Two Kings

Chapter 3

"Orcs?" Thorin stared at him, unable to hear anything approaching over the moan of the chill wind through winter bare branches, but accepting without question that the elf had the keener senses. "How long? Might they pass us by?"

"I fear they have our scent. A few moments, maybe more. My armour..."

Thorin swept it up without a word and strapped it in place as gently as he could, taking care to pad beneath the clasps with the last soft fabric from the torn tunic. Despite the care of his fingers, by the time he had finished Thranduil was pale and sweating, but the elf nodded his thanks nonetheless and gestured down the hillside.

"Follow the small ravine, then cut across into the trees. If you are stealthy, I believe you may slip past them."

Thorin gave him an unkind look. "And what of you?"

"I fear I cannot travel at any speed. I will delay them as much as I am able. I do not wish to be the cause of your demise."

"I may be mortal, but I assure you that I have no intention of throwing away the years I have left." The Dwarf King's profile seemed carved from granite as he looked in the direction indicated by the elf. "What manner of being do you take me for? I am no coward, to run and leave you to the mercy of orcs." The very thought of such an abandonment defiled him.

Thranduil drew his second sword with a grimace, his long fingers curling tight around the pommel but his grip shaky, the sword tip barely clear of the ground. Thorin wondered if he would even be able to raise it in his own defence.

"Go," repeated the Elven King. "The orcs will be distracted by my blood."

"Aye," snapped the dwarf. "Because they wish to eat you alive! It's well known that orcs favour the sweetness of elf flesh above all other." It was of little consequence that they had begun the previous day as enemies; they faced a common foe. He rounded on Thranduil, fury igniting in his eyes. "We will fight together or not at all. If they wish to sup on elven flesh, they must pay dearly with their own."

Thranduil stared at him, the gleam of his mithril breastplate catching and throwing back the pale light. Then he dipped his head in surprised acquiescence. "It will be an honour to fight at your side, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Likewise."

Thorin shifted Orcrist in his hand, the weight solid and reassuring as the lightning of impending combat flickered in his veins. Beside him, Thranduil moved gracefully into a fighting stance, no sign of his injury apparent as he stared haughtily at the oncoming orcs. The dwarf grinned up at him, his teeth a flash of white against his dark beard, more alive in that moment before battle than at any other, and the gesture was met by the elegant arch of Thranduil's eyebrow and an answering gleam in the elf's eyes.

Then the orcs were upon them, and Thorin parried the first stroke from a war axe, feeling the downdraft on his hair as the Elven King's sword sliced away the creature's ugly head. They fought together by necessity, and yet the two warriors found a rhythm in their killing, with the elf's longer reach compensating for Thorin's injured foot, and the dwarf's position on Thranduil's right-hand side shielding his wound, but leaving him free to wield his deadly left blade.

There were many orcs, too many in truth for two warriors to survive, but kings in Middle Earth did not rule by their bloodline alone, and neither wished to be the first to falter, not when the pride of elf and dwarf was at stake.

The swiftness and accuracy of each strike, each blocked blow, gave them the confidence to trust in each other, so that in time they were no longer a dwarf and an elf, but rather two warriors, comrades giving mutual support, each aware of the other's strengths and weaknesses and utilising both until they performed a deadly dance of death before the orcs.

Slowly and deliberately they retreated so their backs were secure against an overhanging outcrop of rock. And there they made their stand, gradually whittling away their assailants until the numbers thinned and the ground was slippery with black orc blood and littered with corpses.

In time, as his sword arm grew heavy and the madness of battle gave way to a soul-deep weariness, Thorin became aware of the ragged pant of the elf's breath and, realising he must be upright through strength of will alone, he leaned a shoulder into the armoured torso, slowly pushing Thranduil back against the rock in the hope that it would support him.

There were several more small attacks and then, through a daze of exhaustion, the dwarf saw that only two orcs remained alive. They kept their distance, gesticulating and snarling to each other in their foul tongue.

