-General-
The icy breeze from the frozen wasteland carried with it a wave of helplessness and pain that struck Thorin's weathered face like furious waves against rock. His beard, agitated by the wind, swayed slowly, while drops of blood slid down his wounded shoulder. But that pain was insignificant compared to the affliction weighing down on his shoulders.
His eyes, once filled with a warrior's spark, were now clouded with a dull sadness that blurred his vision. Kneeling, with suffering etched in every line of his face, Thorin held the arm of Balin, the wise old dwarf who had followed him for so long. Once strong and energetic, now his body reflected the inevitable embrace of time.
"Do not be sad, Thorin," Balin said, his voice weakened by fatigue. "Soon I will leave and join a feast of victory with our ancestors. I will be able to boast that I served and fought shoulder to shoulder with Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain."
Despite the open wound in his stomach and the flame of his life waning, his voice still carried firmness, an echo of the strength that had always defined him.
A metallic thud reverberated in his soul, deep and solemn, like the rumble of a hammer in the forge. A warm breeze, scented with iron, brushed his tired face, infusing him with one last spark of strength. A faint, almost imperceptible breath revived for a moment the agonizing flame of his life.
A soft, bloodstained smile adorned his lips.
'Oh, great Aulë, you have allowed me to say goodbye as is fitting,' he thought with infinite gratitude.
In the distance, faint voices of disbelief broke the heavy silence of the wasteland, their echoes lost in the frozen vastness. Bofur and Thorin looked up, but only for an instant. Their gazes soon returned to the agonizing old dwarf.
They could do nothing to save Balin. They knew that.
At least they would be by his side when he took his last breath. It was the least they could do for such a formidable warrior.
"No, no, no! Balin!" Kili cried in distress, hastening his steps toward the fallen, dying dwarf.
"Balin..." Fili, echoing his brother, hurried forward, a strangled sob escaping his throat.
Aldril and Bilbo watched in silence.
The mask of arrogance and pride that always covered Aldril's face cracked. With slow but hesitant steps, he approached, his body tense, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Frustration. Pain. Everything he had tried to conceal was now exposed, visible in every fiber of his being.
Bilbo stood frozen, paralyzed by the horror of the scene before him. His body trembled. No one is prepared to see a friend agonize.
His eyes, clouded with tears that threatened to spill over, were fixed on Balin. He swallowed hard, struggling against the anguish, and took a slow, hesitant step forward. Each movement felt heavy on his soul.
The loss of Bombur had saddened him, but this... this was different. Seeing Balin, bloodied, with life slipping away second by second, was far more painful. Balin was not just a companion. He was kind, wise, someone Bilbo held in high regard.
And now he was witnessing his final moments of life.
----
The constant sobs of Kili and Fili were the only sound breaking the silence of the frozen gloom.
With the little strength he had left, Balin gave them a tired smile and extended a trembling hand to console them. To them, he had always been more than just a warrior; he was like a grandfather, a storyteller whose words had filled their childhood with adventures and dreams.
"Always so whiny, just like when you were little," he murmured with tenderness, his voice weak but still warm. "I must leave soon... behave like the princes you are."
He paused to catch his breath, looking at the two with pride.
"I won't be able to see you grow... but I'm sure your names will echo through time."
Then, his tired eyes fell on the pale and trembling hobbit.
A storyteller. A chronicler who, no doubt, would write great books once he was back in the warmth of his home.
"Bilbo, my dear hobbit..." Balin whispered with a faint smile. "I won't be able to read your book... but I'm sure I'll be present in its pages."
He took a brief pause, his tired gaze still full of warmth.
"I just hope you don't paint me as a grumpy dwarf."
"No, you'll be painted as Balin, the one with the gray beard, a wise dwarf," Bilbo clarified, his smile sincere but tinged with sadness.
A soft laugh, almost a murmur, escaped from Balin. His gaze shifted slightly, meeting Aldril's eyes. There, in the depths of his gaze, he saw the regret and apprehension that consumed him.
"Aldril..." murmured Balin, his voice soft but firm. "I have witnessed the beginning of your legend, and that pleases me. I will tell the ancestors how you defeated the dragon that ravaged our village, Durin's folk..."
He paused, his breath becoming labored as he felt the flame of his life fading.
"Aldril... without a doubt, you will surpass your mother. I'm sure of it," Balin said, a spark of certainty shining in his tired eyes.
Aldril, for his part, clenched his fists even tighter, nodding in silence. He felt that if he spoke a single word, his composure would shatter, and tears would take over. This was not the moment for that. Not yet.
With one last smile, Balin directed his gaze to everyone, his eyes sweeping over his companions with affection. A final glance at the clear blue sky gave him the peace he had longed for. And so, with one last deep breath, Balin, the wise dwarf of Erebor, bid farewell to Middle-earth.
His deeds would be told, written down in the books to come. His name would be remembered by the people of Durin as the one who sacrificed himself before Azog the Defiler so that Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, could land the decisive blow and seal the victory in the battle that would be known as The Battle of the Five Armies.
Shortly after Balin's death, Thorin, his face gaunt from pain and fatigue, ordered that the old dwarf's body be collected. Aldril, without saying a word, took it upon himself to lift the body of the revered dwarf, carrying it with the respect and honor of a true warrior.
For his part, Thorin took the head of Azog, knowing that the orcs' resistance still lingered. With silent strength, he lifted the general's head high, and his cry echoed throughout the mountain. Seeing the head of their leader in the hands of a dwarf, the orcs fell into panic, fleeing in disarray, bereft of leadership and without the heart to continue.
The triumphant cries of the Elves, Men, and Dwarves filled the air, celebrating a victory that seemed impossible. Beorn, in his bear form, gave no quarter nor indulged in any delight. With fierce determination, he pursued the fleeing orcs, cutting down many of them. Songs later told how more than half of the orcs and goblins were exterminated, clearing the misty mountains of their evil presence for many years to come.
The end of The Battle of the Five Armies had come, but at a heavy cost. Many human, elven, and dwarven lives had been lost in the heat of battle. It is said that Aldril, the dragon slayer, descended riding his steed, like a slain dragon expressing his sorrow for the dwarf who lay in his arms.
Those celebrating the victory fell silent, not only because of Aldril's imposing presence but also out of respect for the body he carried.
The dwarves, upon seeing this, paid their respects in line. Dáin Ironfoot stood in silence, his gaze fixed on Aldril's figure as it faded at the gates of Erebor. There were funerals to arrange, and with that, the groups dispersed, each in their grief, to mourn and bury the dead.
***
Filthy orcs! Tonight there is no battle, let us honor the old dwarf properly.
"p@treon.com/Mrnevercry"