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Desolation.
That’s what the land around Erebor was called. Though Smaug’s fire had tainted the earth and scorched the mountainsides, nature had slowly but surely crept back to the solitary mountain.
Now, the world desolation meant an entirely different meaning. Desolation was the blood on the battlefield. The feeling of wretched misery as comrades fell to the crude blades of black-blooded creatures called orcs. Snarling and perpetually wrath filled they decended onto the playing field with no mercy. Playing, toying, they seemed to make a mockery of the battle skills honed by the armies of men, elves, and dwarves.
Desolation goes hand in hand with despair, which was what Fili was feeling. The world was rushing by, colors melding, greys of orcs blended with the rocks, and the brown armor mixed with the black and red blood seemed to collide in an ever changing kladescopic hazard.
He couldn’t see Kili or Uncle and that terrified him. All he could do was keep twisting, turning, and twirling out of range and fire of blades and arrows. Keep slashing, keep defending, keeping fighting on.
For a home, for a sanctuary, friends, and family. These were the moments he had lived and trained all his life for. How foolish of him to ever want such a thing, he thought. Glory would not come, for at the end of this day, he knew it would be a miserable victory.
When the first arrow struck it felt like ice. A coldness so great it burned. Movements were hindered, pain was marring his judgment, and it was that one arrow that made it possible for a second and third to hit it’s mark.
It’s the little things, small pebbles, that add up and come crumbling down releasing the bigger rocks to come tumbling down.
A blade pierced the blonde Prince’s side, completely stuck through, and down he went as the blade was wrenched out.
Laying in the mist of rock, bodies, and a thick bloody mist; a brave young dwarf lay frightened and alone. There is no glory to be had, not for me, Fili thought. Felled by some arrows and an orc sword. Not even for defending a brother.
Men, dwarves, elves, orcs, and wargs leapt over him, no second glance was spared for another body lying on the ground. Those who could stand were too busy trying to stay alive themselves, and for that Fili could not begrudge them that. He could feel his blood slowly leaving him, mingling with the rest. He was sure, he’d be lost in sea of dead soon enough. Where was Uncle? Where was his baby brother? Had they met the same fate as he?
“Fili?!” Who was that?
“Fili my lad please don’t be dead!”
A head full of curls matted with blood and sweat came into view, and by some miracle Fili managed to smile up at the hobbit.
“Bilbo,” he rasped out, a soft crackle of blood heard in the back his throat. The hobbit took one look at the dying dwarf and knew there was nothing he could do to stop death from claiming the boy.
“Oh Fili,” tears welled up in those kind hobbit eyes, “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He pressed his forehead into Fili’s uninjured arm. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” He whispered frantically. “I couldn’t protect you.”
“Uncle,” Fili coughed up some blood, “K-kili, tell me–”
“Your Uncle decapitated Azog, and Kili had fallen into the elvish archer ranks. Fili–” that’s all the Prince had wanted to hear. He took a deep breathe, which ended up only being a wheeze.
“Mr. Baggins, your hurt.” For indeed there was a significant amount of blood seeping from Bilbo’s left temple.
“It’s just a head wound, I’ll get Thorin¬–”
Fili shook his head no, “I fear I’ll be in the halls of my forefathers by the time to get back. Stay,” he pleaded. “Please.”
“I– yes of course. Of course I’ll stay.” He gripped Fili’s hand hard and settling Fili’s head onto his lap. When he recived a small squeeze back he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Though he knew Fili was older than him, Bilbo always viewed Fili as he would of his younger cousins. Always joking around, getting into mischief, needing a chaperone; Fili had become family alogn with 12 other dwarves and Bilbo couldn’t quite place when they had become so close to him.
“You’re hurt.”
“Yes, you said so before. It’s a head wound, it’s fine.”
“No,” Fili’s words were becoming slower, “Uncle hurt you, and by not acting we are just at fault for hurting you.”
Shaking his head Bilbo let out a humorless laugh, “No, it’s okay. I knew the consequences when I took that blasted stone. Thorin is your King and your Uncle. He was taken by the goldlust. I would never forgive myself if I had driven a wedge between any of you and him. I got what I rightfully deserved. You however,” he gestured to his wound, “Do not deserve this ending. You are brave, and kind Fili.” He brushed stray strands gently off Fili’s face.
