Dwalin waited behind the sealed front gate, listening to the screeches of countless orcs on the other side. Every few minutes came the loud slam of a battering ram crashing into solid stone. He rested easy knowing the orcs would do nothing but tire themselves with such tactics - the front gate had been heavily fortified since Erebor had been retaken. It would not be breached by a mere log.

Behind Dwalin massed hundreds of warriors who were packed into the antechamber and the corridors beyond. High above, crouched below the sight line of the wall, were another hundred archers waiting for their signal. And somewhere, out in the night, were fifty dwarves with Hanar, making ready their distraction.

He hated waiting. It had not been easy to decide which group to join - should he fight here with the forces at the front line, or with the band that left by the side door? The front line was where he had always thrived, but the other group would face its own dangers. In the end, he decided his place was to lead the charge from the gates.

Memories from the last time he had charged into battle from Erebor's gates came back to him. He had not led then, but followed under Thorin's command. What he wouldn't give to do so again, but that was not to be in this life.

The soldiers were perfectly silent as they waited. He could not imagine that the orcs would have heard the army creep into the antechamber and onto the wall above when they made such unceasing racket themselves outside the gate. Even so, if anything went wrong, his plan would end in disaster, as Dáin had said.

He could not guess how long they waited, listening to nothing but the sounds of orcs trying to break down the gates. Finally came the sound he had been longing to hear - orcs shrieking in surprise and fear. The ground rumbled as the creatures scattered.

"Now!" Dwalin shouted up at the archers. As one, they stood and shot at the orcs that blocked the gate below, each grabbing a new arrow as soon as the last was loosed. In but a moment, the lead archer turned and his own signal was given. Dwalin and a few others strained to open the front gate. As the doors began to swing wide, he grabbed his axes and ran full-force at the fleeing orcs, shouting curses in Khûzdul as he went.

Orcs scrambled in every direction. On the slopes of Ravenhill, the warriors who had crept out the secret door launched flash-flame into the crowds of orcs. The creatures ran screaming in disorientation, apparently unable to make out where the threat was coming from. The diversion had worked, for a wide swath of the orc force had run to investigate the commotion. Dwalin only hoped his forces on Ravenhill would be enough to handle the orc onslaught when it arrived.

He took in all of this even before his first blow fell. Those creatures closest crushed towards him in their fury, but he created a path through them as his axes flew, cleaving his enemies in two. The archers on the wall also worked to clear the way as their arrows rained down upon the advancing orcs.

Flash-flame continued to explode among the orc army, sending pockets of them scrambling about. Hanar needed to change tactics quickly. It did nothing but disorient them and was likely wasting his force's time in the effort.

Dwalin could not think of Hanar and those on Ravenhill long before a grey orc loped up to him with a black, jagged sword in its hands. The orc made a show of raising the weapon over its head, and Dwalin took that opportunity to lodge an axe into the orc's ribcage. Even as he did so, he swung the other axe to split the stomach of a second advancing orc. A third did a double-take. The grin Dwalin wore in battle was more fearsome than any orc menace. He enjoyed what he did and he would not rest until his enemies were slain. The orc turned to flee but it was still within Dwalin's reach. It could not go far without its head.

Hundreds of orcs and dwarves fell upon each other before the gates of Erebor, a sight he had hoped never to see again. In the darkness, the sound of clashing iron echoed from all directions. He looked to Dale. Ordinarily, the pale flicker of the watchtower flames could be seen from Erebor even in the black of night, but he saw nothing now. Perhaps battle had come to Bard that night as well.

His thoughts were interrupted as a large orc carrying a brutal mace approached him. The orc shrieked its battle cry and he roared right back, accepting the challenge. The orc swung its mace in a steady circle as it advanced, the weapon whining as it arced in the air, and Dwalin had to fend off the blow with his axes. For a moment, all three weapons entangled together and the orc leaned towards Dwalin to sneer. Dwalin released his grip and swiftly brought one balled fist down upon the orc's head, crushing its skull in a single blow.

Losing himself in the battle rage was as easy as falling - there was nothing behind him, nothing before, only orc flesh to rend and split. Every other part of him gave way to this sole purpose of sending the foul creatures to their deaths. Time slipped and skidded by with every swing of his axe until the sky began to lighten with the dawn. They had flushed the orcs from the front gates, which were sealed again, and now all battled below Ravenhill. The orcs that yet remained were trying to reform their ranks and march in force on the gates once more.

Several set upon him at once. He fought with all his might, slaying them one by one. With so many upon him, he took a nasty hit to the side that surely cracked ribs. As pain seared through him, he lost his focus for the briefest moment. In that second, the last of the orcs surrounding him raised its sword for a killing blow. Dwalin turned to swing his axe when the orc collapsed, an arrow lodged in its head.

