I honestly never thought I'd ever write fic for anything except Johnlock...and then the last Hobbit movie happened and here I am, deep in denial and trying to fix canon. Anyway, I thought I'd post it and see how it goes :) Please mind the rating (I will put a warning in the chapter where the rating really rises when I come to it).

Chapter 1: Red sun in early mourning

"Thorin, it's time."

Thorin looks up from the tapestry he's been studying. It is the one depicting the Durin family tree that Bard has brought around a few days ago, after the Battle, as a sign of good will from the people of Dale. Thorin hadn't been there to accept it, of course. At the time, he'd been in the infirmary, trying very hard to stay alive. Receiving visitors was not really convenient just then.

His sister is standing in the doorway of a small room in one of the decrepit wings of Erebor, high up, near the aviary, and far away from the bustle of the main part of the mountain kingdom, the broken throne, and the slow re-building of their home. It used to be a spare servants room back in the day, and more than once had Thorin, Frerin, and Dis used it as a hideout or a refuge in their games or when the sheer weight of being royalty became too much. Later, Thorin had taken to reading in the solitude of this remote chamber, when the madness in his grandfather's eyes started shining as bright as the Arkenstone itself. Thorin had learned even back then how to hide so that he won't be found unless he wants to be. He likes to think he still knows how. Dis doesn't share his opinion.

'How do you expect this to work, Thorin? Do you not think he will find out? He is still here, if you care to recall.' 'It's a mountain, Dis. You could lose something in it and never find it again. I am certain I will manage to avoid an unwanted meeting. Besides, I have been told he doesn't leave his room much.' 'You haven't thought this through, nadad.'

He'd proven to Dis wrong, but there was no pleasure in it at all. Her objections during their conversation several days prior had been justified. Still, he is not in the mood to gloat over rendering them unnecessary.

"Coming", Thorin replies.

Dis gives him a once-over before nodding. Her grey eyes – Frerin's eyes – give away no feeling. Thorin knows that look – it is the look of a person hurt so deeply that they temporarily turn to stone so their soul won't bleed out. His sister is granite and rough slate, daughter of the mountain, chiseled out of the cold rock that surrounds them. Her long black hair is streaked with silver and fashioned into an elaborate bun at the base of her neck with braids netting across the sides of her head, save for the two that are hanging loose, framing her face. The beads dangling at their ends glint in the light, sending stabs of pain through Thorin's chest.

He moves away from the tapestry and the names woven into it. Azog may have not managed to break the line of Durin, but he certainly did manage to break Thorin's heart when he severed the threads that would have carried on the name after Thorin.

He approaches Dis, expecting her to turn around and lead the way, but his sister stays put. She reaches out and fastens a pair of dull-grey clasps onto the ends of Thorin's braids, so that they mirror hers. Fili's Birth Rune is engraved on the bead hanging right of Thorin's face, while Kili's is on the left.

"You look pale, brother."

Thorin can't argue. He hasn't been outside the mountain since they brought him in on a stretcher. It's only been a week but the lack of sunlight in combination with losing a fair amount of blood has done its work. Thorin's skin is pale and waxy, dull. But then again, he supposes he looks rather well for a dead man.

"Might help convince people I am a ghost if anyone who isn't meant to happens to see me."

"Just what these halls need – more ghosts." Dis murmurs.

The morning on the other side of the stone walls is bleak, fitting for mid-winter. The room is high up and far out enough in the mountain walls that it has a single window looking down the eastern slope. It is early and the sky still stretches bloodless and pale, the sun not yet out, but the stars already hidden away, tucked away safely on the other side of the world for the time being. Neither here nor there, it is the time between times. It is when they bury their dead – when even time seems to linger on the edges of it all, reluctant to move on.

Dawn has always been Thorin's favourite time of day – the lavishness of it, the abandon with which the sky lit up over the still-slumbering world, wasting its beauty on the dormant, ungrateful life beneath. Dawn always came like a rapture, all wantonness of light and perseverance. And so few ever took the time to appreciate it. But today, he will sacrifice seeing it, and he can't find it in his heart to mourn it. He has already sacrificed so much that a dawn is nothing but a spark added to a pyre, and there is no room left in him for more grief. Thorin finds his sister's eyes and sees his woe reflected there. She looks like she doesn't even believe in dawns anymore.

In the stale air of one of their childhood hideaways where Thorin is now once again hiding, the last two of the Durin children stand close as they regard each other. One of them will leave the mountain before the next dawn comes, and the other will remain to rule the home that has been retrieved at such a high cost. Dis touches her brow to her brother's.

"You do not have to do this, Dis." Thorin says, almost in a whisper. Dis moves away and levels him with a stare. It's not as sharp as it used to be – the blade of her sister's temper has been dulled by grief, although her tongue stays as sharp as ever.

"I am burying my sons today, Thorin." Her voice doesn't break, but the slight widening of her eyes betrays to Thorin the fact that this might just be the first time Dis has admitted this to herself by saying it aloud. She collects herself quickly enough and continues. "I am also burying my brother, as far as the world is concerned. In the eyes of our people, I am the last of the line of Durin. Of course I must do this. I must stay and rule Erebor as much as you had to go on this damned quest. As much as my sons felt they had to follow you."

There is no accusation in his sister's voice, but Thorin flinches nonetheless. Out of all the things in his life that he feels guilty over, he thinks the guilt over allowing his nephews to come along on the quest might just kill him. Dis may have forgiven him for their deaths, but Thorin knows he will never forgive himself. But Dis is having none of his moral self-flagellation.

"Stop it, nadad. There is no point in casting blame now. You did not kill them. And the one who did is dead now. Not that it changes anything. So just...stop it. There is enough misery as it is."

Dis moves to the door, gripping the handle of the knob. Her head is bent and her face turned away from Thorin as she says, almost as if she is speaking to herself:

"Sometimes I think the true Durin's bane is not the creature lurking in the dark pits of Khazad-dûm, but this horrible pride of our line that drives us to restlessness. We never did learn how to be at peace with the things we had, did we?"

For the first time since the moment she'd found out about Fili's and Kili's death, Thorin hears tears in Dis' voice. But before he can do anything to comfort her, his sister straightens up, and opens the door and starts down the abandoned corridor towards the burial chamber.

Thorin is left in the desolate silence. He picks up a plain, grey cloak and wraps it around his shoulders, hiding his face beneath the hood. The burial chamber is deep inside the mountain, accessible only through the main pathways that cross the heart of Erebor, but Thorin knows a way that will take him through the forgotten mining shafts and obscure passages. The risk of someone seeing him is relatively low there, but he still walks quietly and keeps to the shadows. No one objected when he said he would come, even though everyone knew the risk of him being discovered. There was never a question about it. He would attend his nephews' burials, even if he has to do it in hiding. And because Mahal or fate or some other higher force seems to have a taste for irony, by attending Fili's and Kili's, Thorin will be attending one other's burial ceremony.

The halls of Erebor are empty as Thorin passes through them on his way to his own funeral.

A week earlier

The Eagles come too late, if you ask Thorin. They win, but watching the scene below him from his perch on top of the frozen waterfall atop Ravenhill, he thinks there's never been a less victorious sight in all of Arda.

