Author's Note: Hi everybody. I had a really busy spell, so to get back into the rhythm of writing, I wrote this. :) Reading the end of The Hobbit really kills, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Anywhos, I see all of these FanFictions where Kili or Fili or Thorin are still alive after the Battle of Five Armies, and you just want to see a FanFiction where no canon is disrupted, and you see a relatively un-loved (literally, there are no Mary-Sue pairings with this dwarf) Balin's perspective. Hope everyone enjoys! :)
Criticism is highly appreciated, and reviews with criticism are the preferred method of convening your thoughts. ;)
You stand there, bodies strewn about you. The sky is tauntingly bright, and you wish you could make it feel the grief you are all feeling.
Your brother Dwalin is collecting bodies of dwarves from the battlefield, roughly kicking aside harshly disfigured goblins and the occasional warg. He is grieving, mourning, saddened by the burdens of loss as everyone is that fateful day.
You reminisce back to the days when you were yet young and full of life, and the people of Erebor had a king. King Thror, in the Battle of Azanulbizar, had fallen. His grandson Frerin had fallen. Your father Fundin had fallen in the Battle of Nanduhirion. Thrain, son of Thror, had fallen afterwards, from years and years of grief, madness, and torture in the dungeons of Dol Guldur.
You wonder what has happened to the noble Line of Durin.
For before you lie Fili and Kili's bodies, bloody and mangled by sword and spear and claw. They had wanted glory in battle and strength of arms... They were so young, and had not even seen one hundred years of the world. Only barely old enough to come with their beloved uncle to reclaim Erebor. Had they been born but a decade later...
You are aware of a building pressure in your gut as you think of Thorin and his dear sister-sons. As you think of your father. As you think of all the death that vultures now tried to feast on. A sob escapes your still form, but you fight back sorrow and anguish, your eyes watery with the effort. A single tear trecks its way through the blood and grime on your cheek. You do not bother to wipe it off.
Your wearied bones creak in protest, but you tenderly pick up Fili and Kili, inseparable even in death, and make your way to the tent where Thorin lies, being tended with hope of survival. But you know better than to hope when a battle's aftermath is about, the air heavy with sorrow and filled with somber dirges of the dead.
After walking for only a short while, you set down the sister-sons of your king on the ground, sheltered from public eye by a canvas tent. But they deserve more. They deserve fine shrouds in their stone tombs, lying by their uncle in his ever-lasting sleep. And that is what they shall get.
You make to leave the tent, taking one last, long look at the youngest faces of the Company. Another tear crawls down your face. You wipe it off before entering Thorin's tent.
He looks at you, in pain, but looking strong, proud, and defiant to the end. The spears that were embedded in his chest when you and Dwalin found him have been removed, and blood soaks his dented and broken armor.
"Balin. Have you news of Fili and Kili? I remember only that they were there when I fell." You listen to the question in anguish, anguish that must be showing on your face, for reality hits Thorin hard, and his face becomes withdrawn, and his eyes wide. His eyes glaze, and tears threaten to fall beyond his reach, into a deep and dark void of no return. Soon, though, he takes control, and puts on a mask of stony acceptance. Not only of his nephews deaths, you remind yourself, but also that he would be joining them in the Halls of Waiting very soon indeed.
"Thorin," you croak out, "even if we may have, once upon a time, doubted you...we would have followed you through the fiercest fire and deepest caverns... I shall miss you, friend, leader..." you pause, swallowing heavily, your sore throat screaming in protest, "King." You weakly sit down, leaning against the flimsy tent wall, desperate for some type of support, no matter how insubstantial.
You and your King are together, alone for some time, before Dwalin enters to see the state of his closest friend. His hard face breaks, and his ever-present scowl turns into a frown. His thick eyebrows meet as his forehead crinkles with worry. You notice your brother's folded arms tensing and his hands morphing into fists. He is shaking.
No words are needed as he kneels down and puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder for moments that last as long as ages of Middle-Earth. He draws back and sits besides you.
You leave later with a drawn-out farewell and faces that ignore the weight in your chests that make breathing an impossible task, and both you and your brother pay Fili and Kili your final respects. They have already been cleaned. New clothes adorn their limp, but still muscled and strong frames, and their hair is neat and their skin is clear.
You think of how ironic their state is; physically they look in peaceful calm, but mentally all of the survivors are experiencing the storm that comes after that calm.
The deep, deep breath before the plunge was never a more appropriate phrase.
Author's Note: Disclaimer:This is a FanFiction from The Lord of the Rings world, created and trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. The characters, settings, and anything created by J.R.R. Tolkien are not my own and I do not claim ownership to any of them. This is a FanFiction I made with nothing to do with J.R.R. Tolkien, and is for entertainment purposes only: I am not profiting financially from this work, which may or may not be canonical. Thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien for making the world of The Lord of the Rings, for without it, many people would be un-enlightened to the genius of The Lord of the Rings and J.R.R. Tolkien and the following FanFiction would never have been made, and I would have no life.