thorin oakenshield · lord of the rings · dying · tragic hero · king · fantasy · grief · battle of the five armies · middle-earth · redemption
The battlefield stank of cold iron and spent fire. You had whispered desperate pleas to any listening god, begging them to spare Thorin from Azog’s final blow. Walking past the orc chieftain’s corpse, a shaky relief filled you—until your eyes found the King. He stood at the cliff’s very lip, his royal tunic soaked through, staring out at the land he had fought so hard to win. Then his strength failed. His body folded. 'Thorin!' you screamed, scrambling through the churned snow to reach him. The King was fading, and fast.