mithril

XIX.

— XIX —

A deep roar ripples through the air as Azog throws me carelessly away. The kind of deep, primal sound founded on centuries and entire lifetimes of rage. The experiences of dragonfire and the pain of losing entire bloodlines, watching innocent children perish and mourning those lost in war. It's the injustice of death claiming the free of heart far before their time. It's ruination and wrath and revenge. It's the battle cry of a man who has nothing left to lose.

I land against the ice and slide for several lengths more, ending up beside Angolain against the bank. My blade is just out of reach, the pommel beyond my fingertips if I were to reach for it. I don't, staying as still as possible as the hole in my chest turns the ice red. Such a terrible color, but somehow even worse as it leaves my body in a steady trickle. The ice is steaming from the heat of it. The very essence of my life turning the frozen water back into liquid again.

I watch, curled on my side, as Thorin dives at the Orc. He launches his entire body recklessly, the force of the driving Dwarf taking them both plunging into the frigid water at the center of the river where Azog's stone has broken through the thick ice. They disappear beneath the surface with a tremendous splash. The water rocks against the ice for several long moments before it starts to flatten. If I could, I would worry that Thorin won't rise from the water again. But there isn't much in my mind. Just the cold, numbing pain as it bites through my body.

Thorin's head explodes from the current, the Dwarf gasping for air as he reaches for a chunk of ice. He messily crawls onto the floating surface, his chest heaving and Orcrist clutched to him closely as he presses his back to the ice for a moment. The Orc is nowhere to be seen as he heaves himself up and starts to scramble for me. He slips and slides across the ice, desperation making him clumsy.

Thorin falls to his knees, the force of his rush making him slip across the ice. I whimper as he almost slides into me. He lifts my head to his soaked thigh, his other hand moving to cover the bloody hole in my chest. I can barely feel his touch. That frightens me more than anything. I have always treasured his hands on my skin. The memory of his lips on mine is still there, as are a hundred burning fingerprints across my face and my hands. But now...now I feel nothing. Not the bite of cold, nor pain. No trickle of blood down my torso. Not him. Not him.

"Léra," he whispers. "No, no, no. Look at me. Keep your eyes open."

I smile slightly. That won't be terribly hard, right? He's so nice to look at, after all. I try to lift my hand and trace his face. Nothing happens. My fingers don't even twitch at my side. Unfeeling and cold. It feels like there is very little left of me in this world. Half of my soul is already in the realm of the wraiths, the other half only just held down by the Dwarf that is curled over my body. I blink slowly. Thorin is fading before me. Wavering. My vision starts to blacken around the edges.

"Thorin," I gasp out. I need to know he's still here.

"Shh," he soothes me.

No. No.

Something isn't right.

Tug tug. Tug tug.

Anxious. Fast paced. A warning.

"Thorin!" I repeat, my voice a high croak in my panic. He turns. He doesn't move in time. I catch myself as his knee disappears from under me, rising onto my elbow before my head cracks into the ice. A cry leaves my lips, but the sound is weak and gurgled. All I can do is watch as Azog steps into Thorin.

The blade of the pale Orc slides into Thorin's chest.

The Dwarf gasps, his mouth twisting in rage. Azog is grinning down at him, eyes bright with satisfaction. Thorin, still resting on his knees, is shifting. His fingers scrabble against the ice. Trying to reach Orcrist, the sword having been discarded when he moved to my side.

The Elven blade might not be within his grasp, but Angolain is. His hand wraps around the blue pommel and he rises upward with such a powerful thrust that Azog flies backward, Thorin following. The Dwarf drives Angolain deep into the Orc's heart, pushing it down, down, down. Stabbing Azog the Defiler into the ice. Stabbing him with that same unrelenting rage, the battle cry pursed on his lips. Avenging his forefathers. Avenging his nephew. Avenging me. He rests over the Orc's body for a long moment before he starts to tip. He collapses to the ice, unmoving.

"No," I whisper. I push past the threshold of my body, tapping into an inhumane energy I had never realized resided within me. I crawl to Thorin, using my elbows to scrape my way across the cracked ice. Blood and water soak into my clothes, but I ignore the chill as I fall against him. My shaking hands lift, dragging against him until I'm pressed into his broken chest. The ancient Quenyan spells rise to my lips, repeating over and over again. Repeating, but hardly working. I don't have enough energy. My words are jumbled and messy. I can't think straight.

This isn't working.

Something warm presses into my hand. I look up in surprise and find the Hobbit leaning over me. Bilbo looks beyond terrified, but determined.

"Use it!" He commands. I nod jerkily, lifting the ring to my finger.

Fire ignites within me. Burning with a kind of power I have never felt before. I open my mouth, my head snapping back at the sudden rush of dark and unending rage that boils through me. A hot, consuming heat spreads to my fingertips. This is not good magic. This ring is bringing life to me again, but it is terrible and fell in doing so. It kindles my soul into light, but burns part of it away at the same time. It gives me energy, but it destroys pieces of who I am.

I push past the tormenting shriek of the ring within my mind as I return my attention to Thorin. My hands are no longer shaking as I focus all of this power into healing him.

It's not enough, but it stops his life from sailing over the edge and into the pit of death. There's only so much I can do before the power utterly consumes me. Everything feels heavy and dark and tumultuous as I yank the ring off. I practically throw it at Bilbo, my body immediately collapsing as the burning light leaves me. I fall onto my back next to Thorin. I'm gasping for air. For warmth. My lips are blue and my heart will soon follow. There isn't enough blood in my body to keep me alive.

I ache for release. For this torment to end and the pain to leave my limbs. My head turns to Thorin. His chest is rising steadily. He's breathing.

He's alive.

Tears of relief slip from my eyes, mingling with the blood and dirt on my cheeks. I reach for Thorin, my hand wrapping around his wrist. I try to form words. I try to use that last lingering touch of the ring's power to speak to him. To wish him farewell.

I love you, Thorin Oakenshield. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth.

Bilbo is leaning over me, speaking urgently. His lips move silently. I blink slowly, uncomprehending. I can't hear the Hobbit.

My hands are numb. I can't feel him. I can't feel Thorin. I can't feel the numbing cold in my limbs. I can't feel the pain.

The only thing I can feel before blackness takes my vision away is the steady, persistent pound of my soul.

Tug tug. Tug tug.