Chapter 113: battle of the five armies PT 5

General POV]

-Entrance to Erebor-

"Quick, quick! Cover them!" Kili roared, his voice firm yet tinged with an anxiety he couldn't conceal.

From atop the walls, his gaze locked onto the black masses of orcs swirling like a dark tide, advancing ferociously toward the elves. In the distance, the glint of golden elven armor shimmered under the dim light, moving with disciplined precision as they hurried to take position outside Erebor's gates.

His heart clenched as he spotted Aldril in the rear, shielding the men fleeing alongside the elves.

Aldril's imposing figure exuded a dangerous presence that sent chills down Kili's spine, even from this distance. Yet with that presence came something that stirred something primal within all who beheld him, the instinct to follow the strongest. 'I want to fight alongside him,' was the collective thought of those who watched him.

Kili's desire to abandon his position on the walls burned like a fire in his chest, intensified by that collective sentiment. 'I can't keep hiding like a rat while he faces that entire horde,' he thought, feeling helplessness gnaw at his soul. His hands trembled, gripping the edge of the wall tightly, and his eyes, once apathetic, now blazed with determination.

"I need to speak with Thorin," he muttered tensely, the weight of his decision crushing him like a boulder. He knew what it meant, knew that defying his uncle could come at a high cost. "Even if it means he kills me," he added in a barely audible whisper.

Beside him, Fili heard him clearly. His face mirrored the same unease and ferocity that Kili felt. The bond between them was so deep that words were unnecessary for understanding.

"I want to stand by his side and fight shoulder to shoulder," Fili said quietly, his eyes fixed on Aldril, who effortlessly deflected the rain of arrows descending like a storm.

There was no more time to waste. Both brothers hastened their steps toward the royal chamber. The order had been given; there was no longer any reason to remain in place.

Kili and Fili's departure went unnoticed by the others, who were focused on aiding the elves. The dwarven archers fired their arrows with great force. They might not have the elves' finesse, but their strong hands allowed them to shoot with greater power.

The spearmen gripped their weapons tightly, the creak of the wooden shafts audible as their calloused hands prevented splinters from wounding them. Their eyes remained fixed on the approaching tide of orcs. Oh, how they longed to descend and fight alongside that warrior!

---

-Entrance to Erebor-

The ground trembled beneath the marching steps of the approaching armies. On one side were the elves, led by Aldril and Legolas, retreating toward the entrances of the dwarven kingdom.

Alongside them were a few hundred men from Lake-town who had joined their cause. They all knew that facing the orc army without cavalry to support them would be sheer folly. But what could they do? The orcs had struck like silent predators, catching everyone off guard.

"Form ranks! Form ranks!" commanded Legolas, his blond hair glowing like the dawn, illuminated by the soft morning sun. His presence radiated a calm confidence that steadied the anxious hearts of the younger elves.

The sharp clang of armor echoed in the air, a metallic symphony that accompanied the disciplined advance of the elven forces. However, that orderly rhythm was overshadowed by the grotesque roars of the orcs, a collective howl that seemed to rise from the abyss itself.

The atmosphere was heavy with tension and an unbearable stench, the reek of warg and orc corpses scattered across the battlefield permeated the entrance to the dwarven realm. There was no time for revulsion or distractions; the enemy charge was imminent, and every warrior had to maintain unwavering focus.

The elves, with their innate grace, weaved through the dismembered bodies with fluid movements, as if dancing among the remnants of the previous battle. Those corpses were but a testament to a failed charge by the orcs and their beasts, a desperate attempt crushed by dwarven strategies.

While the elves advanced elegantly, the men, less accustomed to such horrors, occasionally stumbled over the debris in their path. "Injured to the rear!" The orders rang out above the chaos, and the wounded were swiftly carried back to avoid disrupting the formation.

