A/N: Here's Part One of what will probably be a trilogy of my take on the events of the Battle of Five Armies.

Basically I've been having serious feels and borderline depression over this particular event in the book, since well, most of us know how it ends by now. Since it's short and not so sweet in the book, I simply cannot wait to see Sir Peter Jackson and his team's interpretation of what I'm positive is going to be a heart-wrenching, dramatic scene. (I'm talking brilliantly-acted anguished cries that will leave me an emotional wreck mixed with kick-ass visuals and fight sequences)

Anyway, as an outlet to all my feels and creys, I decided to write my own version of the battle - I know it's probably got heaps of factual errors, but please just consider it dramatic license?

Hope you enjoy this as much as it hurt to write. (Spoiler Alert: IT HURT)

The Battle

Part One

It was one of the most beautiful nights that had ever been witnessed. The sky was a crisp, midnight blue; the mild scattering of dense, defined clouds almost artistically positioned across the dark canvas. The moon shone brighter than ever, giving the cloud behind which it hid an enchanting silver glow.

In some sense, it could be argued, it was a good night to die.

The tranquility and beauty of the night sky was not, however, reflected by the land.

War cries and the loud resonation of clashing metal, sickening thuds of impact and crunch of bone saturated the stagnant night air, reverberating across the space and amplified by the many nooks and crannies of the great terrain beyond. The plain was a clutter of wrestling figures, the lifeless forms of the fallen lettering the ground beneath their feet. Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, Goblins – good barely distinguishable from evil in the chaos and turmoil of warfare.

Apart from death, there was one thing that united the fallen: On the field, each was nothing more than a number, an honourable sacrifice for the cause they had fought and died for. Heroes, in the eyes of their people. But every single lifeless body that lay was someone's child; someone's lover; someone's father or brother or kin. Somewhere waited their loved ones, anxious for their return and dreading the instance that news arrived saying they would not. Someday the memory of their nobility would be passed on for generations to come, building their legacy.

In some cases, however, the loved ones fought alongside them, risking the chance of the legacy being passed on by history rather than recount.

Thorin was right in the heart of the battle, surrounded and dangerously outnumbered by countless orcs and goblins. He was not unaware of the Pale Orc Azog in the near distance, slowly but surely making his way toward him through an army of elves with the deadliest of intentions twisted into his grotesque face. Yet, as Thorin slashed down beast after beast, the only fear he felt in his guarded heart was for the safety of his nephews – the only kin he had left in the world. Panicked eyes scanned the vast expanse of the battleground, but he might as well not have, Even in unusually bright silver light of the moon, it was near impossible to identify the brothers in the midst of all the ongoing chaos.

Momentarily distracted from the task at hand, he failed to notice the warg make its attack until it was too late to escape. Razor sharp claws and foul-smelling yellow teeth were all Thorin registered before jaws clamped down on his thigh with a force akin to an olyphant's tread. A mangled yell of anguish escaped the seasoned warrior's lips as he was hoisted into the air by the grip on his leg, the great white warg fastening its hold impossibly tighter.

He felt his muscle shred and bone crumble; and it was in that moment, his head burning with fever and lungs straining from exhaustion, that he almost considered giving up. His injuries were not sparse – several ribs were snapped from one too many blows from a swinging mace and his left arm was twisted into odd angles; not to mention his right leg currently being used to suspend him dangling upside down in the air by the mouth of Azog's companion warg. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and have everything all be over when he awoke.

However, the heir to Erebor's throne had experienced far greater pain in his time. Not from any wounds sustained in battle, no, but the grief he felt at the deaths of his loved ones and the loss of his home. He still remembered being informed of the deaths of his grandfather, father, brother within minutes of each piece of grave news, and hours later holding on to his sister's hand as her heart too ceased to beat, mere minutes after delivering her second son into a race grieving with the losses of war.

Each death was like a series of blows right into his very being; the pain so severe that his countless battle wounds seemed non-existent. Those would eventually heal and scar, but the anguish associated with his loss had simply developed into a dull creeping ache, one that never had and never would fully fade.

Yet, here they were. In the darkest of times, his people had found a way of getting by. A child born on a day of death and despair had grown into a strong fighter and a noble dwarf like his brother was and father had been. Somehow, they had made it. He'd be damned if he got this close and lost it all. He needed to reclaim Erebor so his nephews could finally return to their rightful home.

