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As he holds out his arm to hold his younger brother back on the snow covered rocks of the scraggly hill, he remembers the summer afternoon they crossed the river, how he daringly took the lead, to ensure there was a safe route across the slippery moss-covered rocks.
As he stalks though the damp, dark tunnels, shivering with grim anticipation and paralyzed by the cold he remembers when he held his first sword, forged for him by his uncle, fingers shaking with excitement, face flushed with happiness.
As the rumbling chants and blazing fire move closer and closer, trapping him like an animal in a cage, he remembers the laughter of his kin around the table and the warm light of the hearth at home.
As he swings his sword through the crowd of creatures, and pulls out knife after knife and hurls them into the mob of orcs, he remembers his first combat lesson with his Uncle and how Thorin remained patient, watching knife after knife Fili threw miss the torn sack of grain that served as a target.
As a cold gnarled hand seizes him roughly by the neck of his armour he remembers the way his father picked him up as a child, his large calloused hand lifting him by the collar of his oversized shirt before throwing him into the air and catching him in his sturdy arms.
As he is dragged through the ruins, struggling and straining against to get free, leather boots scrapping across the jagged stone, he remembers the day as a child he ran away to hunt the pack of orcs that killed his father, how his mother chased after him and dragged him back sobbing and screaming, small bare feet dragging through the tall grass.
As he is pulled towards the opening of the cavern, eyes squinting against the fresh harsh light of sun, chest heaving for breath, he remembers how his mother held him that night, so tightly he couldn’t breathe, eyes shut, tears streaming down his face.
As he looks at his uncle’s face, spattered with blood, stained with fatigue and grief under the grey sky, blue eyes wide and frantic, he remembers the way Thorin’s eyes glinted in the firelight, his shoulders square and strong, as he stood before the twelve companions that dark winter night.
As he is hoisted into the air, feet dangling over the swirling snow and black ice below he remembers when his uncle stood on their worn wooden table, like a king upon his throne, and raised his oaken-shield above his head, promising with a voice like thunder to the sons and cousins and brothers gathered that he would take back that which had been stolen from them.
As he hears the rasping voice of the pale orc vow to slaughter the line of Durin one by one, black tongue slithering over uneven fangs, he remembers the warmth of his uncle's hands on his shoulders, the rare smile adorning his strong jaw and heavy bro, as he whispered to his nephew the story of their forefathers, and told him that one day, should the day come, he will be a noble and just king.
As he chokes out a warning to his uncle, begging him to get out of here while he still can, the sinking sadness begins to settle in his bones and he remembers holding his weeping mother in his arms as she begs him not to leave, not to take her sons and brother, the only men she has left, away from her.
As his voice rings out in a last desperate plea for flight, for his uncle and brother to run far away, he remembers how he held his mother’s soft creased cheek in his hand, touching her forehead to hers, as her thick blonde hair falls in a curtain around him, promising that he will protect his baby brother and return to her safe and sound.
As the blade pierces his armour, and he feels himself fall slowly through the cool air, he thinks of his mother’s face standing before three graves in the lonely hall of the mountain, littered with broken stone, and he knows he has broken his promise.