A trail of scattered bodies stretches from Dale to Erebor's gates, and from the distance, Thorin can't tell how many are orcs and how many Dwarves, Elves, and Men. All blood seems equally dark on the thirsty soil. Snowflakes drift down in a twisted parody of a sheet being pulled over the dead, but no amount of white can bleach the destruction and despair left in the battle's wake. Azog's lifeless body lies on the frozen river, several paces from where Thorin is standing.

Red, red blood is colouring the abused ice around Thorin's feet as it seeps from his shoulder wound. He doesn't feel the pain of it, although he knows it must hurt very much. Still, no pain can match the one in his chest, the crushing agony of his heart being ripped apart by regret and grief. Mere feet away from Thorin, the bodies of his nephews are limp and broken, unmoving. He doesn't know where the rest of his Company is, doesn't know what has become of them. He doesn't know where Bilbo is, either.

Death sits on every perch and rock, slithers along every plane and slope Thorin can see. It seems to be keeping Thorin company. It has been doing so for a while now, he realises. Perhaps it is not really there for the company, perhaps it is simply waiting.

Across from Ravenhill, Erebor stands as it always did, and in that moment Thorin can't find that love for the Mountain that had set him on this journey. He can't rejoice in having won it back when the Mountain stands while so many of the ones Thorin loves lie fallen. But Erebor is easier to look at than Fili and Kili or the carnage below, so Thorin keeps his eyes on his doomed kingdom, even as his vision begins to blur. He loses conscience just as the first beats of heavy-booted feet sound across the ice, just in time to hear the first shouts of his name carried on the wind. Dwalin, yes, and perhaps Gloin. He can't tell properly who is shouting for him, but then the darkness takes him and Thorin is left uncaring and oblivious to the world.

When he wakes again, he is in the gloomy half-light of the infirmary, with Ori bent over his shoulder, shouting orders at someone to bring more bandages. The commotion around him is a blur as he struggles to focus his eyes.

"Welcome back, lad. Stay still, if you would." Oin greets him. Thorin does his best not to writhe as his senses return to him and the aching floods his body. In the corner, he notices Dwalin, still bloody and dirty from the battle, standing with his hands crossed over his chest. Noticing that Thorin is awake, Dwalin approaches the cot on which they had settled the King, close enough so Thorin can see the cuts that litter his friend's arms and face, but not so near that he would be in the healers' way.

Dwalin's face is as guarded as it can be while at the same time being clouded by pain Thorin knows is not of the body. The look makes Thorin need to know. He tries to speak, but his tongue is too heavy, clumsy in his mouth, and he only manages to gurgle out the words 'the others' in a questioning tone. Luckily, Dwalin seems to understand him anyway, and he recites a hurried report the way a warrior would to his general.

"Alive, the lot of them. A bit banged up, but nothing that won't heal. Our Master Burglar got knocked over the head, though. They tell me he's still out of it."

Dwalin doesn't mention Fili or Kili, and for a moment Thorin feels just sheer relief. Bilbo is alive. But then Oin tightens his hold on Thorin's shoulder and the pain that shoots through his arm brings reality crashing in. Thorin grits his teeth against the pain. The last thing he feels before he passes out again is disgust at himself. He does not deserve the relief.

And yet, he can't help himself but feel just that much lighter for knowing Bilbo is alive. Just as he can't help hating himself for being able to feel anything beyond the pain.

The next time he comes round, it's night time and Thorin is much more lucid. His shoulder throbs, but his head is clear. Dwalin is seated in a chair next to Thorin's sickbed. He seems to have nodded off, but the moment Thorin stirs, Dwalin's eyes snap open as he leans over in the chair.

"Don't go pulling at those stitches. Oin will have your braids for it."

"Water..." Thorin croaks and Dwalin shoves a cup into the hand of his unharmed arm. Thorin gulps greedily, the water smooth like mithril against his raw, parched throat, but tasting too sweet, the way water always does after mid-day naps or sickness. When he is done drinking, he hands the cup back to Dwalin and settles back against the pillows propped behind his back.

The room is dimly-lit and feels overly warm, but Thorin doesn't feel feverish, so he hopes he managed to avoid contracting an infection. There are bandages criss-crossing across his naked chest and arm, but where bare skin peeks through Thorin sees someone's given him a good scrubbing, removing all remaining grit and filth of the battle.

"How bad?" he asks Dwalin. Even Thorin is not entirely sure if he is asking about the extent of damage done to his body or about the havoc wreaked on their armies and home. Dwalin answers both.

"Luck smiled on you with that", he says, motioning towards Thorin's shoulder. "Oin says that filth Azog missed the bone. It will be sore for a while, aye, but you'll live. Lost a lot of blood, though, so you are on bed rest for the next coupla' days."

His friend's tone is too light. Fake. It only makes Thorin fear what next words are to come.

"Gloin's got a nasty cut on his leg, and Nori's ribs are all bruised and battered. I think he's more in pain from Dori treating him like a dwarfling b'cause of it all. Hurt pride hurts worse than bones. Balin is limping, but the stubborn old ram won't admit it's anything serious. The rest of the lads are all black and blue, but they'll keep. Master Baggins is still to wake up, but Oin isn't overly worried."

Dwalin carefully avoids speaking of Fili and Kili, Thorin notices. Somewhere in his state of muddled dreaming, he had hoped their fates were just a grueling nightmare. Dwalin's avoidance only sends a sharp, piercing feeling that is not quite simple disappointment, nor just pain, shooting through Thorin. It is like they are being taken away from him all over again, each minute he breathe, on, and on, and on.

He looks over at Dwalin, only to find the other Dwarf already watching him. In Thorin's eyes there is one last plea to be proven wrong, one last favour he has no right to ask – for Dwalin to tell him that his mind is playing tricks on him and that his heirs are in their rooms right now, planning mischief. But the almost imperceptible shake of Dwalin's head and the burning sorrow in his friend's eyes crushes the last of Thorin's foolish hopes, and in that moment he hates his friend with a vicious passion. It is visceral, this hate, a howl of a wounded animal reacting on instinct, but it flickers after a moment, and then shifts, until Thorin realises it is not Dwalin whom he hates, but his own reflection in Dwalin's eyes.

Thorin sees a person who is not Dwalin's King. A Dwarf Balin would not look upon and think 'there is one I could follow'. Thorin sees the mad tyrant who cast away all that was truly precious for the shine of gold and jewels, and the broken shadow that lead his kin into death. The Elvenking's brat had it right, back in Mirkwood – there truly is no King Under the Mountain.

It is then, in the infirmary, not a day after the battle, looking at his oldest friend, that Thorin decides. What happens next only cements his decision.

"You've got a visitor" Dwalin says, if only to break the silence. He knows Thorin well enough to know that speaking of Fili and Kili would bring no relief. To put them into words would be as cruel as it would be inadequate. To speak of them now would be salt on an open wound. And Mahal knows they've paid their debt in salt. Life is cheap, Thorin said in the depth of his sickness, but Dwalin knows better. He knows life was anything but cheap. It is paid for in one of the great riches of the past, before gold and coin took over. They paid with the salty sweat on their brows and the salty iron of their blood on the battlefield. Even now, they are paying. Salty tears like family heirlooms being traded for crumbs and trinkets. A desperate trade that brings no solace. In the past, salt was white gold, the rich that preserved food and health alike. No wonder it is the price of life – it is what preserves hearts and souls from rotting.

"I do not wish to see visitors" Thorin replies. His voice grates against the quiet of the room like bodies dragged over rubble. But Dwalin ignores his protest and moves to the door.

