Author's Note: I wrote this thing in a frenzy, half-asleep and confused by the intensity of the images in my head. I don't know what this is, but it will probably stay a one-shot. (Even though I'm writing on a follow-up, wtf.) Idk. Waaah D: Please tell me what you think. Because I cried.
Middle Earth should never have seen progress like it had in the last century. Thorin didn't even want to imagine what it had to be like for the elves. He himself had been born to fires warming chambers carved out of stone by the strength and handicraft of dwarves. He had been born to furs and pelts warming cold nights. He had grown up to toys made by skilled and loving hands. Nowadays there was cold, unyielding steel, spat out of machines that produced the material for beds and tables as well as for weapons, ammunition and other means of destruction. Children – Mahal forbid, his own nephews – grew up to know woollen blankets, toys of steel, made to harden their innocent hearts into cannon fodder. Thorin hated it. He hated sounding like the old and embittered veterans that survived what almost destroyed the whole of Middle Earth. He was one of them, one of those who remembered. He remembered the days when you could see green fields of emerald grass, a lake – shining golden-red in the setting sun – and a dark, never ending forest from the balconies of Erebor. But Erebor was lost, and so was Thorin.
They had praised the dwarf who made the discovery that would bring them to their knees. No one remembered his name, or if they did, they were too ashamed to admit so. It had been meant as a source to power the forges, to create. But there was always darkness to be had, especially in the lithified hearts of dwarves, and they used it to destroy instead. The field of grass Thorin remembered was gone that night, and it had taken less than a command. One thumb. One single thumb that pressed one single button. In the end it mattered not. Threats arose from the forest, the elves were afraid and angry. Thorin remembered the Elvenking's shining eyes, flaring with fear and fury. In the end it mattered not. The forges kept thumping and roaring, and a king decided it was time to go to war. There was always more to have, and he wanted it. But there were always others who wanted too, who wanted even more. No matter what progress their power had brought them, no matter what other weapons had been birthed out of the sheer destructive fire, they couldn't kill what they themselves created, the monster they nursed until it killed its creators.
It only took one nuclear explosion to kill thousands of dwarves in an instant. Thorin survived, and he asked himself many, many times afterwards, what he had done wrong to deserve this. Years and decades later he still wished to have died in the inferno. He wished there hadn't been kind, pale hands that hauled him out from under debris and rubble. He wished he didn't have to see shining eyes look at him with both fury and pity. It took him less than a heartbeat to understand the fury, after seeing the dark, never ending forest ablaze with golden-red fire. However, it took him more than a month to understand the pity. Because that was when the first dwarves began to die from the radiation of the bomb. They fell around him, like dried leaves in autumn. They left him, wishing to have died in the explosion that had made him king in an instant.
He felt old. Death all around him made him old. The iron crown on his brow made him old. But in his chest thumped a young, scarred heart, fearing and yearning for the moment it would give up its steady beating. He held his head high, however, and he led his people through charred lands, wading through ash and corpses. The only comfort was a pair of shining eyes full of fury and pity, for the elves of Mirkwood were just as homeless as the dwarves of Erebor. They didn't exchange any words. All it took was a nod, a wave of the hand, a small, joyless smile to understand eachother.
The day his sister gave birth to his nephew Fíli, Thorin discarded his old armour and clad himself in one of the lightweight suits the Elvenking had brought him. They had weapons to fend for themselves now. Guns, mostly. The dwarves had developed them to shoot more than once or twice, and since each of their warriors they lost to orcs instead of the radiation meant that the enemy had guns and ammunition too, there was just no use for heavy plated armour anymore. It was all about speed and luck now. The next time they confronted a battalion of orcs, Thorin fought alongside the elves, shooting his pistols into masses of ugly, contorted and by radiation contaminated flesh. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thranduil, wielding a pair of large rifles, as deadly and beautiful as shards of shattered glacier ice. After the battle, Thorin – lightheaded and flushed with energy and fear – was stupid enough to thank Thranduil. For everything, he'd said and patted the elf's elbow, because he couldn't reach his shoulder.
Of course everything went downhill after that. They had survived years in the wild, wandering and never finding a place to stay – we will not house those tainted by radiation –, but always on edge and fighting not to break down from sheer exhaustion and weariness. But one day it had to be too much. One day their luck had to run out. One day the orcs weren't alone, but there were trolls as well, huge beasts, whose skin was thick enough to shield them even to bullets. And of course they were wielding machine guns.
They cut through their ranks like a farmer might cut through wheat. It was only a matter of time until they reached two kings, fighting grimly side by side, guns blazing. It was only a matter of time until one of them got hit. Once, twice, too many times to count.
Thorin didn't even hear Thranduil's screams, when the troll tore the dwarf from the elf's side. There was an explosion behind his eyes, in his head, in his body and his veins. Not even blissful darkness came to his rescue.
Maybe Thorin should have hated Thranduil for withholding fire. Maybe he should curse his name forever, maybe he should swear on his ancestor's sweet, sweet blood to wipe out Thranduil for his cowardice. But he didn't, because he understood the cold burning fear he'd seen in those shining eyes. It only took one finger, one trigger, to make a monster. In the end Thorin admired Thranduil for his strength, even if it meant burning agony for himself.
What was the suffering of one, if not the suffering of many? Thorin's wounds were severe; he knew he was dying. But cold and kind porcelain hands held his, and merciless, shining eyes kept his own gaze steady, willing him to live. Screaming and thrashing, Thorin cursed him for not ending his suffering. One bullet more, what difference does it make? Apparently it made every difference, to Thranduil.
And in the end Thorin saw something else than fear, fury or pity in those shining eyes. Maybe Erebor was lost, but Thorin wasn't anymore. Not as long as two kings stayed together. Two against the rest of a destroyed, burning world.