Azog's scream of pain echoed around the battlefield.

The orcs that engaged Arien by the forest paused at the cry from their leader, fear, for the first time fear, glowing in their eyes. Arien took a stumbling step forward. It was as if Azog being defeated had cast a ripple around the battlefield, weakening the orcs, strengthening the dwarves.

For a second, the enemy soldiers parted. And that was when she saw him.

Thorin.

He stood alone, facing the Pale Orc, who had fallen on his knees in pain, clutching the stump of his arm, black blood pouring from the wound. Her Prince, her King flipped his sword in his right hand, holding an oaken-shield in his left. A shield that had likely saved his life. That, knowing dwarves, he would become known for.

He had done it. He had fought Azog –– and won.

Thorin stepped forward, roaring an order of encouragement to the dwarves as the Pale Orc was dragged away by three of his guard, screaming and bellowing in pain.

Arien's face broke into a tentative smile. Of pride, of relief. Of love.

"Thorin," she whispered, savouring the sound of his name. "Thorin."

Their hero. Their leader.

Their King.

He raised his sword as the dwarves regrouped around him, forming a line against the orcs. Arien clashed Anglachel against an orc's blade and kneed another in the gut, forcing a path towards the king.

"Mem nor Thror!" he roared. "Du békar!"

The cry rallied the dwarves as they cheered his name and began to charge the orcs.

A victory cry. Over and over, the chanting of his name a victory cry and a challenge to the orcs.

Thorin, Thorin, Thorin.

To the King!

Each step toward the army of orcs seemed to echo the chant, the setting sun glinting off blades and armour.

On into battle, on into bloodshed, they called their king's name.

That was when she heard it.

The thunder of rapid hoof beats coming from the forest behind her. Arien spun, for a second forgetting about the battle as she scanned the trees, a fear much greater than her fear of the orcs beginning to grow inside her. She raised her sword, black blood dripping onto the soil, suddenly realising that she was alone, that the orcs she'd been fighting were gone.

The hoof beats drew nearer, slowing as they came, now sounding like a trot. Something glowed from the trees. The horse, or whatever it was, was white, Arien thought. So it probably wasn't an orc, or something that served them. That was when a white stallion appeared from the shadows of the trees. And on its back...

An elf rider from Lothlorien. Arien's mouth fell open. In the hundred years she'd lived in Rivendell, she'd never had the chance to enter that beautiful kingdom, let alone meet its inhabitants. As the horse stepped delicately in front of her, Arien realised she was still staring.

The rider looked down at her as she bowed her head slightly.

"I bring word from the Lady Galadriel," he said. "I am to warn Queen Arien Feathalion of a second evil that awaits you. Where is she?"

The elf spoke slowly, she guessed because he did not know the Common Tongue as well as his own language. Arien answered in elvish.

"I am Queen Arien Feathalion. What is this second evil? What awaits us?"

"I am to warn you that the orcs are not the only, or the worst, enemies here. Remember Durin's Bane. Remember what happened to the dwarves of Moria, and do not let it happen again."

Arien stared at him. "The dwarves have nowhere else. They have lost their home, and many of their kin in battle. Where would they go? They have nowhere left."

"I do not know. But you cannot enter Moria. You will be destroyed."

And with that, the elf spun his horse and galloped off. Arien could only stare after him, unable to summon the words to ask him to wait.

Durin's Bane.

Maybe he was right. Maybe they could not enter Moria.

Arien turned back to the battle, determined to find Thorin.

Only to find it utterly devoid of any living enemy.