It was with that thought that Thorin, gritting his teeth, reached for the dagger sheathed in his boot and waited for the right moment to strike. The white warg thrashed its enormous head, ugly snarls escaping it's throat as it shook Thorin about in the air. The pain was intense; so extreme that he saw stars, but with one well-timed swipe of the short blade, the Dwarven King slashed a long, deep laceration on the beast's sensitive nose. With a loud yelp, the warg released Thorin, launching him like a ragdoll several feet through the air before crashing in a heap on the ground below. The white warg clutched and pawed at its face, whimpering as dark blood gushed from its wounds and stained the pale fur.

It seemed as though everything was happening in slow motion. He looked around him, really taking in the battlefield for the first time since he led the army forth in the charge to reclaim their lost home. surrounding him were some of the bravest displays of bravery and strength he had seen, but in spite of the glorious effort of the warriors, bodies were still collapsing. Thorin could see the members of the company – old, wise Balin, his trusted advisor and dear friend taking down goblin after goblin. Dori and Nori stood back to back, slashing at the orcs and goblins that tried to stagger toward them, youthful, sweet Ori crouching between his brothers nursing a wound on his abdomen. The mighty Dwalin, toughest of the fighters, was fighting bravely despite being on his knees; two arrows sticking out of his left knee and a deep cut on the side of his scarred face.

It took the King a while to realize that his company, his friends, were in a circle around him, forming a parameter of sorts to limit the number of foes that got to him. He felt his racing heart swell with gratitude at the valiant display of loyalty, courage and honour by these fine dwarves, as well as all the others who were fighting for their home. Along the horizon, the first light of day was beginning to peek shyly through the valleys of the great mountains in the far distance.

Dawn. Suddenly, Thorin felt just a glimmer of something he thought he had long lost – hope. A fresh dose of adrenaline gushed white hot through his veins. He felt renewed with a new vigour at the realization that his friend would fight to the death for him, and he'd be damned if he did not do the same for them.

He attempted to stand, but his mangled right leg would support no weight and he collapsed shakily back to the ground. Once again, he could merely watch helplessly as the now enraged white warg crossed the space between them with two long bounds, teeth already bared and ready to kill.

But Thorin refused to back down –his eyes steely and proud even in the face of death. If he should die, he would go down defiantly; his dignity would not allow him to go any other way. It was due to his stubborn refusal to shut his eyes that he saw the arrow fly out of seemingly nowhere, soaring straight and true through the air before finding its mark in the warg's eye. Within a fraction of a second, a throwing knife embedded itself into the creature's thick neck. He did not need to look to know who the weapons came from, but part of him wished he was wrong whilst another sighed in gratitude and relief.

Thorin whipped his head around so fast to the direction whence the weapons came that he felt vaguely dizzy, but that may have been from the loss of blood he had suffered. He did not know whether to be pleased or concerned at the sight that confirmed his suspicions – Fili and Kili running towards him with their weapons drawn and combat-ready.

"No!" he wanted to yell. "Get away from here. Go! Be safe." But the determined looks on their dirt-streaked faces made it clear that they were not going anywhere until their uncle was out of harm's way.

They looked so lithe and tough, but for a moment all the King could see was two young boys running around the meadow brandishing sticks as swords, sparkling fits of giggles reminiscent of a bubbling stream bursting from their tiny mouths. He knew they were not weak - after all he had raised them to be strong dwarves and skilled fighters himself - but in his eyes, Fili and Kili would always be young and vulnerable; the innocent orphans who somehow brought joy and laughter in the darkest of times.

It was that thought that gave him the strength he needed. Those boys deserved a proper home after all they had been through in their short lives. They were so, so close to success, and he would not let their quest fail now.

He knew that as the young Princes drew closer to him, so did Azog from his other side. There was no way he would let that monstrosity anywhere near his kin.

His stern features hard, Thorin reached for Orcrist where it had fallen several feet away and speared it deep into the soft ground on which he lay. With an unsteady breath, he rose, using the elvish blade as a support to find his balance on his one good leg.

He was going to fight.

For loyalty, for honour, for those close to his heart.

A/N: Well there's part one! I hope you enjoyed it (: Thank you so so much for reading!