However bad their situation had been, however slim their chance of survival, now it was worse. Now there was no hope, no way of this ending in victory.

What had been a small chance of them ever winning this battle in the first place had now become no chance. With the loss of Thror, the loss of Thrain, the dwarves were in a chaos of grief and confusion. They could not fight. They were being slaughtered.

Orcs cast the dwarves off the rocks, throwing them onto lower ground where they died on impact, or suffocated in the bodies piled on the stone, or drowned in blood.

They were leaderless, defeat and death were upon them. And Thorin's father...

His father had not returned.

He could be dead, could be gone just like Thror, and then Thorin would have no one.

No one but Arien.

His queen.

But who knew if even she still lived?

Panic and despair were rising, but Thorin shoved them down. If his father was dead...

Then Thorin was king.

The realisation hit him like a hammer on the anvil. He was their king. It was now his duty to lead them, to save them. To seek revenge.

And he would. He would seek revenge for the death of his grandfather, for the massacre of his people. For his father, he would try to save them. He was their king. He could do nothing less.

Thorin turned. Faced the Pale Orc. Azog's cunning face stretched into a triumphant smile as he saw him, as he leaned forward, swinging his war hammer around him, so powerfully Thorin stepped back. But he stood fast, letting his rage and desire for revenge become an anchor for his courage. Thorin raised his shield.

And Azog's weapon slammed into it with such strength behind the blow that it was cast from his hand, landing some way away amongst the bodies. He turned back, raising his sword, the only thing now left to him. Only to have that knocked from his hand with a force that threw him backwards, rolling across the rocks and landing on his back. Pain ripped through him at the impact. He had stood alone, and now no one came to help him.

Azog moved, raising his weapon, ready to slam it down upon him. Thorin scrambled back as the orc leaped, searching for something, a weapon, anything that might save him. He couldn't die. He could not abandon his people.

Thorin's fingers closed around something –– an oaken branch. Azog's war hammer slammed into the ground as Thorin rolled, the reverberations as it hit the rock rumbling through his bones and skin. He scrambled to his feet as Azog swung his weapon, lifting that heavy oaken branch as he would a shield.

The weapon smashed down upon it.

His arms buckled beneath the strength of the blow, but the oaken-shield held fast. Again and again, the war hammer hit his shield. Again and again, his legs buckled, his strength slowly giving out.

It was at the fifth mighty blow that Thorin fell, the force and power behind it throwing him to the ground.

But he would not die. He had promised himself that. He would not fail. For Arien. For his people.

So as Azog swung his war hammer down upon him for the final killing blow, Thorin's hand closed around the hilt of his sword. He stood with what little strength he could muster and lifted his blade, bringing it up to meet Azog's arm as it swung down.

The Pale Orc did not see it. Did not see his sword until there was no going back.

Thorin's blade severed Azog's arm like an axe would split wood.