“As are you Bilbo Baggins.” He gasped in pain, “And I am honored to have known you and call you friend. Perhaps I might have had the chance to call you Uncle one day.” His eyelids felt heavy. His hearing was muffled, or was the battle coming to an end? Fili couldn’t tell. “Tell Uncle and Kili I’m sorry and that I love them,” his voice cracked, “And to not miss me much. I’ll be waiting for them,” tears rolled down the side of his face as his eyelids closed. “Dad will keep me company till they come.” The last sensation Fili had was that of a rough cloth, small like the pocket patch Bofur had given the Hobbit at their journey’s beginnings. Then there was no pain.
The cry of the eagles drowned the sorrowful wail of the hobbit.
The battle is won but many are lost. Those with family rejoice quickly before setting off to find their loved ones. The Royal line of Durin is no different.
Bilbo can hear the shouts and calls for Fili. He knows he cannot bear the sight of Kili discovering his brother’s body. Nor the devastated look of horror on Thorin’s. So Bilbo decides to make the golden maned Prince look more presentable. It’s easy to wipe the grime off his face, fold his hands delicately together on his stomach, and brush the final strand of hair away form his face. However, it is not easy to leave his friend’s body behind. Not without a goodbye. So he takes a small clump of flowers from his pocket. He found them on their way to Erebor and kept them close. They were slightly wilted but placing them in Fili’s hands felt right.
Leaning down, Bilbo placed a kiss on Fili’s forehead and murmured a final goodbye.
“The Prince is over here!” Bilbo yelled, he didn’t sound like himself, but that was probably for the best. He slipped on his ring and the world muted itself. He climbed up the mountain side enough to not be noticed and turned back to watch. He ignored the sensation to keep the ring on, he was going to force himself to watch the heartbreak to come.
Standing on the side of Erebor, looking out at the bloody field. He can’t smell the blood, just the cool evening air blowing down from the mountain. Blood sluggishly dripping down the side of his head as Kili leapt over the final rock formation blocking his sight from Fili’s body.
“FILI!” Kili’s cry for his brother was one of utter heartbreak. One, Bilbo thought, that would shatter the earth with its sadness. “No, no, no!” the archer’s cries grew louder. From his vantage point Bilbo could see Thorin picking up his pace at the cries of his nephew.
Thorin thought the world had ended when Smaug attacked the mountain, he thought it again for the second time with Moria, but this scene in front of him¬– brother holding brother, his nephews one alive and one dead, children he had treated as his own surrounded in death– this was the end of the world.
Numbly the King dropped to the ground by his heir’s side. He sees everything. All the nicks of close calls, arrows and how they must of hindered Fili, and the final mortal blow that must have been agonizing.
He didn’t know he was screaming in rage till he let out his aggression on the ground. Slamming his fists into the dirt and pebbles. His voice of righteous anger jarred with the desperate cries of Kili begging his beloved brother to wake up.
“Fee please,” the youngest Prince chanted over and over. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”
Looking toward his nephews a soft patch of vibrant colors, that isn’t blood, catches Thorin’s eyes—there in Fili’s bloodied hands. Meekly peeking out from the gentle clasp of his hands are a clump of purple forget-me-nots and sweet peas with a few barely budding white baby’s breath poking through. It’s then he realizes, Fili was laid on his back, hands folded neatly over his stomach—someone had moved him. The golden haired Prince wasn’t contorted in the gruesome positions found elsewhere on the battlefield. His brow and face are lax, wiped free of most grime, azure eyes closed. Wispy hair strands have obviously been brushed to the side and Thorin knows by who, if the flowers were anything to go by.
In that moment he knew his nephew hadn’t died alone, scared, and confused. A friend of the kindly west had been with him till the bitter end.
Thorin looked up the mountainside searching for Bilbo. He quickly realizes it had been the hobbit’s voice calling them over to Fili’s body. He had misjudged the hobbit in the throes of his gold induced rage. There, up several boulders high was the hobbit, but Bilbo was not looking at them, not anymore. He had seen and heard enough sorrows for a lifetime.
Bilbo looked to the west, where on the sun sat heavily on the horizon, looking as weary as Bilbo felt himself. It was the last sunset of this bloody chapter. An end comes to everything the hobbit knew that now more than ever. The final chapter would open with tomorrow’s new dawn as the world kept spinning, living on, like nothing happened that day. Tomorrow Bilbo Baggins would start the last chapter and finish it on his doorstep months later with an ache in his heart and memories that refuse to fade in the coming years.