The Sons of Durin

After the Battle

In the waning of the day of the great battle, the grey evening light fell grim and cold across the land. Its dismal luminance reached down to touch the town of Dale, where the survivors of Laketown had cobbled together what meager shelter they could, and the stronghold of Erebor, in which the company of Thorin Oakenshield had hidden themselves ere the battle had begun. Its hard glint shone in the dark eyes of the stern bowman who stood on the ramparts of Dale, surveying the wreck and ruin in the valley below; in the pensive eyes of an Elvenking who had said a bittersweet farewell to that which was most precious to him, and which he had most taken for granted; in the tear-glistening eyes of an elf-maid that wept over a lost love; in the stricken eyes of the Halfling who knelt sobbing by the body of a fallen friend.

And as the last glimmer of dying light spread itself over the earth, it caught the gleam of another pair of eyes, barely open: eyes which should have been forever closed in the stillness of death, but as if by some miracle had flickered open one last time. The life shining from within those eyes, like the light that illumined them from without, was fading rapidly. And yet, while the light remained, hope remained with it: hope to be found, hope to be rescued and brought back to a state of wellness. And so Fíli, sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield, clung to life with a stubborn tenacity that (according to some) only a dwarf could muster. But he could not move, nor could he cry out, for his back was broken and his lung, which had been pierced by the blade of the Orc commander Azog the Defiler, was filled with blood.

The sky over Ravenhill had turned from pale dove-grey to a dark shade of pewter, and though the young dwarf was clad in heavy furs and armor, he shivered in the winter chill, wondering if perhaps he would die by freezing long before he succumbed to his battle-wounds. But as he recalled his uncle Thorin, and his brother Kíli, and the loyal companions that had accompanied them on their long and perilous journey to reclaim their homeland, his heart warmed at the thought of them, and seemed to keep the outward frigidity somewhat at bay. For Fíli had made up his mind firmly, as (some say) few but a dwarf can. He had decided that he should live, so long as he could think of any reason to do so. And live he would!

He did not know how long he lay there, whether it had been hours or days or mere minutes since he had first been wounded. But at long last, as the last trace of light ceased to linger on the western horizon, Fíli heard a movement nearby, and perceived the shape of another creature approaching him from some feet away. It was a tall shape, lithe and slender, advancing with the light tread of an elf, and as it drew near, its finely-woven garb confirmed Fíli's first general impression: it was an elf, and it appeared to have noticed Fíli's presence. In a moment it was standing over him, a tall and stately shadow against the darkened canopy that stretched overhead.

Then the form knelt down, and Fíli could distinguish its face a little more clearly. It was a noble face, and a young one: although, as elves may live many thousands of years and yet still display no age-induced decay, the smoothness of the Elf's face and the brightness in his eye was no true indication of the number years he had lived.

Assuming immediately that the Elf meant to harm him, Fíli with a great effort managed to move his sword-arm, but his groping hand found no weapon, for they had all been lost during the frenzy of the battle.

"Lie still," the Elf commanded, in a smooth and regal voice that matched his appearance. "You will do well to lay aside your pride and accept my help," he added somewhat tersely, "for your life fades swiftly, and without aid you may die within a matter of moments."

Choking, Fíli managed a brief and surly response: "I have already lain here long enough: if death meant to take me, I think that it would have done so by now."