"You'll wish to see this one." He opens the door, nodding to whoever is on the other side.

For a crazy moment Thorin thinks – hopes, wishes – it is Bilbo. But the face that meets him is one he had last seen over a year ago, when he left and took that most precious to its owner with the promise of safe-keeping. A promise he has failed to uphold.

Dis' face is lined with anguish as she approaches Thorin's cot, and all Thorin has to offer as comfort are broken bones and broken promises.

"Namad..."

His sister doesn't speak, her thin lips pressed together savagely, her face pale beneath the black dusting of her sideburns and beard. Dis looks torn between anger and relief, love and such utter grief, that Thorin wishes she would just throw punches. It would hurt less than seeing her like this. What happens instead cuts deeper than Azog's blade.

Dis hugs Thorin as if he is the last line of mithril in Moria, as if he did not just lead her sons to her death. His sister hugs him tightly and cries. She cries like the winds do, wildly. Dis cries the way only mothers know how to. Thorin won't see her cry again after that night – not for years.

They do not speak for a long time, until, in the end, Dis regains her composure and looks at Thorin.

"I am very glad to find you alive, nadad", she says, her voice like a broken bell chiming off-tune.

"Dis..." Thorin tries, but Dis silences him by raising her hand.

"I am so very glad you are alive, but I can't do this tonight. I had to see you, but we cannot speak. Not tonight. Not yet."

She doesn't have to say why, say 'because they're dead, Thorin, and as much as you are my brother, they were my life', because Thorin knows. Just as they both know he'd trade places with them in a heartbeat. And he can't blame Dis for knowing that she'd probably let him. He let her down. He let them all down.

"Rest, sister. We will speak in the morning", he says instead, swallowing down the shards of his own heart. He has business to attend to, anyway.

He watches his sister lean in to press her brow against his own and is glad she turns away after that and leaves, for he does not want her to see his tears. If she did, Dis would try to comfort him, and he is not worthy of her comfort.

His wallowing is cut short by Dwalin's return.

"When did she arrive?" Thorin asks.

"With the caravan that set out from the Iron Hills just behind Dain's troops. She was there on business at the time and insisted on coming along. They were told to lag behind in case the battle went awry. The last cart arrived only hours ago."

"Has word been sent to Ered Luin?"

"Ravens have been dispatched."

Thorin nods.

"I need you to find your brother and Ori", he says.

"Why?"

"Because there is a proclamation of death to be written."

Dwalin frowns.

"Whose?"

"Mine."

Death gets its fill, in the end. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain dies that day, somewhere between the barren battlefield and the half-lit rooms of his lost kingdom. Thorin Oakenshield survives, barely, and finds himself to be a ruin, much like Erebor – a once mighty thing ravaged by dragon's lust.

Present day

The burial chamber is vast, cold, and magnificent in a way everything in Erebor appears to be. Two stone figures stand in the deep shaft, holding the dead in the palms of their hands, encased in solid stone tombs on a stone disk that stretches across the chasm beneath. The walls of the cave are lined with galleries that are slowly filling with dwarves. This deep inside the mountain, the quiet is complete and impenetrable. The sounds of life being slowly restored throughout the kingdom seem a word away.

Warm flames flicker in the cave-like space, but they are too few and far in-between to illuminate the darkness properly. Instead, they only cast twitchy shadows across the faces of the stone statues and the living dwarves in the galleries. It is impressive, no doubt, the way that the whole place is painted in sharp contrasting lines of light and shadow. It is imposing and slightly daunting. Very fitting to be the last resting place of a King and his heirs.

There is no gold here, no avalanches of precious metals and stones. There is nothing gleaming and shining about death. Nothing precious about it at all. The only stone is the plain one, the stone of the mountain, and the smaller, darker ones held in the hands of the Company, Dis, Dain, and a hobbit from the Shire, who stand gathered around the three tombs on the platform.

Smooth and round, the runestone is warm where it touches the dry, cracked skin of Bilbo's palm. There are two more in his pockets – one for Fili and one for Kili. The two stones in his pockets each have a symbol carved into them, but the one in Bilbo's hand remains silent. He is standing in line with the Company, with Bofur on his right and Ori on his left. He alternates between gazing unseeingly at the balconies filled with indiscernible faces and looking at the empty stone in his hand. He'd thought long and hard what to carve into it, but came up short. Apart from the fact that he didn't actually speak or write Khuzdul, even if he did, Bilbo could not think of a word that he could translate. Dis informed him that tradition dictated that those close to the deceased lay engraved runestones on the grave during the ceremony. The word on the stone should mark what the late was to them, and serve to help the spirit of the dead remember who they are as it travels to the Halls of their Forefathers.

It was a sacred tradition, and Bilbo wanted to honour it. But like everything else, he wanted to do it his way. That way, it would mean something. So, for Fili's and Kili's stones he did not pick out words. He would never intrude on the sanctity of the Dwarven language, and words in Common just sounded and looked flat and empty. Instead, Bilbo took Fili's stone and carved an image of an edelweiss into it. For Kili there was crocus. He wanted to remember them before the armours and the swords – the young Dwarves who'd lost their ponies and driven them all mad from time to time. They used to laugh so much.

That left the third stone. So. What was Thorin to Bilbo?

Bilbo may be an occasional writer, a narrator, but he doubts that even the library of Erebor has enough words to answer that particular question. He doubts it holds the one word he can't seem to find. He could carve an entire garden and still, it would not do. And so the runestone remains empty and unmarked. Unlike Bilbo's heart.

The emptiness in Bilbo has long been replaced by some amalgam heaviness. He can't pin-point it, really. It feels black like a smithy's anvil, like whatever word he can't seem to find is trapped inside of him, carved into a lost runestone that presses against Bilbo's lungs.

Lost in his musings, Bilbo barely notices the hush that has fallen over the chamber. Even the distant shuffling and sounds of whispers and breathing have died out. The utter stillness only contributes to the air of death that lingers all around. All eyes are set on Dain, who steps out in front of the three tombs, facing the galleries, and starts to recite something in Khuzdul. Bilbo catches names such as 'Azog' and 'Azanulbizar' and concludes that Dain is probably listing Thorin's, Fili's, and Kili's achievements in battle.

Bilbo is certain these things matter to the Dwarves very much, but he doesn't think they will take offence if he does not. That is not how he wishes to remember them. In his mind's eye, he is looking at the smiling faces of Fili and Kili as they mocked him because of his pony allergies and funny ears, at Thorin's face soft with a smile neither of them had expected, on top of the Carrock. Bilbo lets Dain's words wash over him like some distant buzzing of bees and tries to understand how any of this is meant to bring closure or peace. How it is meant to help anyone move on with their lives. It is a pretty lie. His chance at life died with Thorin. He doubts he will ever forget the moment it did.

The bodies of Fili and Kili had been placed in the stone coffins not long after being retrieved from the battlefield, as soon as all the preparations were through. But the ceremony itself was to take place when Thorin recovered and was able to attend. Needless to say, those plans got altered.

From what he's been told, Bilbo woke up two days too late to see Thorin still alive and a single day too late to even be able to see his body. That last part could easily be a small mercy. Bilbo can't decide. They had buried him the second morning after the battle.