"Do not let me fall." Words quiet as drifting feathers brushed against Thorin's eardrums, more breath than speech. The dwarf took a half pace back and to the side, his shoulders now hard up against the Elven King's chest, pinning him to the rock face, studiously ignoring the exhalation that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

The orcs watched them for a while, seeing two warriors with bloodied blades surrounded by the dismembered remains of fellow orcs. After a pause they seemed to come to a unanimous decision and turned away, one of them gesturing at the Elven King and shouting something that was incomprehensible to Thorin.

"Another day, indeed," muttered Thranduil, clearly having some knowledge of orcish, his breath hot against the crown of the dwarf's head. "But in the name of the Valar, not today!"

"I have seen enough orc," agreed Thorin, allowing his sword to sag towards the unclean grass. The scrape of metal and an increase in the pressure against his shoulders alerted him to Thranduil's slow descent to the floor. Too tired to turn, the dwarf went with him, so that they ended up on their backsides, still propped together for support.

After a grey and vacant pause, there was an undignified snort and the unexpected shudder of a chuckle against Thorin's back. He twisted his head around to see the curve of a smile pulling at the Elven King's tired face.

"So much for the dignity of kings!"

"Aye." Thorin untangled the elf's cursed long tresses from his beard, grumbling a little, and cast them to the side. "Can you not braid your hair, like any normal warrior?"

Thranduil tilted his head, staring down at Thorin with merriment bright in his eyes. "Is that your only complaint?" His head fell back against the rock and he began to laugh in earnest, clutching at his wounded side, the sound of his mirth pained but wild, as though he had not laughed in far too long.

"Aye," agreed Thorin, giving in to the ache in his jaw and letting loose a rich chuckle of his own. "I believe it is."

In time their laughter turned to a peaceable quiet, both of them too worn to wish to rise and taking some odd comfort from the physical contact, as though the feel of another's chest rising and falling, and the small muscle twitch of battle weary limbs against each other, affirmed the fact that they were both still alive.

Eventually, the heat of battle gone, Thorin became aware again of the chill wind and drew his knees up, preparatory to rising.

"We should make our way to Lake Town," said Thranduil quietly. "Though were it not for the stench of these orcs, I am not sure I would bother to rise."

"Ah, but I have visions of a hot bath and a feather mattress." Thorin sent a sly glance in the elf's direction. "You are not very comfortable."

"I think you will find that is the armour," pointed out Thranduil. "It is not designed for comfort, even for the wearer. It does, however, hold me together at present."

"And how does your wound fare?" The strenuous motion of battle must surely have wreaked further damage.

"Quite dreadful," admitted Thranduil in a rare burst of honesty. "Although much better than it would have been, if a dwarf had not guarded it so fiercely. I owe you my thanks, Thorin Oakenshield."

"And I owe you mine, Thranduil Oropherion," replied Thorin in a grave tone.

"It seems to me that if a dwarf and an elf can fight together and prevail against such odds, then their kingdoms should be able to exist side by side in harmony."

"That is also my earnest wish."

Thorin rose, somewhat awkwardly because of the necessity of avoiding the elf's long legs, and held out his hand to help the other rise. Thranduil took it without hesitation, and in doing so something unspoken passed between them, as profound as any formal oath and just as binding.

They made their unsteady way past the dead and down the long slope of the hill, walking into the teeth of the wind, flurries of ice crystals decorating the wild tangle of Thorin's dark hair with a thousand white jewels.

When the dwarf's limp became too pronounced, it was a natural thing to reach out to the side and grasp the back of Thranduil's cloak to lessen the likelihood of falling. Likewise, as Thranduil's strength waned, it was easy enough to lean a little to one side and allow the dwarf's strength to support his weight. In their journey, as in battle, the two found it was easier to trust than to struggle alone, so there was no shame or lack of honour when a party of elves came upon them, stumbling along in the light snow, Thranduil's arm about the dwarf's shoulders and Thorin's arm around the elf's waist.

"My Lord King!"

Their leader was off his horse and down on one knee in the blink of an eye, genuine emotion on his face as he broke protocol and gazed openly at the Elven King.