He looked up to see Bard, followed by the army of Dale, rushing upon the orcs. Bard nodded once to him before setting upon their mutual enemies. For a moment Dwalin's smile was genuine before it turned once more to a harbinger of orc doom.

#

Deep within the Mountain, Lív, Vestri, and the few others with training as healers prepared the infirmary to receive the wounded. Few reports of battle had reached them, but what little they did know was disheartening. Erebor was under siege by hundreds of orcs and the front gates were sealed. The dwarves were trapped.

She had little fear for herself as she ripped linens for wrappings and set water on to boil. The front gate was impenetrable - orcs reaching so far within Erebor was unheard of. No, her thoughts were with Dwalin, who soon would be in the thick of battle, if he were not already.

Óin had sought out further news of the situation and was now returned. "The residential levels are secured. None but the army are to go so far as the main corridor until we get the all clear. The front halls and entrance chambers are packed with soldiers. I've never seen the like."

"Dwalin?" It was a fool's hope that Óin might have heard word of him, but she couldn't help but ask.

He shook his head somberly.

Waiting in the quiet infirmary was enough to drive Lív mad. Hours crawled by with no report, no message of what occurred outside the Mountain. All within spoke in hushed tones, as though the battle could somehow be swayed by loud voices. She walked the aisle between the cots, rattling basins and instruments as she went to break up the awful silence.

Just after dawn, the first of the wounded stumbled into the healing rooms. Lív assessed injuries and directed the soldiers to cots before she began tending the worst off. The soldiers' injuries were of every sort and severity, giving her little indication of how the battle outside the front gate progressed. Surely the greatest threat had passed if the gates had been opened again.

Her hands were precise and gentle in their care, her demeanor calm. Yet in the back of her mind, she could not stop wondering where Dwalin was. Did he yet fight? If any orcs still drew breath, he would be in the middle of the fray. His place was in battle. She knew this, though she wanted nothing more than his safe return. As often as she could, she turned her gaze to the doorway, hoping for a glimpse of him. She saw many soldiers, but Dwalin was not among them.

Time seemed to stand still. She set bones, sewed flesh, and cleaned wounds, yet there was always another soldier waiting for her. As her worries increased, her expression set into a hard grimace. She likely made an unpleasant picture for the warriors she tended, but her mind was filled with unpleasant thoughts. She had little heart for giving or receiving empty encouragements when somewhere out there, Dwalin battled on.

She was surprised and heartened to see Men among the wounded who now found their way into the infirmary. They were tended to, just the same as the dwarves, though what had transpired outside that Men were involved in the fight was beyond her guess. She was determined to take it as a good sign.

The line of waiting soldiers dwindled away and she hoped this meant the fight, too, was dwindling, but still she heard nothing of Dwalin. She worked with no less skill or composure, but an icy fear seeped through her chest and sank like a stone in her stomach. Those already dead would not be taken to the healing rooms. Was Dwalin somewhere among those lying forever still? She could not bear to think it.

Óin approached as she tended a young man's injured leg. "I'll take it from here, lass."

"Thank you, but I can manage." She did not even look up at him as she cleaned the wound. If Dwalin could be strong on the battlefield, she could be strong in the healing rooms. Giving in to fear was not an option.

Óin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I think you could use a rest." His eyes flickered from her to the doorway behind her. Understanding dawned on her and she slowly turned around.

By the great doors stood Dwalin, battered and bloody, but whole. The ice in her chest melted away and it was like she had come to life again. The grimace that had been etched into her features crumbled into a sigh of relief. She rushed through the aisle to him, where he met her with open arms. He was filthy with mud and thick, black orc blood, but she threw her arms around him all the same. Released from her worries, the tears that she had been holding back burst forth and she cried out her joy into his chest.

Dwalin stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. "I thought you weren't worried."

She laughed through her tears before hugging him tighter and kissing him on the mouth. He winced and she drew back. "Are you hurt?"

"A broken rib or two."

She let go her tight hold on him and gave him a quick once-over. He did seem to be favoring his left side, although if his ribs were broken he was surely in more pain than he let on. Her hands went to the armor there, where she found his scale mail was cruelly rent. Luckily the chain mail beneath had held.

"Finish seeing to the lads," he said gently. "I can wait."

With a fond smile and a kiss, Lív left him and went to treat the warriors who remained. The work flew by in a way the morning hours of waiting and worrying had not. When the last of the soldiers had been tended, bandaged, and either released or made comfortable in their bed, she returned to Dwalin.

