The mountain shook with the force of the attack—each distant boom a ripple through the stone beneath your feet, each tremor a cruel reminder that nowhere was truly safe anymore. Dust rained down from the vaulted ceiling as the fortress groaned, ancient and wounded, beneath the weight of war. Somewhere far above, horns called out through the tunnels—raw, urgent, the sound of alarm. Of chaos.

Your hand pressed instinctively to your belly.

It wasn’t far along. Barely enough to show. But you felt it—life blooming inside you like something sacred, something impossibly fragile. And now the world around you was cracking open, and the fear blooming in your chest was unlike anything you’d known before. Not just fear for Thorin. Not just fear for yourself.

But for the child neither of you had yet held.

You staggered as another impact reverberated through the floor, catching yourself against the cold stone of the corridor wall. Around you, dwarves rushed by—helmets clutched tight, blades drawn, voices raised in urgent Khuzdul. The scent of oil, steel, and smoke choked the air. Somewhere behind you, a door slammed. Somewhere ahead, you heard the shouts of a command—his command.

Then he appeared.

Thorin’s cloak was torn at the shoulder, his hair unbound from where it had fallen free in the fight. Dust streaked his armor, and blood—someone else’s, you hoped—painted the edge of his gauntlet. But his eyes… his eyes went straight to your face.

And then to your hand. Still pressed over your stomach.

He closed the distance between you in three long strides, not caring that others were watching, not caring that every second lost was a risk. His hands were on you at once—checking your arms for injury, cradling your face, his breath shallow and harsh as if he’d run the entire length of the mountain to get to you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice tight, trying—failing—to sound composed. “You should be with the healers. With Dís. Somewhere safe.”

“There’s nowhere safe, Thorin,” you whispered, throat raw. “Not if the mountain falls.”

He faltered for half a heartbeat, then pulled you into him, armor biting into your skin, his arms a steel cage around you. You felt the way his hand pressed against your lower back—protective, reverent. Like he could shield you both with sheer will alone.

“I won’t let them reach you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, as if the words themselves hurt to say. “I’ll tear down the mountain stone by stone before I let harm come to you. To either of you.”

You clutched his tunic, holding him tighter. “And I can’t lose you. Don’t ask me to wait behind and wonder if the next horn will be the one that ends everything.”

The silence stretched—carved by grief, fear, love too sharp to bear.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. His brow touched yours, his hand never leaving the curve of your stomach.

“Then we survive this,” he said quietly, fiercely. “For our child. For our future. I swear it.”