Warrior's Heart

Chapter Sixteen

Thorin's fever crept up during the night. He lay shivering on the damp floor, muscles aching, head spinning with hallucinations of men who were not there. He carried on feverish conversations with his father, his grandfather, his mother.

Azog the Defiler brought an army with him, determined to exterminate every last one of the Longbeards at the battle of Azanulbizar. Thorin fought alongside his grandfather, Thrór, equally determined to eradicate Middle Earth of all Orcs.

He watched in horror as Azog beheaded Thrór, a red haze of rage falling before his eyes. Thorin attacked, killing everything between him and Azog. But the Defiler was waiting for him, and he swung to kill, but Thorin saw the blow coming and pivoted to his left. His shield went flying, he caught a glancing blow, and careened some twenty feet before landing on his back, narrowly missing being impaled by the large oak branch that lay on the ground.

Azog swung again, knowing Thorin was vulnerable. But, Thorin grabbed the branch, swinging it up and putting it between him and the mace. He thrust his sword up with every bit of strength he had, severing Azog's arm above the elbow.

"He should be dead," he mumbled to his grandfather. "I killed him. He slunk off to his hole and died. But he didn't."

"No," Thrór replied sadly. "He didn't. And now..."

"And now he will have my head." He felt so hot now, as if he lay atop a pyre, but no matter where he went, the heat refused to abate. "And Arielle... I've left her vulnerable..."

"She will be fine. She is a good woman, Thorin. You have chosen well."

"I must protect her. I failed her."

"You did nothing of the sort, my grandson. Because of you, the Durin line will continue."

He shook his head. "She is not my wife yet."

"It matters not. She will be and she carries your heir, Thorin. Our line is secure."

"Wait... She carries... how?"

Thrór offered up a knowing smile. "Need I explain it to you, lad? You should know by now what happens when you bring a woman to your bed."

Thorin smiled despite the raging heat coursing through him. "A baby? Do you tell me true or do you play me, as my mind is?"

"You will see soon enough."

Thrór faded from sight, even as Thorin threw out his hand and called out to him, begged him to stay. Instead, Azog was there. His blade glinted in the sun. Blood spattered in all directions.

Thrór's head rolled down the rocks to bounce to a halt at Thorin's feet. His eyes, the same gray-blue passed down through generations of Durin's men, stared unseeing and unblinking up at him.

Then, to his horror, he realized it was not Thrór's head at all ,but Arielle's. Blue-gray eyes were now green. He dropped to his knees, his anguished cry echoing off the moss-covered stone of his cell.

He blinked. He was alone.

He stretched his aching muscles, only to let out a whimper at the fiery pain shooting through him. No one had been in to the dungeons in hours, perhaps days, he had no way of knowing. Time ceased to have any meaning. He was beyond parched. Hadn't eaten since breakfast with Arielle the morning he'd proposed to her.

Arielle.

His mind swam with the hallucinations it cooked up. A child. If only it was true. He'd never thought much about children before. Oh, he'd seen the dwarven children running about, laughing or fighting with one another. Several of the Company had wives and children and he certainly didn't mind them. They all seemed a bit in awe of him, eyeing his sword, his armor, and when he could, he'd play with them, tell them stories of the days of Erebor. He'd throw his nephews into the air when they were small, their shrieks of laughter music to his ears.