Because I've seen The Battle of the Five Armies twice now and have not cried over my favorite Dwarf babies yet, felt their ends were cheap and anticlimactic, and am still miffed about the whole book vs movie thing, I have rewritten their death scenes for my own heartache. Enjoy (and by enjoy, I mean I hope I make all of you cry).

Inspired by several pieces of fanart and written while listening to Billy Boyd's "The Last Goodbye." Named after the book chapter.

The battle swarms him like a whirlpool, the sounds of steel and bone and screams a thundering of the waves as bodies rail against each other in a high tide of blood and flesh. The roar is all consuming, deafening, while he fights with axeblow upon axeblow to keep the water from overtaking him, the orc enemy from drowning him.

He had stood up high above in that stone fortress and declared he would have war. Is is easy to challenge the river when you can't see the current beneath.

He assaults his nemesis with all the strength and vigor and stubbornness of his race, blow after blow, the dance of death that leaves everything to the chance of the moment, to skill and luck and power and cunning and yet none of these things, for life is so fickle and war is its playground. He is running on determination alone, body a mass of thrumming aches and sweat, never stopping, every clash of his blade reverberating through his entire being.

The last stand of the dwarves is being made, surrounding their lords on a low rounded hill amidst the siege. These are his brothers in blood, warriors who would die for him, who are dying for him, and in the chaos of the whirlpool he cannot feel a thing except numbness and cold despite the swelter on his skin and the pounding of his heart. His armor is a mass of dents and slashes, his body barely more than bruises and gashes, the the world in his vision shakes with adrenaline and deep breaths.

He deflects an attack on his front and whirls around to parry another blow. His axe is locked together with an enemy blade when a strike comes in lower. It slides in with a sick sort of ease, through his armor and into his skin, his muscles, his insides.

It's a strange thing, feeling something that you are usually not consciously aware of. But he can feel them now, his organs. Feel them move around inside him as the blade pushes further, pinches them, pierces them, slices them. He wonders if he'll have to watch his intestines spill out of his own body when the orc yanks his sword free.

But the metal pulls back out with a wet shlink like a sword from a sheathe, and everything is still in place inside him, but damaged and wrong and hurting and bleeding. Thorin stumbles.

"THORIN!"

It is Kili who is suddenly there, his bow a makeshift shield, fending off the next blow, pushing the enemy back. Kili, who is suddenly tall, pulling a blade, standing above his uncle as he cries out with every angry blow. Thorin is on one knee, the world around him is shaking too make, he can't stay upright, but he must, Kili—

Kili is struck in the back shoulder by an arrow. It propels him forward, jerking his head back, exposing his neck. The dirty glint of a blade cuts across Thorin's field of vision, just in front of his nephew. And Thorin cannot breathe as he watches the orc simply stalk away, and the young dwarf fall to his knees. On his side. Rolls to his back. Looks to his uncle.

His eyes are wide and wet. Blood sputters from his mouth as he chokes. It is nothing compared to the gushing beneath his chin.

His hand switches, lying there beside him, reaching out. It stills about the moment his eyes stop seeing.

Thorin can't look away from those eyes. He's barely even aware that the raspy whispers of "no" are coming from him.

Because he's just a child, barely more than a baby, lying down to sleep and grinning up at his uncle, not here, not this.

"KILI!"

There are others standing over him, fighting to protect him, but he can see nothing, do nothing, but watch the tragedy unfold in front of him as Fili comes swinging, shoving, screaming through the crowd. He downs two orcs and a goblin before sliding beneath more clashing blades to scramble across the ground to his brother's side.

He pulls Kili's head to his lap, presses a clumsy hand to his neck, but his brother's last moments are passed, he's gone, and he wasn't there with him, couldn't save him. He stares, lost, frantic, glancing at every inch of Kili's face as though looking for hope, his lip trembling, incoherent squeaks tumbling out unbidden. His hands are on his face, in his hair, on his shoulders, across his chest, holding cold hands, unable to stop moving, to stop touching, stop believing.

