Battle of the Five Armies AU
There are battles.
And then, there are battles. And this battle was just as ugly, filthy, dirty, and bloody as any battle any dwarf had been in.
Because they were dwarves and dwarves were all about ugly, filthy, dirty, and bloody.
But the last thing any of the dwarves expected was to be fighting side by side with Thranduil and his ilk. Finally, the King of Mirkwood decided to come out from behind his city gates and help someone besides himself. On one hand, Thorin was slightly grateful, but not enough to change his mind about that Elven filth.
But like Beorn, while he disliked Elves, he hated Orcs more and right this very moment, he and his two nephews, along with Thorin's Company and the refugees from Laketown and Dain with his kin and Rams and Gandalf and Radagast and...well... the Elves...were fighting side-by-side.
Three times Azog made a beeline towards Thorin. And three times, Azog was pushed back, Thorin feinted and disappeared into the melee.
Twice Borg almost cornered Kili, only to be beaten back and pushed by Fili and four times, Kili repaid the favor to his older brother.
Wargs and Battle Rams grappled tusk and horn, Dwalin idly wondering what would have happened had Thorin allowed his nephews to keep that warg puppy so many moons ago and raised it to be a friend to Dwarves and an enemy to Orcs.
Somewhere in the din, a horn cry rose, one that was not blown from orc or man or elf.
Balin heard it first, his hopes soaring before realizing who blew the horn. He was too busy with three orcs to hunt out Thorin and warn him.
Gloin heard it the second time. He swung, cleaving the orc in front of him in two, before looking up to the rise.
“Wha' izzit?” Oin saw his brother's look of glee, which quickly turned to terror. “GLOIN!”
“Mahal help us all. It be Badgers!”
“Badgers? What ye mean?”
Gloin was now searching the field. “Find Thorin! The Battle Badgers of the Blue Mountains are here an' they only carry one sort of warrior!” And with that, Gloin threw himself back into the battle.
Thorin was back in the middle of the field, spinning, fighting off and injuring orc after orc. Yet again, he found himself facing Azog. Numerous times, he dodged a killing blow and just as many times, the inhumane monster pushed. Thorin stepped backwards to get better footing, back elbowing at least one orc in the nose behind him in the process, only to fall backwards and into said downed orc, landing on his shoulder. He rolled, the bone screaming in pain. The Pale Orc stood high, his blade raised. “FINALLY! I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD!” He two-handed the sword above his head, prepared to swing.
“NOT MY SON, YOU BITCH!” Both dwarf and orc looked up in shock. For the orc, it was the last sight he would ever see. A female dwarf, with braids of steel and riding on the back of an over-grown badger, its mouth covered in blood and gore, and a meat cleaver raised in her hand. She swung, taking advantage of Azog's shock and cleanly removed his face from his head, blood and gore mostly splattering on Thorin. She pulled up next to him, extending a hand. “Get up! Where are your manners? What do you say?”
Thorin took the proffered hand, embarrassment on his features. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, what?”
“Thank you, mom.”
The lady dwarf nodded once before looking up. “Ah shit! Not again! Mahal's Beard, the messes you boys get into when our backs are turned!” She reined up the badger and barreled further onto the field, disappearing into the dust.
Eventually, it was over, what orcs that could still walk, ran from the field. Many were cut down as they fled, the blood turning the earth into a mire.
Thorin was bent over, hands on his knees. “Dwalin? Dwalin?” His friend came running, almost unrecognizable, save for the tattoos on his head. “Get me out of here. Hide me!”
“THORIN! THORIN OAKENSHIELD! WHERE ARE YOU?”
“NOW!” Thorin was looking around, getting his bearings. “Hide me now!”
Með, widow of Thrain, mother of Thorin, King Under the Mountain, cut Thorin off from where he stood, glaring at her son and his friend. She dismounted from her badger, slapping the reins at Bofur, who took them silently, having no clue who this angry dwarrow was.
“What on Mahal's earth is all of this?” She flung her hand out, encompassing the entire battlefield.
Thorin began to scratch his ear. “Well, there was this dragon and-”
“I told you to leave that Dragon alone!” She looked up, seeing a tall, familiar face. “YOU! Grey Wizard! You put him up to this!”
Gandalf's hand went to his chest. “Me? Oh, no, Lady Með. I didn't-”
“You most certainly did! Probably gave him that damned map and key! Had he stayed home like he should have, none of this would have happened!” She turned back to her son. “Just who do you think you are?”
Thorin drew up, still in a battle fury. “I am King Under the Mountain-”
“You will be King over my Knee if you do not change your tone of voice to me!” She reached out and grabbed him by the ear, dragging him through the field, leaving Dwalin, Gandalf, and Bofur shaking their heads. “By Mahal, I raised you better than this! First thing we're going to do is find every single living creature you pissed off and you're going to apologize to each and every one-”
And off they went, Með growling and Thorin being dragged behind her by his ear, both cursing and the sound of their voices fading into the sunset.
Another voice quickly rose above the din, yet another dwarrow following behind. She had Kili over one wide shoulder, her rein-wrapped hand over him to keep him put, and Fili's braids in the other, dragging him along, following in her mother's footsteps. There was a rolling pin and a cast iron skillet hanging from her belt, both smeared with gore.
“Who told you you could go to war? Hmmm? Who gave you permission to ride off and go pick a fight with someone who hadn't bothered you?”
“But Thorin said -”
“Oh, and I suppose if Thorin jumped off a cliff, you'd follow along behind?”
“He's King under the Mountain!” Fili implored.
“But he is NOT your mother! He didn't spend three days on his back in hard labor giving birth to either of you!”
Kili reared up the best he could. “You never let us have any fun!”
“Fun? Fun? You call this fun?” Dís stormed towards the gate of Erebor, behind her mother. “Next thing you'll tell me is you've fallen in love with an Elfmaid! I'll show you fun! First thing is you will find every single rock and you'll take them by hand to the gorge and clean this mess up and then...”
Eventually, the yelling faded away, the only sounds left being the sounds of the dying and the grieving.
“What was that?” Bilbo appeared from nowhere, still in shock at the viciousness of the battle and the sudden appearance of the female dwarves.
“That, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf stood straighter, readjusting his clothing, “was the most feared battle unit in all of Middle Earth. Blood-thirsty and so feared, it is preferred by both sides that they just stay home.”
“And they are?”
“The Daughters of Durin.”
“But... but... who called them?” Dwalin asked. “Who had time?”
Gandalf turned to walk away, one hand, one finger up. A strange moth flitted from the smoke and landed gently. “Thank you, my friend.”
Fini. Thank Mahal!