Something in the Night

Chapter Twelve

His arms trembled from the force of holding the filth back. Azog the Defiler loomed over him, pressing his full weight into his sword. The only thing holding him at bay was the Orcrist and Thorin's own will. But, even as he stared up at the pale orc, Thorin did so without actually seeing him. In his head, however, he saw Fíli's seemingly lifeless body in Azog's hand. Then, Azog let go, tossing Fíli as if he was nothing more than rubbish. Fíli made no sound until he hit the stone ground. Then, a sickening crunch of breaking bones filled the void.

He didn't know where Kíli was, and could only hope that his youngest nephew had not crossed paths with any of the Gundabad orcs.

Azog shifted his weight, pressing harder still. Thorin looked up into the crystalline blue eyes that held no warmth, no humanity, were nothing more that two pale slivers of ice staring back at him.

He knew what he had to do.

Loosening his grip on the blade, Thorin slid his left hand free and let his right fall away as well.

At first, he felt nothing.

But then...

Mahal...

Fire. White-hot and furious, that fire sliced through him as both blade pierces his flimsy chainmail armor, pierced the heavy woolen tunic beneath it.

Pierced his skin. His guts. Pain did not aptly describe the sheer, agonizing torture of being run through, of feeling every inch of not one, but two blades as they sliced cleanly through him. A red haze fell before his eyes and he couldn't hold back his primal cry of anguish. Nothing could ever hurt the way this did.

The triumph in the orc's eyes steeled Thorin's will, his resolve and he waited a moment, just as Azog began to relax.

Utter shock rendered the orc's face limp, his jaw going slack as Thorin surged toward him, grabbed him by the shoulders to flip him onto his back. Ignoring the burning in his gut, the sticky damp flow of his blood as it seeped from his wounds into his tunic, Thorin shoved the orc down, onto his back and as he did, he shifted his weight, maneuvered the Orcrist between them.

And pushed with everything he had.

The blade, sharp enough to literally split a hair, slid with little effort, but Thorin threw his weight into it, pushing as it went through the orc and into the ice. His face but inches from Azog's, it was Thorin's turn to just watch, empty inside as the light went out in the orc's soulless eyes. A thick, black pool formed beneath the pale, scarred body, spreading outward, across the ice. Into the ice to seep into the river.

Thorin jerked back, a hand going instinctively to his wounds and his stomach lurched as blood spilled over his gloved fingers, bounced across the ice, oozed into the black orc blood. Nausea swept through him. An icy sweat prickled along his back and chest. He managed to push back and get to his feet, almost blinded from the agony.

He staggered back, and turned to slowly move toward the falls.

He heard the cry of the eagles.

Unable to remain upright, Thorin sank to his knees, letting out a low moan as the vibration of hitting the ice sent a stinging wave of icy hot pain surging through him.

He could barely breathe now. It hurt too much. Took too much effort.

With that, he slumped onto his back.

Thorin bolted awake with a low, strangled moan, and relief coursed through him as he stared up into the darkness and woven branches and vines slowly came into sight. An icy sweat bathed him, prickled along his chest and stung along his wounds that were now merely raised pink scars.