The grasses and rocks blurred beneath the flying hooves of the elven stallion as it raced across the landscape, crossing grasslands and forest and rivers and mountains, places that would normally have taken weeks to cross.

And still the battle raged before the gates of Moria, still the dwarves died.

On and on, never pausing, never slowing, never stopping that relentless gallop. Because their victory or defeat neared, and every second brought them closer and closer to death, and there was no going back or stopping the end that neared, no way of saving them but the Lothlorien rider and the swift steed he rode.

But still there was the Misty Mountains to cross.

And on the distant horizon, the sun began to set.

***

Arien's head ached. Her arms ached, her legs ached, everything ached.

The world had become only blazing sun, and red and black blood, and the screams of the dying rising to the scorching sky. She had already learned that battle was no orderly, neat thing. It was chaos and pain and bloodshed, and there were no grand, heroic duels. Only the slash of her sword and the ripping of skin; the clash of dented shields and bloodied weapons. Armour that had once been distinguishable quickly turned gore-splattered, and were it not for the dark of her enemy's colours, Arien wasn't entirely certain how she would have discerned ally from foe. But she kept killing, the blood of her enemy like spoiled wine as it sprayed her too-heavy armour.

She did not dare look down the lines to see who still lived, did not dare check whose swords were still swinging. They would count their dead after the battle. If they survived it.

She had seen Azog cut off Thror's head, had heard Thorin's cry of grief above the din of battle. She wanted to find him, wanted to comfort him, but she couldn't. She was trapped at the eaves of the forest, engaging orc after orc, unable to advance anywhere.

Thorin had lost his grandfather.

Lost his mother, his home.

She wished there was something she could do, some way of comforting him. Needed there to be a way, because she loved him. More than life, she sometimes thought.

But she couldn't reach him.

She clashed an orc's blade with her own, the wound in her arm taxing her strength there. Her strength everywhere. She would find him. She would not abandon him. Just as she had promised.

'I will always find you too, Thorin.'