The army had been marching since dawn.

The reverberations of their feet thrummed up through the rocky ground, armour clinking, the steady rhythm matching that of Arien's heart as she strode a step behind Thorin, the tight leather armour she wore sweltering in the midday sun. Anglachel was strapped to her back, the ancient blade sharp enough to cut air due to the borderline obsessive sharpening she'd been doing. Thorin's own sword was buckled at his side beside the Taurhelim dagger.

The dwarves of Erebor were going to war.

They were marching to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. Two years after Smaug had taken Erebor, King Thror had grown frustrated with not being ruler in the Blue Mountains, and he had remembered the Mines, the age-long desire of dwarves for that kingdom to once again be theirs. So he had gathered an army of the remaining dwarves of Erebor, an army that was two thousand strong –– less than half of what was required if a battle did indeed arise. And now he led the remnant of his people to death and destruction.

Thorin had done so much, forging and labouring in the villages of men, never forgetting those who had died in the firestorm, all to rebuild a life for his people in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. And now his grandfather was throwing it away on a fool's errand.

Even if Thror had forgotten about Durin's Bane, Arien had not.

They were marching to their deaths, and yet there was nothing any of them could do.

She glanced at the squadron of dwarven soldiers around her. Thorin's company. Each dwarf in the royal line led a company, splitting the dwarves of Erebor into three groups. Thrain, Thorin, Frerin. Thror led the whole army. There were very few reinforcements from the dwarves of Ered Luin, but Arien did not blame them. They'd shown enough kindness already, and were not at all entitled to send even a remnant of their people to potential slaughter.

Part of Arien wished Dis was with them, if only to add some kind of amusement to the event. But Thorin's sister had no choice but to stay in Ered Luin, being pregnant with a second child and having to look after two-year-old Fili. Her husband, Farin, marched with them, despite many pleadings from his wife for him to stay.

The same pleadings had followed with her and Thorin, but her Prince had just let her talk until she realised what a stupid idea it would be for him to stay. Now, she stepped a little out of line just to get closer to him. He was aware of her every move.

"You know," he said quietly, though loud enough for her to hear above the marching of the army. "This is the worst part of battles. Before it starts, before you've even reached the killing field, and you look at the faces of those around you, your friends, your people, and wonder how many will still be breathing by the time the sun sets. Wonder if you will still be breathing. If you could have prevented this."

Arien swallowed. Was this how her parents had felt before that last battle? The responsibility of leading their people to their deaths, the guilt and pain, which she had no doubt Thorin was feeling now.

"Thorin," she said quietly. "This is not your fault. None of it. This was your grandfather's decision, and there is nothing any of us can do. You carry a heavy burden already, Thorin. Don't carry the weight of a king."

He did not look at her as he replied

"I do not have a choice, Arien. I am the heir to the throne."

***

The fiery rays of the noon-time sun glared off the armour of the dwarves of Erebor marching to Moria. Or so the High Elf cresting the top of the hill on his white stallion guessed. They had to be insane, if they thought reclaiming that kingdom would solve anything. Not to mention the hordes of orcs he knew had taken up residence inside Moria. He brought his horse to a halt and watched as the army marched past, the army that was not nearly big enough to win the battle that would no doubt ensue. The steady marching of their feet created a drum beat that echoed through the land, a ceaseless war-cry that heralded the bloodbath to come.

His far seeing eyes saw the glint of red hair in the sunlight, the young Taurhelim queen marching amongst the masses of dwarves. He stared in horror and fear for her, for the young, forgotten queen who had no one left, no one but the dwarf prince she had chosen to be with, whom she loved. And yet...

He knew that orcs waited within those walls, knew they far outnumbered the dwarves. But they were strong and resilient. Despite their small numbers, the dwarves still had a good chance of winning the battle and reclaiming the kingdom. It was the beast that waited inside the mines that would end them.

Glorfindel leaned down, murmuring to his horse. It turned, and he urged it into a gallop faster than the winds to the woods of Lorien. To the Lady of Light, who could help them, who could save the queen he loved like a daughter, who was their last hope, their only salvation.

"Noro lim, Asfaloth," he murmured, and the horse tossed his head, as if a trumpet call had summoned him to battle. Then he sprang forward, an arrow speeding from the bowstring, fire flying from his feet.

They had to reach Lothlorien. Had to reach Galadriel. Because Arien was not going to die. That last queen, the last of her race, the last of her people... she was not going to die. He would not permit it.