It all looks so very cold to Bilbo, this laying of the dead in the stone. There is no softness of the earth, no warmth of grass growing over the burial mounds as time passes. But, as it has been explained to him, Dwarves do not leave their dead to the earth. If they must, they give them to fire, the way they did after Azanulbizar, but whenever possibly, Dwarves return their dead to the stone that sings to them. Bilbo wonders if the dead still hear it sing to them. If it makes things easier for them. Because it certainly isn't making it easier for those left behind.

Around him, the Company starts moving. One by one, the members leave their runestones on the edges of the tombs, surrounding the stone figures adorning the lids that depict the ones beneath. Dis goes first, moves from Fili's tomb on the right, to Kili's on the left, and then to the middle one, laying a black stone for her brother. She hadn't been able to do this for Frerin, Bilbo had learned.

Dain is next, then Dwalin, Balin, and the others. Bilbo stands paralysed and watches. When it is his turn, he walks to the closest tomb – Kili's – and takes the right runestone out of his pocket. It clanks against something metallic – the ring – but Bilbo pays no attention to it as he places the stone on the lid. He looks at the carved face – masterfully done, with a painful likeness to the real one – because that's all he has now, of all of them. Looking at Fili's grave is no easier, and Bilbo tears himself away after a few moments.

He doesn't look at Thorin's figure carved in stone. He lays his empty stone, oblivious to the surprised look on Dain's face and the murmurs of the Dwarves who are close enough to the platform to see the stones clearly. He should move, Bilbo knows. If he doesn't then he will look and he will never look away again. And he doesn't want his last memory of Thorin's face to be that atop his tomb, a cold, grey twin of a face that was never meant for stone. There was completely too much life and love and anger and all sorts of things in Thorin Oakenshield for his face to ever be as expressionless as the one currently staring at Bilbo from Thorin's coffin.

So Bilbo doesn't look. He walks away and out of the chamber, vaguely aware of the stares following him. He doesn't care. He can't stay in that place one moment longer. There are no tears in his eyes. Bilbo doubts there are any tears in him left. He'd done his share of weeping. One weeps after the dead, but not for them. The tragedy of their death is not theirs. One weeps after the dead, but for the living. Theirs is the pain that remains. And Bilbo has wept for the living – for Dis, for Erebor, for himself.

Today he shall not weep. Today he shall mourn the dead, and that is a sorrow too deep for tears. It swallows them up, dries out the soul.

In a small alcove cleverly hidden by a hand-carven formation of rock, one level above the platform holding the coffins, Thorin watches his sister, cousin, and friends lay small black stones around the perimeter of the stone lids. He sees Dis take out an extra stone out of her pocket for each of her sons. It was Thorin's request that she placed stones from his as well. No one would think twice of it - everyone would just assume that she is placing stones in Vili's name as well.

It hurts, but Thorin steels himself and watches.

Nothing can ever bring his nephews back from Mahal's Halls and, despite the acute awareness of their deaths that's been haunting Thorin since the moment he saw them fall, it is not until the moment he is engulfed in the silence of the burial chamber that it strikes him that he will never again hear their teasing voices. Never again shall Fili's clever quips and Kili's untameable laughter ring around the table at meal-time. Thorin would suffer their pranks a thousand lives over if it meant he could have them back. Their deaths are so much more than just the giving-up of their bodies, Thorin realises. Hollow silences and burn-holes in the fabric of life where little details used to be don't fade the way bodies do. The utter lacking of so many things is something that can never be repaired. Loving the dead is like shouting into the void.

One by one, the Company come to Thorin's tomb, as well. It is odd to see his friends go through the charade of placing the stones on his own empty grave. Not all of them had taken well to Thorin's decision, of course. Dwalin had yelled up a storm, as was to be expected. At first he refused to even get Balin and Ori, let alone listen to Thorin's plan. Luckily, Thorin did not depend entirely on Dwalin's good will to have someone summoned, so Balin and Ori were brought in regardless of his friend's adamant protests.

Down below, Bilbo steps out of the shadows and moves to Fili's and Kili's graves. Thorin can barely distinguish the odd patterns on their stones, but they appear to be flowers. He never got the chance to ask Bilbo about the flowers. And about a great deal of other things, too. Or maybe he had his chances and simply let them wither away. He wonders if the flowers have meanings – surely they do – and which one has Bilbo chosen for him.

Dwalin's words from the night he'd told him of his decision come back to Thorin, unwanted intruders calling him a fool. He waves them away like flies, eyes glued to Bilbo. He looks ancient under the muted light of the burial chamber. Thorin's heart jolts painfully in his chest. He knows who is to blame for the sorrow-lines on Bilbo's face. Watching them deepen is part of Thorin's punishment.

But there is only so much ache that a soul can bear, so it is when Bilbo moves to Thorin's grave that Thorin closes his eyes and lets the memories wash over him and drown out the view of Bilbo placing an empty stone on an empty tomb.

A week ago

"Mahal, maybe Oin forgot to check our King's head, because that's the only thing that would explain this pish-posh!"

Balin shoots his brother a stern look, but it does little to reel in Dwalin, who is pacing around the infirmary, eyes spewing daggers at Thorin.

"Calm down, brother, and do not forget yourself." He turns back to Thorin on the cot. "If you wouldn't mind, explaining once more. This time there will be no interruptions." Balin adds, giving Dwalin another meaningful look. Dwalin just glowers before moving to sulk in a shadowed corner.

"I wish for you and Ori to write a proclamation declaring me dead", Thorin says. "And I wish you do it the morning after this one."

"You do not look dead to me, my King, and I am pretty sure you'll keep till morning." Balin smiles mildly, but Thorin raises his hand to stop him.

"I am not your King, Balin. And that is why I must ask you to do this. I cannot be King Under the mountain. Not after all that's happened."

The pained understanding in Balin's eyes tells Thorin that no more explanations are necessary, so he proceeds to the technicalities of it all. If there are more reasons behind Thorin's decision than those spoken, Balin knows better than to ask of Thorin what Thorin is not yet ready to confess. In his corner, Dwalin starts to pace like a caged warg.

"Oin says I will be well enough to be moved by tomorrow", Thorin continues. "I will secure a room for myself in one of the distant parts of the Mountain. There are rooms in this kingdom which have not been used since before Smaug came, so no one will find me there. I will stay shortly, only until I gather everything I need for my travels."

That is not the real reason Thorin intends to stay at Erebor after his death, however shortly, but no one questions it. The topic of Fili and Kili is still too sore a wound.

"Dain will be crowned King. He will be a good one."

"Have you ever considered that Dain might not want to be King?", a voice comes from the door. Thorin hadn't heard Dis come back.

"Dis...I thought you were resting."

"How can one rest in these cold Halls?" his sister replies. "But that is beside the point. Dain does not wish to be king here."

Thorin frowns.

"Why in Mahal's name would he not want to be King?"

Balin sighs. "Dain's got his own kingdom in the Iron Hills. They are prospering, doing well. He can't just uproot his people."

"But this is Erebor!" Thorin says, as if that explains it all.

"Erebor has always been your dream, Thorin. Not Dain's." Dis explains.

"Still, surely we should speak to Dain, ask his opinion."

"We have." Dwalin cuts in. "When you were out of it, and we didn't know what would become of you, Dain found us."

"And?"

"He doesn't wish to be King Under the Mountain, Thorin!" Dwalin retorts. "He does not want to rule over your birthright."

