper halls should have been safe as well.

"If you do not go," Galadriel intoned solemnly, "it will have all been in vain."

Thorin looked as if she'd slapped him and Fili clenched his hands into fists at the seeming casual dismissal of their sacrifice. The elf, and her husband, were dressed for war but were as fresh as if they'd stepped out for a walk. It was easy enough for them to pass judgement and make demands, having not lived through the past few days themselves.

We had rotations, he sent to Thorin, unwilling to say it out loud and risk undermining his uncle in front of the others. Some aren't as tired as others.

That was a stretch. The fighting had lasted days and all the rotations in the world couldn't overcome the limits of flesh and bone. Their only saving grace had been numbers, enough to allow for longer breaks and shorter stints in battle but, even then, it only went so far.

"My father is sending more," Aragorn cut in.

Arathorn had sent several groups but mustering the entire army of Gondor to leave the city, while ensuring the people who lived there were safe in its absence, was no small feat. Fili was impressed at the numbers Gondor had been able to gather and send on such short notice, it had made a great difference, not just in the fight but in morale.

"Would it even matter?" Bard asked, exhaustion lining his voice. "The creature has fled, and no doubt is already at the cage. We have no hope of stopping him before he opens it."

Way to be optimistic, a voice sounded in his head and Fili turned slightly as his brother trudged up. He held his bow loosely in one hand, empty quiver hanging from his belt. He looked dead on his feet, probably the result of hypocrisy, demanding Fili go in and sleep while he ran himself into the ground. Fili allowed the sentiment to carry across their bond and got a dirty look in response before Kili stopped next to him, close enough to use Fili's shoulder to brace himself without being overt about it.