Thorin was exhausted. He could barely lift his sword arm, could barely keep his legs under him. Azog the Defiler, the Pale Orc of Gundabad, was still killing and killing, more dwarves than it seemed possible. Their small, cobbled together army had long ago began to sunder. The left flank had broken first, buckling under shear numbers and the unflinching determination and hatred of the orcs. Though Thorin's company, stationed in the centre of the army, had still remained strong, the right flank was beginning to fall. And even his own company was now starting to weaken.

Still the orcs kept coming. Thorin glanced his shield off an orc's and slashed his sword across its neck. The dwarves were almost spent. They had no more strength left to give. And Azog did not stop, did not show any signs of flagging as he slammed his war hammer into dwarven soldiers, sending bodies flying into the air. Again and again and again. The dwarves had no defence against him, and Thorin could only watch in horror as more and more died. Could only watch as he buried his blade in another orc's chest cavity and the messenger's words sounded in his head.

'He has sworn to wipe out the line of Durin.'

What did he mean? Was Azog...

Azog was going to kill Thorin's grandfather, his father, and Thorin himself.

The Defiler swiped another dwarf out of the way and fixed his eyes on something.

With a jolt of terror Thorin realised it was Thror. His grandfather. His king. And in that moment he didn't care what Thror had done, didn't care that in some ways, his grandfather deserved to die. No, all he could think was that he could not let the king fall, he could not let that happen.

His grandfather cringed away as Azog stepped towards him.

Thorin began fighting his way through the orcs around him, shoving them out of the way, pushing through them as he strove to reach his king.

Thror raised his shield to protect himself against the unforgiving blow from the orc's war hammer.

The second one that forced him back.

And Thorin did not have time to move, did not have time to reach his grandfather as Thror was thrown to the ground. As Azog drew a wicked looking knife.

And severed the King of Erebor's head from his body.

***

The thud of bone on rock, the scream of pain that was cut short, the spray of blood that splattered the already sodden battlefield.

Everything went silent and still.

Thorin was numb, not registering what had happened as Azog lifted Thror's head like a trophy, as the bleeding, headless torso slumped to the ground.

He had begun wiping out the bloodline of Durin. Had begun by beheading the king.

And Thorin was sure the Defiler's eyes were on him as he cast the head away from him with contemptuous hatred.

It rolled down the blood splattered rock, over the bodies of fallen warriors, between the legs of fighting soldiers, bouncing over shields, rolling through blood.

His grandfather...

"No!" Thorin roared.

Grief and rage and hatred warred within him as he moved, shoving through the fighters. Towards Azog.

Only to be pushed back by his father.

"Father," he gasped.

"Stay back," snapped Thrain.

"No," Thorin panted. "I will fight with you."

He would. He would always fight beside his father, who had loved him, who he loved. They would fight together, as father and son, as the two warriors they were.

But Thrain shook his head.

"Azog means to kill us all," he told him. "One by one, he will destroy the line of Durin."

Thorin stared at the Pale Orc, panting.

"But by my life," his father went on. "He shall not take my son. Now stay here."

And then he was gone, fighting his way toward the Dimrill Gate.

No.

Thorin stared after him, his heart filled with pain and grief and horror. Dimly he remembered that a battle still raged around him. So he turned and fought, anger lending strength to his tired limbs.

So Thorin fought.

So he killed.

So he waited.

And still his father did not return.