Taking his hand, she led him to a waiting cot, where she helped him out of his layers of armor and mail, being careful of his injured side. After both layers of mail were removed, he sat on the cot in his shirt and protective leather vest. Her fingers went to the laces of his vest when she stopped. If removing his single gauntlet had set her heart to racing, it was nothing compared to what she experienced at this. He looked up at her from beneath his heavy brows with a wry grin - he knew what she was feeling.

"I think I'll get Óin to bind your broken ribs," she said.

His grin widened. "That might be for the best."

#

That night a feast was held in the Great Chamber of Thrór. For the first time in years uncounted, people of Men feasted and celebrated under the Mountain alongside dwarves. When the story had been told of the timely arrival of King Bard and his army, King Dáin had welcomed them with open arms. Bard had bridged the gap between the two kingdoms by joining his army with that of the dwarves, and Dáin, for his part, was willing to cast aside past grievances.

Though their losses were few, both kingdoms had suffered casualties in the day's battle, and those fallen warriors were honored with words and song. Bard and his men seemed reluctant to celebrate while the dead lay not yet buried, but dwarvish tradition held it was only fitting to celebrate victory alongside loss. Dwarves saw no shame in joy mixed with sorrow, for that was the nature of life itself.

Lív stayed close to Dwalin's side all evening. She didn't want him out of her sight for a moment, nor did he seem to want to leave it. She was with him as he visited his warriors, and listened as he commended them on various acts of bravery. He, himself, had not spoken of his own experience that day and she did not expect him to. Whatever his deeds, they were both great and terrible, and they were his alone unless he chose to share the tale.

King Bard approached them and bowed deeply. Though tired and dirty, he appeared uninjured. "That was quite a light show."

Dwalin merely shrugged his shoulders. "Turns out distractions do work on orcs. Is that what brought you?"

"Our scouts saw the bonfires at your watchtowers had gone out. I didn't think that was a good sign." Bard's mouth turned up in a subtle smirk.

Dwalin nodded. "That was our first clue, too. The filth decided to make one last attempt for Erebor, it seems."

"They did not have nearly enough numbers for that task."

"No, indeed." Dwalin seemed suddenly uncomfortable, tightening the arm he held around Lív as he cleared his throat. "Lad - Bard - I owe you an apology. For - well, for too much." The words were sincere, though grudgingly said.

Bard looked bewildered, but inclined his head in acceptance all the same. "I thank you."

An awkward silence lingered a moment and Lív laughed inwardly at these two taciturn men exchanging fragments of conversation. They both needed someone else to draw them out, lest they fall back into brooding quiet.

"How fared the city of Dale, King Bard?" she asked.

"It is sound. We had enough warning to muster our armies and meet the orcs on the road, rather than let them reach Dale." Here he turned to Dwalin. "I have to commend Erebor's blacksmiths - these new blades are the finest any of us have ever used."

Dwalin seemed pleased by the praise. "Better than any crow bill or pike hook."

Bard grinned crookedly and nodded. "I cannot deny it."

"I hope your wife and son are well," Lív said.

The troubles of war faded from Bard's face and the smile he gave her was all softness. "They are. Bain is growing admirably. He'll be a right hearty little lad before long."

"I don't doubt it." Asking whether he'd held the baby yet sat on the tip of her tongue, but, under the circumstances, she thought it too impertinent to ask.

"No beard, though." Dwalin, however, was less concerned about impertinence.

Bard coughed a laugh. "Ah, no, I'm afraid we'll not see a beard on him for some time." A devilish grin slowly spread across his face as he looked at the two of them, their arms around each other's waists. "I see you are taking my advice."

Dwalin grumbled at her side, but Bard's eyes fairly sparkled as he looked meaningfully from him to Lív.

"I didn't need to be told, laddie." Dwalin's good humor had faded fast. It seemed their friendly banter would take time for him to grow accustomed to.

The return of Dwalin's surliness did nothing to mar Bard's amusement. He bowed again to Lív and briefly took her hand. "I believe my debt to you has been repaid." He winked before striding away.

She turned curious eyes on Dwalin, who was yet scowling at Bard's back as the man departed. "What does he mean?"

He looked as though he would say something ill of Bard, but then his expression grew tender as he turned his eyes on her. "You saved the lives of his family members, and now he has saved the life of yours."

Whatever fondness she had for Bard grew tenfold at this news. She wished for his return that she might thank him properly, albeit entirely too profusely.

"Only, I'm not your family. Not yet." Dwalin's face was deadly serious as he looked down at her, although his eyes were gentle. "I want you by my side, Lív. I want you for my wife."

Her grin grew even wider, if it were possible, and her chest felt filled with fireflies.

"I can't promise a smooth time of it - I'm not easy to live with." Dwalin continued on, his voice stern as though trying to talk her out of her choice. "I can be hard-headed and you've seen my temper isn't always in check -"

Lív placed one hand on his cheek. "None of that. I won't have you saying such things about my betrothed husband."

