So Laora and I are doing a mutli-fandom oneshot angst off and The Hobbit is the first entry up! This, of course, is late and completely flouts every one of the (what, two?) rules that we had set in place and still can't hold a candle to her Elysium ( s/10574658/1/) but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
And by enjoy, I mean… yeah. Sorry about this guys. XD
Indesinence
~ n. want of a proper ending ~
August 1, 2014
Or, a story where a hobbit and an elf cared a little less than they should, and that makes all the difference in the world.
The company stood on the outcropping of rock in the last light of Durin's Day as the sun slid tantalizingly behind the rocky crags. Silence reigned except for the haggard breaths around their circle as they realized that this roughly hewn platform carved into the side of Erebor was now the only dais the rightful king under the mountain would ever know.
They were too late. They had lost their light and, with it, their sole opportunity to enter the mountain.
The main gate was bolted and sealed by the rubble of Smaug's initial attack and would be jealously guarded by the dragon. Attempting to enter that way would be futile but even if by some stroke of great fortune, it happened to be passable for even their small burglar, even Thorin could see that such an obvious venture would be suicide with a fire breathing maw to greet them on the other side of the broken rock. No, they had all of them agreed long ago that this had been their only chance, their only hope. And now it was gone.
It took a minute for the reality of their failure to fully sink in. For them to grasp that their entire quest— from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills to the Shire and thence through goblin's hills and mirky glens— had been for naught. That the dwarves of Erebor would never return to their ancestral home. That the line of Durin would never reclaim their throne.
Or at least not for another year, when the foul creatures that roamed the wild would no doubt have claimed the reward upon Thorin's head. And, had their king somehow survived the twelve-month, he would have found himself wholly unable to rally even thirteen of his kin to make another attempt upon the mountain.
This was the end of their quest.
Nori stared at the flat rock as if it had betrayed him; Dwalin had renewed his attack on the stone as if the strength of his hands alone could undo the enchantments of his people that had splintered their iron tools. The rest of the dwarves stood in various degrees of disbelief, looking between the darkening wall of stone, and the silhouette of their leader who stood a few feet away, holding out the crinkled parchment as if the dying light would reveal the secrets they so desperately needed.
The map wavered in his hands as Thorin clutched the paper in a convulsive grip. His eyes flitted across the runes he long since knew by heart as his mouth began moving of its accord.
"The last light of Durin's Day…" he whispered haltingly as he consulted the ancient paper, searching the ink's lines as if they held back a vital message until all seemed lost. Yet nothing more appeared. The moon of Durin's Day had no new words to reveal. There was nothing more to be seen than what they had long-since known. Than the clues that brought them here too late. "Would shine upon the keyhole… it's what it says. That's what the map says. It should… no… what did we miss?"
He looked up at his oldest friend. "Balin…" he said, pleading in that one word for his father's old advisor to come to his aid, to find a solution, to make this right because he was the King. He was the one who had lead them this far and had promised to his people now scattered throughout the diverse hills to take back his kingdom from the wyrm that had sent them fleeing into the wilderness to seek shelter from cold, songless stone. Thorin was the one who needed to set things right for his people, who needed to give them something to be proud of once more so that they could once again hold their heads up proudly as they traveled through the realms of men who now sneered at their coarse clothing and makeshift skills. Fili and Kili were supposed to explore the endless halls of the home they should have known from birth.
Mahal, how could he return to Laketown and tell his nephews what had transpired this night? That he had failed them? That he had lead them to the doorstep of their kingdom and yet no further?
How could he march his twelve loyal followers back to Ered Luin after everything and explain that they had survived the trials on the road to the mountain and yet could not enter it?
The task was more than daunting. It was impossible. Thorin could not bring himself to look at anyone but the dwarf who had taught him from a child onward, the one whom he looked up to as much as a king was allowed to take on a subject as a friend, counselor, (father figure, he dare not whisper to himself even in his mind because while his own father was missing he was not, could not, be gone and would not be replaced).
"What did we miss?" he asked again.
But Balin was staring at him with welling eyes. Shaking his head, he responded with a broken, "Thorin…" because there was nothing else he could say.
They both knew that there was nothing more to be done. That they had tried everything they could and more than could possibly have been expected. That they had braved dangers and come unscathed through more trials than could have been hoped for. That they had come as prepared as was possible. That they had even gone to the elves of Rivendell for help and counsel. And that no one could have asked more of anyone standing there now.
They might sit here for weeks weeping over the lost possibilities and the mysteries of what had gone wrong to doom their company to this unfulfilling end, but there was simply nothing else that could be done.
It was finished. The quest was over.
