Thorin paused, slowly turning back to Bilbo. She raised her hands and took a step towards the King Under the Mountain, wordlessly begging him to understand. "Thorin…" she began, before she was interrupted by the sharp sound of a sword being unsheathed. With a hoarse cry, he had her pinned against the side of the mountain, Orcist at her throat.
"Tell me," he growled. "Tell me these are lies."
Bilbo gasped, struggling to get an answer out. "Please," she choked out. "Just let me…"
But the great king wouldn't let the hobbit continue. With his hand at her throat, he lowered the Goblin Cleaver, and with it, thrust it into her soft belly. She looked down, a cry of pain on her lips. She looked back up at him, tears forming in her eyes. He looked down at his handiwork, and as he saw the darkening stain, he dropped his sword. The madness in his eyes, his thoughts, was gone. He felt as if there was a sword in his own stomach. He wished there was, anything but this. By his own hand. Bilbo had slid down the wall, holding the sword in place.
"Oh Aule, what have I… Bilbo, I…" he dropped down to her level, hands cupping her face. He didn't deserve to touch her, not after what he had just done, over that thrice damned rock, but he was ultimately a selfish dwarf. He desperately tried to wipe her cheeks clean, until a cough of red came from Bilbo, splashing across his shirt.
Her cries of pain quieted. She met his eyes, starting to laugh madly.
"Oh, yes. The great Thror, come again! The true king under the mountain!" She laughed, mockingly. "Bow down, bow down, for the mad king!" She pushed him back, sending him off balance. He looked down at the hand that had come down to catch his fall. His fingers, once so familiar, were gone, replaced by wizened and old imposters. On one of his fingers, he noticed his grandfather's ring, the sign of Durin set in mithril.
Against his will, those hands came up around Bilbo's still laughing, dying form. They reached to her dear throat, and began to squeeze, her laughs turning to bloody coughs. His thumbs started to press into the center of the hobbit's throat, harder, and harder, until-
Thorin woke, crying out. He reached for the spot besides him, searching for the one person who most belonged there, but never would be again. His left hand grabbed at the furs surrounding him, remembering, despite his best efforts, despite him telling himself to just go back to bed and be dead to his guilt for a few more hours. He remembered the smell of her hair, the curve of her soft body against his stone one, remembered the feel of her small throat in his hand…
He slowly forced himself to release his bedding, and stood up out of bed. He walked over to the dresser, and pulled out one od the drawers. He reached towards the back, lifting robes and shirts out of the way until he found what he was looking for.
A little red coat, torn and threadbare, missing its little brass buttons in their entirety. It was a strange material to the dwarves, but he had seen plenty of others wear it in her homeland. He brought the coat up to his nose, inhaling the smell of sunshine, the smell of growing things, and the soap that she had spent far too much on in Lake Town. All these smells, so different from the smells of the Kingdom under the Mountain.
Reluctantly, he placed the jacket back in its resting spot. He walked over to the mantle, ignoring his bed. Lighting his pipe, he stared into the embers left in the fireplace, and began to sing, telling the tale of a love long gone, and the man who was left to live on for his own punishment.