Ahead, the elves stood like a gleaming golden wall, a barrier of discipline and valor. Their phalanx, perfectly aligned at the forefront, formed an impenetrable line, while the archers positioned themselves behind it. Arrows already nocked on their bows aimed at the incoming orcs, ready to unleash a deadly volley at Legolas's command.

At the vanguard, Aldril stood, shielding the retreating men. Terrified, the men averted their eyes from him, as though prey instinctively showing respect to a predator who protects them from others.

This reaction was sparked by the overwhelming presence emanating from Aldril. His eyes, once a soft amber, now glowed with an intense, almost hypnotic hue, as his pupils took on a reptilian shape, evoking the fierce gaze of a dragon.

He was unaware of the change in his eyes, but the torrent of energy surging within him told him that something profound had shifted in his being since absorbing Smaug's blood.

His temperament, once anxious and resolute, now turned cold, almost indifferent. The horde of orcs charging toward him inspired neither fear nor excitement, only a deep, visceral disgust.

It was as if his instincts compelled him to disdain those he considered inferior. Now, with the overwhelming power coursing through his veins, he knew he had the means to enforce his supremacy.

The arrows streaking through the air in his direction were little more than a nuisance. With heightened senses, he perceived them as if they moved in slow motion, each trajectory traced clearly in his mind.

With an almost lazy movement, he deflected one of them with Anguirel, his dark blade, as if it were no more than a bothersome insect. One after another, the arrows fell to the ground, useless against his superhuman prowess.

The energy within him granted not only strength but also an arrogance that seeped into every fiber of his being. To him, the orcs were nothing more than insignificant shadows before the power he now wielded.

His gaze shifted behind him, carrying a weight of meaning that did not go unnoticed by Legolas. The golden-platinum-haired elf felt a chill run down his spine under Aldril's cold, indifferent stare, yet he understood its significance.

"Fire at will!" Legolas commanded. At his order, a torrential rain of arrows fell like hail upon the advancing orcs. Many were struck down by the devastating assault, while others were injured only to be trampled to death by the stampede behind them.

---

-Royal Chamber-

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the grand halls, carrying an air of restrained emotions. The morning light filtered delicately through cracks purposefully designed for illumination, while flickering torches cast trembling shadows of two dwarves rushing forward.

Their silhouettes halted at the sight before them.

"Thorin!" they shouted in unison, their fear and concern pressing down on them like an unbearable weight. They quickened their pace toward the kneeling figure.

"Thorin! Thorin!" Kili called out, grasping his uncle's arm. "What's wrong, Thorin?" His voice was laced with rising urgency, but only Thorin's labored breaths answered him.

"Get a healer!" Kili urged his brother, Fili, who nodded and turned on his heel to leave. The carefully laid plans were now shattered, nothing mattered more than their uncle's wellbeing, their family.

"No!" Thorin's sharp exclamation froze Fili mid-step. Slowly, the dwarf king steadied his breathing, his frame beginning to recover under the worried gazes of his nephews. The madness that had once glinted in his eyes was gone, replaced by a calm yet commanding presence, the essence of a true king.

"No," Thorin repeated, this time more softly, almost a whisper. His piercing gaze turned to his nephews, his stormy emotions swirling like an unsettled sea. Finally, words emerged that left Kili and Fili both stunned and relieved.

"Forgive me for everything," Thorin murmured. His eyes, now warm and familiar, fixed upon the two brothers, tugging at their hearts. A spark of something long lost, hope, rekindled within them: the hope of seeing their uncle, their king, truly restored.

The moment of intimacy was interrupted by the distant sounds of crashing impacts, like waves pounding against the shore. The snarls of familiar creatures and exasperated shouts reached their ears, drawing Thorin's attention.

The war raged on, indifferent to his internal battles.

With a deep breath, Thorin rose to his feet and cast a resolute look at his nephews.

"It seems the war is far from over," he said, his voice steady yet laced with gentle resolve. "It is time for us to take our place in it."

He placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders, his touch carrying both strength and affection.

"Will you follow me... one last time?"

**

Filthy orcs!!

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