Thorin is suddenly aware of a sword baring down on him, and he topples sideways to throw up his arms, axe in hand, to fend it off.

With a strangled cry that is half roar, half sob, Fili lets his brother slip to the ground as he rises, double blades drawn, and charges towards Thorin's attacker. He is a fury of hammering blows, sending his opponent stumbling back, and then to the afterlife. But he does not stop. Still cannot stop. He is a mess of tears and sorrow and anger, plowing down orc after orc as they approach the dwarven king in the dirt.

Fili is a warrior, his heir, a prince, a king. He is a child swinging a practice sword, confident and dedicated to practice, his brother trailing behind him. He is not here. Please, he can't be—

Thorin struggles to his feet, throwing himself forward with a growling cry as he joins his nephew.

Kili is feet away. On the ground. Not moving. Not breathing.

Asleep at the books when he should be studying, his brother covering for him.

Hovering at his elbows by the forge, ever curious.

Fili's voice is in his ear, scream after scream after scream.

Fighting, the boys are fighting, as brothers are wont to do.

Please no.

A spear plunges through Thorin's leg. He tries to swing his axe in retaliation as he falls. The goblin ducks, twists the spear in his flesh and he cries out. The weapon is yanked free, taking torn muscle with it. It quickly finds it's way right back into him; this time, chest.

His axe hacks the shaft in two, and Fili is there, burying his swords into the goblin as Thorin struggles to breathe. An orc kicks him in the shoulder, sends his vision reeling, and then uses his foothold to brace himself as he tugs the broken spear free. Grinning, he puts all his weight into bringing it right back down.

And into Fili's back.

His face is inches from Thorin, and he's splattered with spit and sweat and blood as his nephew screams. A horrible sound melds with it, and Thorin feels a pain swelling in his chest. But he can't bring himself to look away.

Not from Fili. Not from those wide, wet eyes. Again with those eyes.

Fili's body trembles above Thorin's. It's several long, agonizing seconds before someone—Dwalin, maybe—has killed the orc and is leaning down beside Fili and Thorin. Fili's swords are still stuck in the goblin from before, a few dead bodies away.

Thorin's arms are up, holding his nephew's shoulders, and as he tries to help push him up, he realizes he's pulled the tip of the spear free.

From his own chest. It has gone straight through Fili's.

"Fili, Fili … "

He nods stiffly, plants a slow, halting hand on his uncle's shoulder, and then uses one arm to move himself. With closed mouth, stiff lipped, heaving grunts, he pulls himself in short bursts back into the fight.

Towards his brother.

"My place is with my brother." The words echo in Thorin's mind.

It is there Fili collapses, his head barely reaching Kili's, and presses their foreheads together in the mixture of blood and dirt and rock. His shaking hand is reaching up to grab his brother's head, his hair. It doesn't make it.

Please no.

They are only children, smiling together on a sunny day in the back of a cart transporting hay. They are soaking wet, climbing out of the river, swatting at each other with their clothes. They are standing tall, volunteering, going with him to the mountain—

No, no. Please no.

They are only babies. He's holding tiny Kili in his arms for the first time, tufts of dark hair, high cries, little Fili at his leg, maned in gold, staring up protectively at his brother.

They are lying there, heads pressed together, bodies jostled, stepped on, soaked in blood, in the dirt, lost and unnoticed and unmourned amidst the whirlpool.

Thorin's eyes are burning, his throat is tight, his stomach rolls, everything hurts, why, why.

He can't move. He can barely see. Please no.

Everything's already started to fade out when the bear comes rushing in. Beorn throws the injured king on his back and charges through once again, galloping through the battle, intent on getting the dwarf to safety.

But all Thorin can see is his two nephews disappearing beneath trampling feet as blackness takes his vision. And when he wakes in that tent, he can feel death, feels its what he deserves, they're gone, please no, his sister's sons, his sons as good as, gone, no, what of Bilbo, at least Bilbo—

At least let their be one left he dragged into this that he can apologize to.