Something softened in Balin's eyes as he realized that Thorin knew this full well. As his entire frame stiffened and the map crackled in his clenched fists.
"Dwalin," Thorin barked out the name as a command, at which the burly dwarf immediately stopped his tirade against the stone without another word. They stared at each other for a moment, Dwalin huffing with emotion as much as exertion, before Thorin's eyes turned downward and he began the march back down the mountainside. Dwalin followed a moment later, silently ripping a strip of blue cloth to cover his bloodied knuckles in preparation for the downward descent.
One by one, the rest of the dwarves followed suit, hefting their belongings over their shoulders and preparing themselves for the return trip down from the mountain's doorstep.
"No," Bilbo stammered as his companions filed by him across the stone platform. "No, no, this can't be it. Thorin!" he yelled, but the heir to the mountain was already out of sight as he climbed away from his kingdom.
Balin put a heavy hand on the hobbit's shoulder as he was the last one lingering. "No, laddie."
"But, Balin…" their burglar protested, catching him by the coat sleeve as if he thought he could hold the dwarf back by sheer physical strength. "Thorin… this is it, we're right here! We can't just give up now."
The white haired dwarf shook his head sadly. "It's too late," he explained. "We've lost the light. There's no way we'll be able to find the keyhole now when we weren't able to find it in the light of Durin's Day."
It looked like Bilbo was about to protest again when Balin looked him steadily in the eye for a long moment. "There's nothing more to be done, Bilbo. I'm sorry," he added—as though it were the hobbit that needed to be comforted now that the dwarves' quest had gained them nothing—before turning to join the rest of his kin.
The hobbit stared after him, then turned around to look at the plain gray wall once more, wondering why the stone of Erebor had not yielded up its secrets to its rightful king when he was standing right there with the key to the door and a company of dwarves at his back. When they had made it so far. When he hadn't even had a chance to rightly burgle for them yet. Not that he was over-eager to tangle with a dragon of legend, and yet, it was not fair for it all to end in this way.
But, he had to admit as he squinted into the darkness, there was nothing more to be done here. Not now. Perhaps they could find a way around the Durin's Day clause and persuade Thorin to try again later, maybe when Kili was feeling better. But here it was cold and dark and Balin had spoken truly and the rest of his companions were already setting a good pace back to Lake Town.
He hurried down the large stone steps behind them, climbing down as the darkness deepened until only scraps of moonlight shining through the clouds let him know where it was safe to put a hand.
By the time Bilbo reached the bottom and quickened his pace to meet up with the last of the trailing dwarves, he realized it was going to be a long, lonely walk back to Laketown now that the company had lost the reason there had been purpose in each step over hill and through wood.
No one seemed inclined to speak, either, or to tell tales or strike up a song. As if there were a time when they needed it more. Each dwarf seemed wrapped up in their own thoughts, and was too scared to cross Thorin's mood when, after his near break atop the mountain, he had yet to so much as make eye contact with any of the dwarves in the company. Including Dwalin.
So time dragged on as they made their way back to the town on a lake, their feet trudging across unfriendly rock and slippery pebbles before creaking across the rough hewn wooden bridges that linked building to building over the water.
It seemed as though hours had passed before they came upon Bofur resting outside one of the houses that neighbored Bard's. He pulled his face out of his hands when he finally registered his companions' return with bleary eyes.
"What?" he asked as he stood up, wondering what was going on. Taking a confused headcount, he realized that everyone had returned. This was not part of the plan as he had understood it. Even though Smaug would not know about the hidden doorway or that anyone else had penetrated the solid defences of the mountain until Bilbo had burgled the Arkenstone from him— and hopefully not even then, for the hobbit was as quick and silent as the wizard had promised he would be— they surely wouldn't all come down from Erebor's doorstep. They would leave at least one guard. At least two, to take turns keeping watch just in case something endangered their quest at this late juncture.
Thorin would never be as careless as that, even if, now that they had opened the mountain, he wanted them all to enter it together… make sure that his nephews were among the first to enter the doorway to see their inheritance…
Mahal.
Bofur's mouth worked silently as his hand convulsed in their leader's sleeve. "Thorin…" he finally managed, his breath gently frosting the dark air in front of them. Thorin stopped abruptly, but did not lift his eyes from the worn boards between which he could see the moonlight glinting off of the lapping water. "Thorin…" Bofur choked out again, the weight of the realization hitting him like an anvil.
Thorin jerked his arm away suddenly, as though his very touch was dragon fire. Bofur pulled away at once. Of course his king wouldn't allow him to even look at him after this when he was here in Laketown because he had drunk too much and slept too late and done nothing, nothing at all, to help prevent the one thing they had all thought would never come to pass.
