Thorin had faced armies, faced death more times than he could count, but this...

The dwarves were outnumbered, scattered and beaten back. They were being slaughtered.

He could not see his brother any longer, and part of him suspected that Frerin had fled. Left them.

But that wasn't his problem.

No, his problem was the army all around him, his problem was the fact that the enemy soldiers he engaged were highly-trained and didn't go down easily. His problem was his sword arm ached, his shield was dented and dripping with blood, and still more orcs stretched away before him.

And Arien was still nowhere in sight. But he had to believe she was still fighting, had to believe she was still breathing, because the alternative... The alternative was something he could not contemplate. He would die, he would die and would not regret it, if she was lost to him. He would die if only so he could be with her.

He needed to get to her side again. He had to find her, somewhere in this sea of enemies, had to fight beside, protect her. He had to find her.

So he turned, slaughtering his way across the battlefield, toward his queen, toward the woman he loved, to somehow prevent the one death that would break him forever.

He loosed himself into a killing calm, an eye on the rest of the battlefield that was bathed and washed in blood.

Death rained upon him.

Thorin did not let himself think about how many of his kin were left. How many he would never see again, even if he survived this. The fallen warriors of both armies bled onto the stone around him, blood and bodies choking the rock.

So Thorin kept killing.

And killing.

And killing.

***

The Galadhrim soldier took his orders and mounted his horse.

The thunder of the great steed's hoof beats echoed around the woods of Lothlorien, around the grasses and valleys bordering it. Around the world. He galloped down roads and across rivers, through snow and rain and mist, his hooves churning up the dust of every path.

Through grasslands and over mountains and across forests, hooves, hooves, hooves, echoing through the lands, sparking against cobblestones and thundering upon earth. A battle-cry, a last desperate challenge against the doom that neared with every second, a race against time, against the destruction of the dwarves, a race against Death itself. Faster than a storm wind, faster than a forest fire spreading, faster than sight the elf rider rode.

And yet Moria was at least a day's ride away from his woods.

And with every panting breath, every thundering heartbeat, the destruction of the dwarves drew nearer.