Chapter Text
Ravenhill was horrifying, to put it simply. Orcs and the cruel monsters they had created were flanking us from all sides, cutting down even the most advanced dwarven war technology I had ever seen, yet somehow I did not cower. Every blow that struck me collided with the Mithril underneath my coat, and the princes and I defended ourselves well. But still, things seemed destined to go wrong. Kíli was only saved by the Tauriel with an extremely risky shot that could have taken his eye , and I only lingered afterwards to see that he could at least move his other arm. I did not know if Fili still lived after being pushed down the hillside, and Thorin was on the lake, alone with Azog.
My muscles screamed in protest as I threw myself down the steps, shoving past orc and dwarf alike. Azog had staked Thorin through the foot, and nearly killed him had I not been there. While he gloated in his false victory I had thrown myself at his back, causing him to miss, but not entirely. His sword slammed into Thorin’s side instead of his heart, and I could hardly hear his agony over the rushing of blood in my ears and my own shouts - but it was not enough to kill him, it couldn’t be. I was torn away and thrown backwards, and all of a sudden I was flat on my back as Azog’s crude weaponry had slammed into my chest, knocking all the wind out of me, my head cracking against the ice. I could barely turn my head as I gasped and heaved, feeling blood trickle down my ears, but with a shout, Thorin staggered to his feet and ran Azog through while his back was turned, and the Defiler met his end.
Then, after what felt like hours of him standing there, he collapsed. He fell to his knees first, one after the other, staking his blade in the ice for support. Then he well and truly fell, rolling onto his back with a wretched sound. I could do nothing but lay wheezing on the ice, screaming myself to get up as the chill settled in my bones. It took all my energy to crawl to him dragging myself forward as I slipped and swore. He was bloodied and broken, his face a mess, the cut on his forehead deep enough for the blood to run across his face like a river, trickling down into his lips and beard. I had to use him for support to even sit up, bracing myself on his shoulders.
I started to cry as I tried to staunch the wound in his side with my hands, for there was nothing else to use. As soon as I touched his tunic my hands were suddenly wet and sticky, and it took me a moment to truly process the blood coating the snow beneath him. In my attempt at saving him from a death that could have been instant, I had condemned him to suffering and clawing for breath in what were likely to be his final moments.
“I take back..my words and my actions, at the gate, everywhere.” Thorin wheezed, every word taking a great effort. He tried to grasp my hand in his, but he was too weak. Instead, his arm flopped weakly back at his side, and I could see tears slowly run down his face. “I’m sorry for leading you into this peril, Bram. What- what you did…it was right, and just.” Thorin coughed, his entire body shaking, and let out another agonized groan.
I shushed him, wriggling out of my coat as quickly as I could to press it against Thorin’s side, doing anything I could think of to keep him alive, to keep the wound slow, to keep him warm. My hand gently cradled Thorin’s head, and I wept over him, babbling fragments of words as I tried to keep myself from complete despair. In the very corner of my peripherals, I could see figures, but couldn’t make out who they were. My hands were shaking, red and irritated from the chill, red and warm and wet from his blood.
“Please, don’t say these things, Thorin. Please don’t apologize, save your strength, just wait one more moment! The eagles, they’re here, we saw them, they’re coming. They will come for you, please. And Fíli and Kíli, they’ll be waiting for you! Please-” I sobbed, pressing a small kiss to the gash on Thorin’s forehead. I thought I saw his lips quirk ever so slightly, before he yet again gasped in pain. “Please, don’t leave me alone, please.”
It felt like an eternity until the eagles did come and take Thorin, delicately plucking him from the ice and carrying him away. It was even longer until I realized it was Dwalin who had approached us earlier with other members of the company in tow. Kíli’s left arm hung limp at his side, and he held Fíli upright, whose hair was clumped with blood, and he looked as if he was trying very hard to keep himself conscious. I had just slumped over when Thorin was taken from me, left shivering and numb on the ice. I could barely register Dwalin’s voice next to me, something that might have been “That’s a lass. Let’s get you warm.” When I looked up, the few members of the company who had joined us on Ravenhill looked scared and exhausted, but most of all, hopeful. Bilbo ran to me and drew me into his embrace, and pressed a kiss to my temple, guiding me back onto my feet. I glanced around - the world had stilled. The battle was over, the air beginning to fill with cries of glory and of grief.
It was then when I suddenly became all too aware of the piercing pain in my head and leg, the feeling of panic and fatigue swallowing me whole, and I fainted dead away.
When I woke again, I learned I was concussed, by Oín’s determination. The first day of my recovery was strictly bedrest, and even if I wanted to get up and go out among all the death, I wouldn’t have been able to. A solid week of falling in and out of sleep seemed to clear it up well, but my other injuries left something to be desired. My ribs were bruised, thanks to the Mithril shielding me from a blow that would have likely killed me on the spot, and while the worst of the damage was taken care of by one of the elves, every time I sat or stood or turned with half my body, my chest exploded with pain. There were times where I would overexert myself in attempts to help, and I’d be left winded again, gasping for air. I was told to rest after that, as I clearly couldn’t make myself useful.
I spent the early days going back and forth between staring at a dull canvas ceiling or silently sobbing, fighting back a cry of anguish every time I turned over. Someone had to assist me for the most menial of tasks and it was humiliating, but strangely humbling. I had never been one to take help for granted, but this seemed like a warning to never do so.
Every time I tried to sleep I was back on the ice, cradling Thorin’s body as he struggled to hold onto consciousness, doing my best to put pressure on the wound in his side; on the ice in front of Azog, being sent flying as his mace practically slammed into my chest, leaving me winded; watching an arrow cause Azog to drop Fíli , sending the prince to the ground. How they made it was something I did not know, but knowing that both princes lived, and somehow feeling the sense of hope that radiated from the other dwarves at seeing Thorin alive, if unconscious, carried me through the days, the anticipation of him waking up keeping me on my feet.