A/N: I guess it's about time I wrote Bilbo's perspective! Major tragedy and angst, of course. *weeps*
Disclaimer: If they were mine, do you think I'd have killed them? *weeps again*
There were those who fought, and there are those who died, and there are those whose task it is to remember.
Bilbo knows he couldn't forget, even if he tried. For these were dark days, and they ended in darkness.
When at long last he is home again, he will give away his fourteenth share. He will be free of it, for he has learned that gold makes none of its own light. It can only steal reflections. Only cast shadows.
Bilbo remembers fish in barrels, dragon's breath and fear. Bilbo remembers Rivendell, flagstones older than memory cool beneath his feet, peace in his heart. Bilbo remembers living fire, dead blood, and swords that earned their names.
Bilbo remembers.
He may never return to the mountain, and these memories are all he bears with him. And because it is his duty he bids farewell to their tombs, cold beneath the mountain that they saved (but that did not, could not save them). He runs a hand over the carvings, over the runes that spell out bravery and legacy and everything but life.
He will remember them.
He remembers Thorin—but not as he was in those dark days, when he hardened and crumbled like stone. He remembers the Thorin who looked towards the mountain from a safer distance, and he remembers the Thorin who could lead, who could even be known to laugh.
He remembers the brothers, too, remembers them well because they were his friends. He did not see them fall, but he saw them fight. He remembers the fear in their eyes, and the courage, and how they stayed (always) side by side.
He will remember them.
He remembers the glint of their armor, the royal braids in their hair, and if he closes his eyes long enough (over a blur of tears), he remembers summer twilight, and their bright young faces at his door.