Dwalin's eyes glinted with satisfaction as a broad smile spread across his face. Though they were amid halls crowded with Dwarves and Men, he took her in his arms and kissed her as though he had no intention of ever not kissing her again.

#

Six months later, Dwalin prepared a blazing campfire as dusk fell. With their few necessities strapped to his back, he had led Lív to a secluded spot on the hillside just west of the gates of Erebor. They were close enough to the Mountain for safety, yet far enough to be assured of privacy.

As soon as spring had come, Erebor and Dale had joined forces to march on the Grey Mountains. The trek to find the orc hideout had been tedious, as Dale spent weeks sending a continuous run of scouts searching for evidence of orcs. Their efforts were eventually rewarded and the fledgling orc stronghold discovered.

The armies of Dwarves and Men had banded together and marched on the settlement in the Greys as one. The battle itself had been minor - most of the orcs' numbers had apparently been killed in their last attempt on Erebor. Still, the armies had scoured every nook and cranny in the cave and wiped them out to the last orc. Although some among both armies feared the possibility of new attacks from the south, for now Dwalin was satisfied that the threat to the north had finally been eliminated.

Now their kings had set aside their personal grudges, the situation between Erebor and Dale had changed for the better. The two kingdoms were allies in more than merely name - they fought, labored, and celebrated side by side. This, in turn, had advanced trade and already both kingdoms were seeing the benefits of cooperation, beginning with the restoration of Dale's walls. Bard still got under Dwalin's skin now and then, and the occasional barbs were tossed about between the two, but he guessed that would never change.

Once the fire was going, Dwalin turned to watch Lív. She had laid out their bedrolls and blankets and now stood with her hands on her hips, surveying their small camp.

"It's missing something," she said, a touch of a scowl on her face.

"Aye, it's missing a bed and four stout walls."

She gave him a playful look. "I thought you didn't mind sleeping out in the elements."

He stepped closer to wrap her up in his arms. "I've grown accustomed to a soft bed and a wife to warm it."

"I've spoiled you."

"Utterly."

Despite thinking himself ill-suited to ceremonial niceties, Dwalin could not forego his marriage ceremony, which had been performed the previous month. He had held Lív's hands in the center of the circle, surrounded by far too many family and friends. He would always remember how she had sparkled in the forest green dress he found so fetching on her.

After living one hundred seventy-three years as a bachelor, waiting those last five months to marry had seemed a burden. Once he had Lív's consent, he would have wed her straight away, but it was only proper to wait until her father and mother could arrive from the Iron Hills. Lív had suggested the possibility of marrying first, and notifying her parents after the fact, but in the end he knew she wanted and deserved to have her loved ones present for the ceremony.

If memory alone could bring the fallen new life, Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli would have stood in the circle that day alongside Balin and the others of the company. The lads would have given him no peace at finally settling down. If he'd ever guessed that he would do such a thing as marry, he would have wanted Thorin at a place of honor in the circle. Although that was not to be, he kept his memories of his friends close, and honored them for all they had been in his life. It was yet painful to think of them, but he could endure the bittersweet.

The ceremony could not have been brief enough for his taste. Though he still disliked pomp and circumstance, he had had no qualms about making his vows to care for, protect, and be faithful to Lív. It would be an easy task, and more than he deserved. He would be a fool to do anything less than make her his wife.

And so they had married. Standing before the campfire, he had a month of wedded bliss under his belt, and although he didn't act the fool like so many of the besotted did, his feelings were not lessened for having wed Lív. She brought something to his life he wouldn't have thought to go looking for, wouldn't have even known was missing, but now wouldn't live without for the world.

She placed her hand on his cheek. "What are you thinking of?"

He quirked one eyebrow. "I am alone in the wild with my wife. Can you not guess?"

She drew her fingers lightly through his beard, knowing what this did to him. "Perhaps that's all that I was missing."

She leaned up for a kiss and he was only too willing to return it. After a few minutes, he took her hand and they both lay down on the bedrolls. She snuggled up close to his side, her head upon his shoulder, and they looked up at the stars.

"Is this what you wanted?" He hugged her close, thinking of their conversations in Dale when she confessed her longing to sleep under the stars once more.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked him in the eye. "No. This is better." The gaze she cast on him was so full of love, he thought he could bask in it for the rest of his days.

And as it turned out, that's just what he did.

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Thank you for indulging me and reading along to the end of this story! It's a sentimental ending but one, I think, that this stoic hero deserves. Dwalin lived 100 years longer than the average dwarf lifespan - I didn't want him to live out those years alone. Thanks for reading!