The tense silence that follows crackles and sizzles as Dwalin stares defiantly at his King and Thorin strives maniacally to find a solution. He had not foreseen this possibility. He'd always assumed that anyone would be grateful to rule Erebor. But Balin is right. It has always been Thorin's dream, and not his cousin's. The dream of Durin's line back in the Lonely Mountain. And what is left of the Durin's line now? Only he and...Oh.

Thorin whips his head to look at Dis.

"There is someone else here who has the right to the throne of Erebor."

His sister's eyes are unbearable, so he looks at Balin and can see the realisation dawning in the elderly Dwarf's eyes.

"Aye. There is."

Dwalin is the next to catch up as his eyes snap to Dis. The Princess of Erebor stays quiet for the whole duration of this realisation taking place, but she looks straight into her brother's eyes as she says:

"Yes. There is."

Thorin nods. Women on the throne are an exception more than a rule, but not a case without precedence. And his sister has already acted as the leader of their people in Thorin's absence. She would make a good queen.

Dis doesn't ask Thorin for his reasons. She will, he knows, but not now. Perhaps she has guessed them already. It is unfair and he has no right to ask. But he will. He has no choice.

"Balin, draw up the papers." Dis speaks without looking away from Thorin.

"Aye."

Dis nods once and turns to leave. The Halls may be cold and empty, but Thorin knows that sometimes it is easier to walk among ghosts than to face the living. And his sister has many ghosts to keep her company now.

Dwalin seems even more frustrated than before, obviously irked that his attempts at stopping Thorin failed, but Balin looks thoughtful. He addresses Thorin again.

"You could abdicate. It has been done before, lad. Not often, aye, I'll give you that, but it's not unheard of. You don't have to do this. You have a choice, Thorin." Balin's eyes are imploring as he echoes the words voiced so long ago in Bag End, when their quest was just beginning. But, just like back then, Thorin shakes his head and gives the same answer.

"There is no choice, Balin. Not for me."

Balin looks at him sadly, but doesn't get a chance to speak before another voice quips up. Thorin almost forgot Ori is in the room. Between Dwalin's glowering presence and Balin's begging eyes, the young scribe slipped Thorin's mind.

"Why?"

Even Dwalin stops his furious pacing to hear the answer. Ori's words carry no judgement or expectation. He genuinely doesn't seem to understand.

"If I stay, then what does that make me?" Thorin replies calmly. He is too tired for rage or bitterness. "A King with no heirs who rejected his duty towards his people. What am I to do? My craft? Am I to stay on as Dain's advisor? What advice or wisdom do I have to give that I could not have dealt by my own hand from the throne? Do I go back to being Thorin Oakenshield? He has no place in Erebor – he is the child of roads and exile, dragon fire and necessity. Trees don't grow within the mountain, Ori. Not even oaks. And nobody looks for the dead amongst the living, so this way I will be able to travel, find work perhaps, without being recognised. No one will expect to see a dead Dwarven Prince walking their streets."

Thorin's words are mild, but the more he speaks, the angrier Ori seems to be getting.

"This all rests on the silly idea that you should not be king! And I do not understand that, either."

Oh, the stubbornness of Dwarves, Thorin thinks. Oh, the loyalty of them.

"And neither would the Dwarves of Erebor. Which is why I can't stay. And I can't be King, either. Not when the gold corrupts my mind. Am I to stand as King of the grieving families of the fallen? Because their sons and daughters fell because of my foolish greed, Ori. I would not ask any parent to forgive that."

"Their sons and daughters fell for Erebor, like any honourable dwarrow would!" Dwalin bellows, obviously unable to contain himself any longer. Thorin remembers his friend pleading with him in the throne room, telling him that he has changed. Obviously Dwalin gave pleading up in favour of sheer anger. Something dangerous glints in Dwalin's eye, and if Thorin didn't know him better, he would call it cruelty.

"I never thought my King was a coward", he says, and Thorin knows it's a taunt, an attempt to get a rise out of Thorin. A few days ago, that's precisely what would have happened. But not now.

"Balin, Ori, could you leave us." It's a whisper short of an order. The two dwarves leave, exchanging uneasy glances. The soft click of the door closing is loud in the dead silence of the room. Dwalin refuses to meet Thorin's eyes, but speaks before Thorin can implore him to see the reasons behind this decision.

"Whom will you tell?" Dwalin asks tersely.

"Dain. The Company. They deserve the truth. And Gandalf. Mahal knows he will find out either way and I'd rather not have him meddling. No one else can know."

Dwalin fiddles with the loose end of bandage wrapping on his forearm, still not looking at Thorin. At least he's not yelling anymore, but Thorin knows that this could quite possibly mean things are even worse. A yelling Dwalin is a relatively common sight, dangerous but not overly. A quiet Dwalin is a bigger reason for worry.

"You do know our Burglar will have something to say about this..."

Thorin interrupts him, shaking his head.

"Bilbo can't know."

"You can't be serious..." A smile of disbelief reveals Dwalin's teeth but disappears as soon as he realises Thorin is in earnest. "Thorin..."

"He mustn't know. You can't tell him, Dwalin." Thorin looks expectantly at his friend, waiting for a sign of agreement. "You can't tell him, understood?"

Dwalin looks as incredulous as he does shell-shocked. But he complies, nonetheless.

"Aye."

Thorin nods. He knows Dwalin would never go back on his word.

"Why?" Dwalin asks, confusion clear in his eyes. Thorin remains silent for a moment or two, obviously weighing words. When he speaks he sounds nothing like the Thorin who held the passionate speech in Bag End.

"Because if he did, I would ask for his forgiveness. And he would give it."

Dwalin throws up his hands in frustration. "Ach, what is the problem, then?"

"That is the problem."

"Thorin..."

"I do not deserve his forgiveness!" Thorin snaps, and Dwalin is almost glad that he does if it means that he will just stop being this shadow that Dwalin's been spending time with recently. "And if I were to reveal myself to him, I would not have the strength not to ask it of him."

Something seems to crumble within Dwalin, the shaky scaffolding that supports his anger losing balance.

"You were not yourself, Thorin", he says and his voice is broken. "You weren't in your right mind."

"That does not alter what I did."

"This is not what he would want, Thorin." Dwalin shakes his head. "What is this that you're doing? Is it penance? Because you've paid your debts, tenfold o'er! Do you think you're protecting him?"

Thorin refuses to meet his friend's eyes, but the silence is answer enough for Dwalin.

"Oh Mahal, you do. You honestly do."

For the first time since Thorin woke up, there is something in Dwalin's voice that makes him flinch. The yelling and the glowering do not touch him, and neither does the thunderous silence, but now Dwalin sounds disappointed. Thorin looks up to find the other Dwarf looking at him as if he were a stranger in stolen skin.

"I always knew you could be foolish", Dwalin says, and he is no longer yelling. His voice is eerily calm. "But I never thought you were truly a fool."

"Dwalin..."

But Dwalin is out of the door before Thorin can get a word edge-wise. Thorin sighs and sinks deeper into the thin layers of the cot. He doesn't sleep much that night, but when he does, he dreams of burning trees. They look like oaks.

The next day, Dain is the first to find out. Thorin tells him personally and his cousin seems to understand, or at least respect Thorin's decision enough not to question it too much. He calls him a foolish sod, but agrees Dis will make a good Queen. The meeting passes easier than Thorin thought it would, and he is grateful, because his next one drains him completely.