Bofur dropped his hand which fell listlessly to his side. At the movement, Thorin made as if to speak, like he was fighting for words to say, but nothing came and after a long moment, he gave up the attempt and began walking down the rickety wooden path again.
At this, Bofur leapt forward again, haste spurring him to say something, to warn Thorin before he got any further, but the need to speak when he'd taken up a dumbstruck watch on the water only further served to make him tongue tied and unable to communicate anything of import.
"Thorin!" he called out, voice dissolving as his legs held him— traitorously— to his place on the board walk, not able to move forward to make his king listen before it was too late. But it had long since been too late.
Already, the first of the downtrodden line of dwarves had reached Bard's dwelling and were climbing the stairs, were entering the common room and he needed to tell Thorin.
Bofur had managed a single step across the wooden bridge when the first cry went up, piercing the cold air with an intensity that startled even him even though he had known it must come. Thorin's gaze riveted the second story window of Bard's residence, as if he might see what had caused one of his companions to make such a noise. It meant nothing good and he hurried his feet toward the wooden structure, leaving behind a forgotten and desolate Bofur who sank to his knees where he had stood.
Running up the rickety stairs, Thorin's mind raced, wondering what horrors this night had left to present and already ruined company.
The noise was not one of rage at the mountain's closed door. Nor was it a battle cry, which was also a comfort. The lake town should have been a safe harbor for those left here, but he yet did not trust Bard, and the Master of the town even less. The treachery of men was not something he thought out of the realm of possibility, or even likelihood. But there were no following shouts nor the clanging of iron and arms. His weary followers had not returned to an ambush in their host's house.
That keening sound had been one of surprise and grief, and his mind raced wildly to think of what it might mean.
He might have said it was merely Oin hearing the news of their—his—failure, but the elderly healer would not have made such a sound, and he knew it had not come from his nephews. Even the great disappointment of the missing doorway into Erebor would not have drawn such a response from them, he thought. Not from stalwart sons of Durin who had never known the call of the mountain or any stone worth calling a home. Such a desperate sound could not have come from someone who did not yet know what they had been locked out of.
And so, with his mind open to the possibility of nearly anything gone wrong, Thorin pushed through the partly open door to find the company gathered stiffly in the doorway. He looked around for the cause of such a scene, but saw no threat. Could not see, even, from the back of the room what each dwarf was silently staring at.
He edged his way through the closely packed throng of his companions, steadily unnerved as the silence pervaded the room. No one seemed to be moving, or even breathing. Gloin's expression was frozen on features that did not seem to fit his face and Ori's eyes were tightly closed. Bifur's mouth moved in a steady stream of soundless words that would have been completely unintelligible even had they been heard.
Thorin turned in place as he passed among them, wondering what sort of magic might have rooted them so firmly to the rough hewn floor.
Then he emerged and turned to see the center of their attention—the bed beyond the bare table.
And the figure laying out on it.
Every thought fled from him in that moment; he stared at the scene uncomprehendingly. It made so sense for something that wasn't even moving to command such attention from a horde of dwarves. No sense at all.
He walked toward it slowly, his boots thumping heavily along the floor as he crossed the common room of Bard's home. Drawing nearer to the table, he saw that the figure laying on it was familiar. So very familiar.
His dark haired nephew was peacefully resting on the table, his head cradled in a basket of walnuts. Eyes closed and arms clasped before his chest as he was wont to do when asleep.
His face was pale but his leg was finally properly bandaged and Thorin was pleased that Kili was able to get some rest despite the gravity of his wound. Now that they had been blocked out of the mountain, he would have all the time in the world to recover before they all set off to their makeshift home in Ered Luin. They could postpone their departure until he was completely healed so that Kili would not be pushed beyond his limits (they had all endured so much on this journey) and so that Thorin would have an excuse to put off their return as long as possible. So that he might have a chance to bolster up his resolve to face the people that he had failed so much.
He blinked. Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes and he did not know how they had gotten there. Shaking his head slightly, he was about to move forward again, to wish his nephew a good night's rest, when someone stepped into his path.
"Thorin," Oin reached out tentatively to touch his sleeve.
Thorin brushed him aside without a word and stood next to the table, one hand curling against the wooden boards on the end. He stared into his nephew's face, taking in the sunken cheeks and the deep dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked far too old. And far too young.
"Thorin…" the healer managed in a broken whisper. "There wasn't anything…" He swallowed and Thorin could hear it through the buzzing noise that had begun building in his head. "We did everything we could do."