"We feared you were dead!"

Thranduil motioned for him to rise, relief robbing him of more precious grains of his remaining strength. Thorin felt the incremental increase in weight and took the extra load without comment or visible sign. It would not do for either of them to collapse in front of others.

The elf rose gracefully, regarding his king with concern. "Are you injured, Aran Nin?"

"I will require the services of a healer," said Thranduil calmly. "As will King Thorin."

It said much for the impassive faces of elven kind that the warriors showed no surprise when their King accepted help only from the dwarf to mount a horse, and then proceeded to pull him up in front of him.

"There are healers in Lake Town, assisting the wounded, Lord King."

"Lead the way," said Thranduil in a regal manner, his head held high and none aware but Thorin of the desperation in the grip of his fingers on the dwarf's waist.

"This is a very tall horse," noted Thorin uneasily.

"Then let us keep our seats, for it is a long way to the floor."

"I have no intention of falling, elf." The dwarf paused, his tone softening. "Nor of letting you fall."

"Likewise, for I would never hear the last of it."

So it was that they arrived in the remains of Lake Town. Word spread rapidly that both kings still lived, against all expectations, and a small gaggle of onlookers assembled outside the Elven King's tent. Messengers went scurrying through the dismal sleet, seeking healers and taking news of Thorin's return to the dwarves.

In the general noise and excitement, Thorin took the opportunity to swing his leg over the neck of the horse and slide to the ground, taking great care to keep his weight off his injured foot and grateful for the steadying grip of Thranduil's hand on his arm. The elf dismounted after him, silent thanks in his eyes for the subtle support of Thorin's shoulder. He gestured to the tent.

"I would be away from these curious eyes. Will you join me for cup of Dorwinion while we await the arrival of the healers?"

"I would prefer ale," said Thorin gruffly. "But in the circumstances your fancy elvish brew will be welcome."

"It is as well you learn to appreciate the taste now," answered Thranduil in a serene tone. "It is served to all guests in my Kingdom, although ale is available for those who have a less select palate."

"I do not recall any wine being offered when I was last your guest."

"Your next visit will be at my invitation," noted Thranduil. "And presumably you will also remember to bid me farewell before you leave."

The tent flap fell behind them, muffling the bustle of the camp and finally stilling the searching fingers of the icy wind. A stately elf materialised as if from thin air; he removed their wet cloaks and the fine mithril armour and produced a flagon of Dorwinion and two elegant drinking cups, all in silence, then bowed deeply and took his leave.

Thranduil made no movement to sit, instead swaying slightly in his torn breeches and undertunic, caught in the pool of yellow lamplight that lay around the small table. It was as though he waited for something, and suddenly Thorin understood.

"Your son. He is not here."

"No." The tone of the single word told the dwarf that all the strength of the elf was now gone, his remaining will sapped by this simple fact.

"You expected him?"

"No." Without his armour and devoid of fine tunics and cloaks, the elf seemed more slender, more fragile, and able to be broken as easily as the most delicate crystal. Thorin's strong fingers closed around the Elven King's forearm as he looked up at his face.

"And yet you hoped."

After all they had been through, the catch in the elf's breath at this simple sentence was profoundly moving.

"A father always hopes." And there was a shine in the elf's downcast eyes and a glistening trail over his cheekbone and no resistance at all when the dwarf gently steered him to the throne-like chair by the table.

"Sit," Thorin urged. "Sit. We will drink wine and warm our bones. And we will bury our kin and we will heal, and one day your son will return, and we will tell him how a dwarf and an elf came to be friends."

Thranduil sat, and his gaze followed Thorin as he limped around, finding a blanket to lay across elven shoulders and pouring them both a brimming cup of the sweet wine. The elf wrapped his long, pale fingers around the cup and raised it slightly.

"To kin," he said, his eyes meeting those of the dwarf. "And to friends."

The End.

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I will leave Thorin and Thranduil in the capable hands of the healers in this alternative universe where Thorin survives. I hope you enjoyed this trip into my crazy imagination.

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