After Dain leaves, the remaining nine Dwarves of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield (Dwalin doesn't grace them with his presence) all gather in the infirmary, crowding in the limited space of the room. No one interrupts Thorin as he tells them of his plan and no one knows quite what to say afterwards. Bofur looks equal parts mutinous and heartbroken, while Bifur just mumbles his disapproval in low Khuzdul. Bombur's eyes are saucer-big and glossy. Oin and Gloin look like they could easily sprain their faces from frowning so hard, and Dori is doing his best to give them competition on that front. Nori's face is carefully blank – but then again, Nori's face is almost always carefully blank, unless he's grinning and taunting. Lastly, Ori stands on the fringe of the line-up. He'd heard it all the night before, so Thorin's plan is no news to him. But the anger from last night hasn't died away, it would seem. Ori's eyes are fierce with something akin to determination – to do what, Thorin can't even begin to guess – something that wasn't there a year ago. This is not the timid dwarf who followed his brothers on Thorin's quest. These are the eyes of someone who survived a journey and a battle the likes of which most never even dream of.

"Where will you go?" Bofur asks and Throin can't tell him, because he doesn't know. He's used to the life on the road. He's been a wanderer more than he's ever been a king.

Balin is standing next to Thorin's bed with a scroll of parchment and a bottle of ink, preparing a quill. He and Ori had agreed to act as witnesses, but they need Oin's signature as chief healer, too.

All three sign, and with much less ink on parchment than there was blood on the battlefield, Thorin II of Durin's line is dead.

Present day

"Do you know, the first time we met he was awfully rude to me, your brother." Bilbo voice borders on sulking, but the fondness in it is unmistakable. Dis smiles gently.

The funeral is over and they are in Dis's rooms, a tea service made out of the purest silver sitting between them on a rackety table.

"Yes, that does sound like Thorin."

"It does, doesn't it?" Bilbo asks, but it's rhetorical. Suddenly, a short bark of laughter erupts from him, startling the both of them. "Eru, he was insufferable! He called me a grocer! For the first half of our journey he was just brooding about like a majestic thundercloud! Ridiculous dwarf."

By the end of his little speech, Bilbo is shaking his head, smiling at some memory Dis isn't privy to. It's the first time Dis has seen him smile since her arrival at Erebor. It is a wonderful smile, if a bit sad, and she wonders what strength Thorin must possess to be able to give up every chance of ever seeing it again. When Bilbo speaks of Thorin, he smiles the way first snowdrops break through the frosty ground.

"Oh, he would make me so mad sometimes. Downright livid", he says, but it is with such softness that he does so, such longing, that Dis suspects it is not anger the hobbit is recalling.

"Was he always like that?" Bilbo asks her, snapping out of his reverie.

"Maddening?" Dis retorts, only half-jokingly, which earns her a snort from her companion.

"Stubborn. Short-tempered", Bilbo says. 'Like a summer storm' he thinks. He has always liked summer storms.

"Oh yes. I'm afraid we are...were rather alike in that respect. Trust Thorin to be more obstinate than the rocks around him. I swear to Mahal, sometimes I thought he could challenge a mountain to a staring contest and win. I've only ever known one person more stubborn than him."

"I can hardly believe that. And who would that be, pray tell?"

"Me", Dis answers simply, something akin to pride colouring her voice. "But if you are asking if my brother was always as...burdened as he was at the time you've met him, then the answer is no. When we were children, he'd always been the more serious one -being the eldest, you see – but he was also mischievous, and bright, and loving. He used to laugh much more, as well."

"That sounds like Thorin, too." Bilbo says tenderly.

"Does it?" Dis sounds surprised, as if she can't believe Bilbo could see Thorin as anything more than the brooding King he'd been in his last days, or the tough warrior who travelled with him.

"Yes, it does", Bilbo nods, but leaves it at that. His eyes betray his wandering mind, and his expression is so sad that Dis is almost tempted to tell him the truth. She doesn't, of course. There are some secrets that are not hers to tell. "Will you tell me about him?"

As if Dis could refuse.

"What do you wish to know, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo fiddles with his teacup.

"It's Bilbo, please. I'd like to know what he was like before. In Ered Luin, and in Erebor, before Smaug came."

Dis takes a bit of time to think – after all, it is a lifetime Bilbo is asking her to tell. In the end she decides to tell him her favourite bits.

"I have only seen my brother on the verge of panic once", she says. Bilbo looks at her questioningly. Dis smiles. "It was the day Fili was born and he held him for the first time. Thorin looked ready to faint. He fared a little bit better by the time Kili arrived, but not by much."

Bilbo laughs again, and looks almost startled by it.

"They adored him", he says.

"Aye, they did. And he adored them. When they were little, he used to play with them almost every day. Between him and Vili, I was always the one who had to tell Fili and Kili 'no' all the time. They hated me for it, I am certain, but left to my brother and husband, my sons would have probably run around nude with their first words being 'nasty tree-shaggers'. They had them wrapped around their little braids since the days they were born."

Oh, it hurts to speak of them, but the pain is that of a wound being cleaned – biting but necessary for healing – so Dis continues.

"When Vili died, Fili grew up faster than he was meant to. Thorin did his best to step in, but my son always had a strong sense of duty. Still, those days when Thorin had him practicing with him, Fili would seem better, less grim. Of course, the fact that Thorin squealed like Dain's battle-boar that time Fili and Kili left a rattlesnake on his pillow certainly helped to make them smile." Dis's tone is fond. "Thorin had his revenge – he pretended he couldn't see or hear them for three whole days. Nearly convinced Kili they were both truly invisible. It was ridiculous."

Bilbo listens carefully, storing away every word and borrowed image. He is smiling, only because these are memories that should not be tainted by tears. Dis speaks and speaks – of the time when Thorin accidentally singed Frerin's hair, and the time they learned how to swim and how Thorin looked like a sheepdog trying not to drown. She speaks her throat raw but it doesn't matter. They all feel a bit less dead this way. Finally, Dis's stories stop and the air is full of memories. They're not quite ghosts, not as sorrowful. Just distant and untouchable.

"You know, sometimes I think I hate him." Bilbo speaks up suddenly. Dis frowns.

"For what he did to you on the battlements?" Of course she knows about that. She badgered Thorin into telling her. She wouldn't blame Bilbo if he hated Thorin for it, but she still hopes he doesn't. Bilbo shakes his head.

"No. That's not why." The look he gives Dis is that of someone lost very far from home. "Sometimes I think I hate him for dying." Bilbo shakes his head again, smiling ruefully at himself, as if he is being silly. "But I don't, do I?"

Dis can only shake her head.

"Hm. Didn't think so. I think hate would have been easier than this." Bilbo sets his cup back on the saucer and stands up. "Thank you for the tea, Your Majesty."

"Dis, please."

"Very well, Dis."

Bilbo nods goodbye and starts walking towards the door. He looks so heartbroken Dis is tempted to tell him everything and take him to Thorin that instant. She doesn't, of course. Some secrets are not hers to tell, and some redemptions, however unnecessary they might seem to the looking eyes of others, are needed regardless. So, she does the best she can without overstepping her boundaries.

"My brother was not an easy Dwarf to stomach, Master Baggins." Bilbo freezes with his hand on the door, but does not turn around. Dis understands, so she continues. "But if there is something I know of him, it is that Thorin didn't know how to do anything by halves. That's why he could never rest without trying to reclaim Erebor. We had a good enough life in Ered Luin. But good enough was never enough for Thorin. That's why the gold got to him, but this trait of his also made him the warrior he was, the uncle who would have lain his life down for his nephews if they hadn't beat him to it, and the stubborn Dwarf who won us back our home.