The leader of the dwarven company leaned heavily forward on the edge of the table, his knuckles white as they spasmed shut. His shoulders pinched together as if he could block out all sound.
"Thorin?" Oin asked, worried at the lack of response in his king. At the near lack of recognition of what he had been saying, of the evidence lying before him cold and prone on the table.
Of their prince, dead.
Poisoned by the black venom dripping off of the Morgul blade that had pierced his thigh and until it overwhelmed even such a staunch young warrior.
Other races often spoke about the stubbornness of dwarves and Oin had been proud of that trait, holding his head high when it meant that he didn't have to bow it in defeat. Knowing that their leader had not given up on their home and their kingdom and their lives and his people despite the invasion of the wyrm and the death of his sires.
But now, now, staring at the lifeless body of the dwarfling he'd known from the day he came into this world, he cursed the stubbornness of his kin. The recklessness that had gotten the boy shot. And the stoicism he felt he needed to show even while the dark poison pumped through his veins, distracting them from the dangers of his mortal wound.
Time and again, Kili had said he was fine, brushing off the concerns of the few people who noticed—Fili, of course, and Oin, for it was his place in life to see such things, but not Thorin and how had he not seen?—until it was too late. Until the poison had consumed him, draining the life out of him in the most painful way he had seen.
Oin had been well versed in the many paths that lead to death and the, unfortunately, fewer that led back to life. He had been in the healing tents of battle after battle. He had seen dwarves struggling for their final breaths, yelling in pain as they tried to pretend that their limbs were all still intact, and choking on their own blood as they held their stomachs together with knotted fingers. He had seen everything, tended to unspeakable wounds, held the hands of countless hopeless cases, but this…
His lips pressed into a thin line, trying to put out of his mind the way that Kili had moaned and writhed on the bed as the poison took hold and he found that there was nothing he could do. As he fumbled to put together the limited store of herbs that their host had frantically pulled in from the window boxes and the King's Foil that Bofur had scrounged the town for.
Nothing had worked and they had been forced to watch Kili succumb to the effects of the poison he had staved off for so long. He had brought the battlefield with him from Mirkwood but his death seemed much less honorable when he expired on a table in Laketown.
Seemed worthless somehow, and Mahal, so needless and why had it been Kili, the youngest in the company? The one who had only come because Fili threatened to stay behind unless Thorin brought them both and it was unthinkable that the doors of Erebor be opened without the future king present to see the reclamation of their home.
Oin bowed his head. "There was nothing else we could do, Thorin," he continued explaining whether or not the dwarf could his words. "His wound… the Morgul blade... The skills needed to draw out the poison were far beyond anything I have ever seen."
Thorin remained motionless by his nephew's side.
"If the elf had stayed," he admitted, "then perhaps… but there was really never a chance, no matter how much Athelas we might have found."
There was a long minute when Thorin made no response and Oin was still unsure as to whether he had been heard or if their King was actually here in person and in mind. But then, his voice raw, Thorin harshly asked, "Elf?"
Oin shuffled a little in place, worried that this was the only detail Thorin seemed concerned about. "Yes," he replied once he'd gotten over his surprise.
"There were elves here?" Thorin asked.
Oin looked down to see his arms shaking.
"After you left, we returned here with Kili," the white haired dwarf replied. "Orcs followed, Thorin, led by Bolg, who must have pursued us through the wilds. I know not how they found us here. I thought the stench of the fish and crossing the lake would have covered our trail, but they were here. In this house."
He held out a hand to their surroundings and for the first time since he entered, Thorin lifted his eyes to see the room about him. It had been ransacked. Kili's table remained upright, but the rest of the furniture law strewn around the room, some of it splintered until its only use now might be as firewood on one of the cold nights that were to come.
Tankards had rolled to the corners of the room and at least one bowl of crockery had shattered, leaving shards of painted terra cotta near where the table had been that morning. The row of drying herbs and vegetables had been pilfered, foodstuffs now lying in a pile where someone had been trying to get them out from underfoot.
A window had been smashed outward and there were deep gouges in the wooden windowsill and the supports leading up to the roof. Signs of a fierce fight that spread to all corners of the room.
He wondered for the first time what had happened here while they had ventured off to face nothing more than a long climb up dwarven hewn stairs and over and untamed mountainside.
But he shouldn't have had to wonder.
Those who they left behind were supposed to be safely looked after. They were supposed to be housed in all the splendor and security that the Master of the town could provide. Yet here they were, crowded in the common room of the only man in the entire town who loathed their very existence.
He had put them all in danger. His nephews, his friends. His unwilling host and his three young children. The orcs had caught their scent in Mirkwood and followed them downstream, across the water, and to this very house.