I know you haven't had the chance to see him before his passing, but never doubt my brother's loyalty to you. Or his affection. Thorin's tendency to love with all his might have been his downfall in the end, but he was not a lesser Dwarf for it."

Dis can't see Bilbo's face, but from the whiteness of the hobbit's knuckles where they are gripping the knob on the door, she knows her words struck a cord.

"Thank you", is all that Bilbo says before he leaves the room, and Dis is not really sure what she is being thanked for.

"You're welcome", she says anyway, to the now-closed door. She feels drained and tired and old beyond ages. And it's not even noon yet.

"He is grieving, Balin. He hasn't thought this through, not with a clear mind. He is blinded by his loss and his pain."

Balin looks at Dis, who is staring into her cup. She'd come to him after Bilbo's visit, twitchy and troubled.

"Everybody mourns in their own way, Dis."

"Don't you think I know that? Don't speak to me of mourning and grief."

"Aye, I know you do. But Thorin's loss is his own. He is giving up as much as was already taken from him. Maybe even more."

"He doesn't have to."

"That's not how he sees it."

"My brother always fancied the stubborn belief that he must always take the hardest path."

"Life has rarely given him a choice of an easier one." Balin's words are gentle, his eyes soft and infinitely sad. "You are mourning the dead, Dis. We all are, Thorin too. But he has lost some who are still among us. It is a different sort of ache, to mourn the living."

Dis sighs and sinks down into the nearest chair.

"He is tormenting himself, and pointlessly so, iraknadad. He is punishing himself." She absent-mindedly twirls a beaded braid around her finger. "When I lost Vili, I thought there was no greater pain in this world. I was wrong, I see that now, but still, I wouldn't wish that fate on the worst of enemies, and yet my brother seems intent on living without his One as if he were dead." Dis's eyes are ablaze now, the first spark of life Balin has seen in them since she'd arrived to find the destruction wreaked in the battle making her face fierce. He is not surprised by Dis's regard of what Bilbo means to her brother. Dis is clever and observant, and a lesser Dwarf would have noticed the way Thorin seemes only half-alive now that he is keeping himself away from Bilbo.

"No matter what crime Thorin thinks he has committed, it does not warrant such harsh a penance", Dis finishes. Balin tilts his head as he looks at her. She and Thorin are so very alike. Full of fire and stone.

"Have you tried talking to Thorin about this?"

Dis's leveled look tells Balin just how absurd the future Queen Under the Mountain finds his suggestion.

"Have you ever known anyone who succeeded in changing Thorin Oakenshield's mind once he'd made it up?"

"Aye, I know two people who have managed that particular task", Balin replies. Dis snorts.

"I'd like to meet them and ask them to tell me their secret."

"You've met them both, as a matter of fact, my Queen."

Dis tilts her head, her sharp eyes – Thorin's eyes by expression, only harder; Frerin's by colour, but older – flitting over her Advisor's face.

"Bilbo", she concludes. It's not a question, but Balin nods anyway.

"And the other one?" Dis asks. Balin smiles. It's that sort of smile that sad people carry around with them but forget to match their eyes to the expression.

"I remember a young Dwarven Princess who had her older brother wrapped around her little finger", he says. "He would have done anything for you. If you'd asked for the brains on his head or the izgil in the sky, he would have searched for the way to give it to you." Balin lays a warm hand over Dis's wrist where it sits on the armrest. "You are his sister, Dis, and the closest kin he's got left. Do not underestimate the place you hold in your brother's heart."

After Balin finishes his speech, the two are quiet for a long time. Dis seems to be weighing something. Balin can see the battle in her eyes. Finally, she meets his stare.

"You speak of my importance to my brother, yet you do not think I should attempt to change his mind."

The smile Balin sends her reminds Dis of the one he used to give her when she'd solve a particularly difficult task during her tutoring.

"I think you should do what you feel you must. As must Thorin."

After the funeral is done, Thorin makes his way back to his room, making sure to leave early so that no one notices him roaming the halls. He has just enough time to remove his cloak before the first knock comes. It is Bofur, followed by his brothers. A minute later, the Ri brothers appear as well, and soon the whole Company (including Dwalin this time) is squeezing into Thorin's room.

Standing in a line like that, some taller, some shorter, they look like a smiling mouth full of crooked teeth – uneven, mismatched, and utterly comforting.

It's like a distorted mirror image of the time when he'd asked them to follow him. They said yes, then. Now they are asking him to stay – not with their words but their eyes and the set of their mouths say as much – and he must refuse them. Refuse the only ones who came when he called. It's not fair, but fair doesn't seem to be Thorin's lot.

He says goodbye to each, knocking brows and sharing a few words. It's short and bitter like that awful pipeweed Dwalin likes, but what else is there to it? What they have become to each other is not for words to confine, and if he could, Thorin would give them each a kingdom of their own. Only they do not seem to want one, anyway. They've got their home back and that seems enough.

One by one, the members of the Company file out of the chamber until only Dwalin and Thorin remain. Silence settles over the two Dwarves, as Dwalin glares at the desk under the window as if it were made by Elven hands. Thorin is reminded of a younger version of his friend sporting a very similar scowl after being beaten in training by Dis. Dwalin, sulking like a dwarfling – he thought is almost enough to draw a faint smile to his lips. But time is running out.

"Dwalin..."

The silence continues as if Thorin hasn't spoken, until Thorin considers physically shaking Dwalin or simply leaving the room to see if it will draw a reaction from his friend. He knows the former option would end badly, while the latter would most probably yield nothing since Dwalin was almost as stubborn as Thorin. With a sigh, Thorin's tense shoulders slump. He is just about to give up when Dwalin finally speaks.

"I would have followed you into death."

"I know", Thorin says, because it's true, because he does know. "But I would never have wanted you to. And I am glad you didn't have to."

"Aye, I didn't." Dwalin sounds angry about the fact. "But somehow you managed to 'die' all the same. And now you're going where I can't follow."

Thorin can't find the right words to speak to his friend. He highly suspects there aren't any, really. Dwalin spares him the trouble.

"I could come with you." His voice is equal parts hope and the crushing knowledge that this hope will be quelled. Dwalin knows as well as Thorin that this is a journey Thorin must travel alone. Not that this would ever stop Dwalin from trying to bully his way against the inevitable. The pleading hope in his life-long friend's eyes almost sways Thorin, but he shakes his head.

"No."

"Why not?" Dwalin growls in exasperation.

"This is not your exile, buhel [friend of all friends]."

"Well, it shouldn't be yours either!"

Thorin rubs a hand down his face, the way he usually does when he is getting a headache. He should have known Dwalin wouldn't back down that easily. It's not in his blood. It's not in Thorin's either.

"I do not wish to discuss this again. We've been over it already. I must do this."

Dwalin looks ready to rebel again, but Thorin stops him.

"Please. Time's not on our side, Dwalin, and I do not wish to spend any more of it fighting you on this. Stay in Erebor. See our kingdom restored to its former glory."

"I do not want the blasted mountain if my King isn't here to rule it." Dwalin growls, but the bite is no longer there and Thorin knows he's won. Funny how it still feels like he's lost.

"And what about your Queen?"

Dwalin bows his head and has the decency to look ashamed.

"Aye. She will make a fine Queen, your sister. Always had more guts than you and Frerin put together."

Thorin laughs and Dwalin looks at him again.

"There is nothing I can say that will stop you from going through with this nonsense, is there?"

"No."

"Ach, very well then. I'd start worrying if you were suddenly to turn reasonable now."

Thorin smiles again and approaches Dwalin, knocking their brows together. This might be the last time he sees his friend, for all he knows. The Company can't follow him to say goodbye when he leaves – it would draw too much suspicion. He must sneak out into the night like a thief.

"Take care of them."

"As if I need you to tell me."

They sit together for some time more, share a smoke and pretend that it is just another day in the Blue Mountains. It's easier that way, really. Dwalin stays with Thorin for the rest of the day, until the dusk comes and the sky grows dark, bringing a knock on Thorin's door along with the setting of the sun. Dis is here. It's time to leave.

Dis may be younger than Thorin, but when he looks at his sister now, he sees eyes too old for her face, greys in her hair that shouldn't have appeared for years to come, a stiffness to her spine that speaks of strength forged in hardship. His sister has always been this way – hard as stone, bright as mithril, and as sharp as an Elven blade. But now, there is something frayed and sad about her, a stale sort of anger that has long turned to weariness. She is still as passionate as the Celduin river running in its bed, but it so rarely a joyful passion these days. Protectiveness, yes, and the fiercest of sorts, but not joy. Not anymore. Out of the three Durin siblings, it was always Frerin who found it easiest to look at the bright side of things. Thorin remembers, although vaguely, times when he too laughed often and brooded only rarely and for no reason more severe than a sharp word from his parents. A lifetime ago.

Even then, Dis and he had been far too similar, hot-headed and short-tempered, intense, with emotions running as deeply as mithril veins in Khazad-dûm. Neither knew how to love by halves, and both suffered greatly because of their intemperance. It was difficult at times, to have a person so similar to you in all manners – virtues and flaws alike. It was like living with a mirror constantly at your side. And it is so much harder to hide from yourself when you're own eyes are looking at you from another's face.

But as Dis looks at him in the plain, undecorated hallway, Thorin realises that from that same similarity that so often felt maddening, also stems a deep understanding. In Dis's face he finds the same sadness he feels, the same tired, tired anger over the injustice of it all. They are both so very tired. And they both must go on.

"Why us, sister?" He knows she will understand the question and all it implies. Because, really it's not just one question, but dozens of them. Why us? Why is all this pain constantly allotted to us? Why is everything we seem to have inherited just a series of losses?

Dis shrugs.

"Why anyone ever, brother mine... Someone has to be the one to bear it. It might as well be us."

"There a less worthy people."

"And worthier ones, too, surely. Would you wish all this on them?"

"I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

"And yet, someone must be the one to carry the weight. I don't know why it has to be us, Thorin. I honestly don't. I just know that this is our lot in life. And we will see it dealt with. We are Durins", Dis says, drawing herself to her full height, and suddenly Thorin can see the queen she will make. He thinks that maybe she has always been the strongest one of them all. "And Durin's folk never flee from a fight."

Thorin smiles a bit, despite himself and the heaviness of the moment. He'd always thought Fili to be the one more similar to Dis, despite the fact that he got his looks from his father. But in that moment he is reminded of Kili – young, reckless Kili. Stubborn, loyal Kili yelling at him in the ruins of Erebor as he emerged from the depth of its halls and his own madness. Thorin can see where he got it from. He was/is definitely as much his mother's son as his brother.

"Sometimes it seems like everything we ever do is fight" he replies. "Sometimes I feel like I don't know any other way to be."

"Then maybe it's time you learn. Maybe it is time for someone to teach you."

The look in Dis's eyes is a knowing one. A look of love and war-forged metal. It's a tough love, pitiless and unpretending, but that's alright. It's for the best. Thorin could not bear pity. He can barely bear the implication of his sister's words, reviving the pain of a what-if, of a possibility lost before it even formed completely. Yes, there was once someone who could have taught him to how just live. Once, but not anymore. He would have to learn on his own now.

"Maybe it is", is all he says. He knows he cannot win this argument. With one last look at Dis, Thorin strides forward and knocks their brows gently together.

"Take care, namad."

Before his sister can answer, he turns and starts walking away.

"He loves you, Thorin." Dis calls after him and it's almost cruel. The corridor echoes with the heavy beat of Thorin's boots against the stone floor. He doesn't turn around and he doesn't stop. Dis isn't telling him anything he doesn't already know. Yes, Bilbo loves him. That's precisely the problem. But he can't tell his sister that. He doesn't have the strength – the little he has left, he must use to force himself out of Erebor and away from the home he so ardently fought for. So he pretends not to hear Dis's words and wills the conversation to die out. But where Thorin is stubborn, Dis is righteous, a Durin through and through, which is why he is only half-surprised when she goes on.

"And you are not unworthy of love, nadad."

The words are moss-covered rock, soft on the surface but unyielding. Dis speaks with infinite care, but there is no gentleness to it. Truth is rarely gentle, and Dis has always spoken the truths Thorin so desperately wanted to deny. Oh, that truly does sound like his sister. Brutally honest and taking no hostages. Dis speaks the way she fights, aiming for the kill.

Thorin halts to a stop and closes his eyes, his back still to his sister. 'But I have been', he wants to answer. He doesn't, not because he doesn't believe it to be true, but because he almost fears Dis will convince him change his mind. And what a fickle thing the mind is. Thorin would know. He is already fighting very hard against the call of the Mountain. He can't fight Dis too.

"That may be true, but it doesn't mean I have deserved it. Or that I am worthy of clemency." Thorin reaches the exit and casts one last look at his sister. "Goodbye, namad. Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu."

"Safe travels, Thorin. May the road be good to you." Dis's voice is quiet and resigned as she watches him go.

The night is bright, and bitter, and blue – a palette of cold colours and silvery shadows covering the raging oranges of recent flames and the blooming reds of the battle. The ground has soaked up the colour of blood, leaving only dark, colourless stains. Thorin makes his way out of the side-tunnel, like a thief in the night, and the air around him is far too open, the sky too far above, and the soil to soft. It is beautiful, in its own right, but it is wrong. It's not the dry coolness of Erebor's halls, nor the heavy darkness of its deepest mining chutes. This is an Elven night – silver and light, ethereal. Imperious. It is no place for a dwarf. But it is where Thorin must go, so he fixes his travelling cloak- the new clasp is not as good as the old one – and starts his way down the slope of the Lonely Mountain.

In the distance, the fires of Dale light up the ruined city of Men. The survivors of Laketown will spend a few more days taking care of their wounded, Thorin predicts, with mothers clinging to their children's hands just a little too tightly, friends walking just slightly closer than necessary. But soon, the sharp sting of fear will ebb away and the city will slowly start its reparation.

Looking at the flickering fires, Thorin feels a vague twist of curiosity pierce through the numbness. Men are an interesting people. They forget lessons of history much faster than Dwarves or those tree-shaggers, the Elves. Out of the three races, they are the least durable one, more mortal, and almost ridiculously fragile. And yet, they persist, despite all odds, growing like saplings from ashes and burnt ground, their roots to deep too be reached by the frost.

Setting out into the night, Thorin wonders how they do it.

Edelweiss = noble courage

Crocus = youthful gladness

Izgil = Moon

Nadad = Brother

Namad = Sister