He had stayed in this place. And Bolg had followed the promise of reward money to Bard's home. Here it was now, ransacked. Emptied of its inhabitants, for he had seen nothing of the man of the lake.
Housing the long cold body of his youngest sister-son.
Mahal, Kili.
The life of the company, whom he cheered with promptings of songs and flashes of a bright smile even when they seemed to have lost their way. The joy of his mother, who treasured him even as she had lost a husband, bringing him up to embody the best qualities of the father he had never known. And which Thorin could never dare to compare himself.
He fell to his knees, welcoming the jarring of his bones for he deserved the punishment of every pain he could conceive of, bringing his nephew on this quest and subjecting him to a fate such as this.
Kili, pride of his people in Ered Luin where he clambered down the halls to observe every new thing and ventured out to the hills to perfect the archery that had been forbidden until he'd dared to pluck the dusty weapon off of the wall in a far off forgotten armory that he and Fili had stumbled upon.
And Fili…!
Never one without his brother close at hand… and if there was one thing he could imagine worse than losing the mountain and the Arkenstone and the chance to reunite his people, it was cleaving asunder his sister-sons. Taking one from the other until the end of days.
Leaving Fili to suffer the same fate that had bowed his shoulders until he had nearly broken under the weight of it. Depriving him of the sparkle in his younger brother's eyes and the jest on the edge of his tongue. Tearing away the companion of his days and nights, the one he turned to for council and to breathe unflattering remarks under their breaths at official meetings.
Thorin gasped for breath as he doubled over, the image of Frerin which had faded over the years suddenly sharp as it pierced him with condemning eyes.
You have failed again, brother. You have failed us again.
He had lost the mountain. He had lost the younger heir to the throne. He had let his sister's child be taken too early from this life. Through his carelessness. Because of his foolhardiness.
Because this was all he was fit for.
Never the throne that should have belonged to his grandfather. Not the quest which should have fallen to a sire lost to the wilds.
He had been counseled against this quest from every quarter imaginable. The wisest minds had tried to dissuade him to embarking on such a journey. His kin had refused to join him. The burglar the Wizard had promised them was homesick for gardens and handkerchiefs before the first night was over and the hardships on their journey would have made any sane traveler turn back. Would convince any good leader that the dangers were not worth it. Not worth this.
But Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror would not be turned aside.
So now he knelt beside his dead sister-son, unable to take his actions back, unable to now say any of the words that he wished he had told his nephew long ago.
He refused to shed tears, for this was his fault and he should not be allowed to grieve such a terrible mistake, yet his eyes misted over and burned as he examined the barely fraying edge of Kili's sleeve lying motionless before him. Motionless as it would remain now until this world ended.
Turning his face away, Thorin saw that he was not alone in his bedside grief. A mere few feet away, Fili was seated in the only unbroken chair in the room. He lifted his face to see his golden haired nephew frozen in place, his eyes glazed over as he stared at his brother's body. His hands were clenched so tightly in his lap that his fists were white. Fili's face, however, was terrifyingly blank, as if he had been completely erased from his body and this was merely a lifeless shell.
Thorin brought up a knee and maneuvered himself within arm's reach of the one nephew who was still alive.
"Fili," he whispered, reaching out to touch a frigid arm. He drew back his hand, alarmed so much that he was convinced for a moment that he had decided to join his brother in death through sheer will.
"He's been like that ever since…" Oin interjected, not needing his ear horn to understand what his king wanted to know. "There's nothing physically wrong with him. He fought the orcs off without a wound. But once he saw…" he broke off, not needing to elaborate the scene that Thorin could picture perfectly well on his own.
Grabbing his arm again, Thorin slid his rough hand down Fili's wrist until it worked to gently bring up one of his clenched hands. He could feel the tension thrumming throughout the young dwarf's body, torn between not wanting to be moved from his position and not wanting to cause a scene that would require his attention to be anywhere than with his brother.
That was where he belonged, with his brother. And that is where he would stay.
Thorin grasped Fili's hand and looked into the eyes that came nowhere near his. "Fili?" he asked roughly. "Fili…"
He didn't expect a response, but his heart still sank, if such a thing was possible, even further when brown eyes didn't so much as flicker his way. But he did not move an inch, remaining steadfastly at his nephew's side, even if the gesture could mean nothing to someone who had lost their shadow.
He did not notice when his companions silently filed out of the room so that they could voice their grief without disturbing the dead and those who wished they were so. Eventually, however, the room had emptied until Thorin was left alone with his nephews. One completely unresponsive and one dead dead Mahal he was dead.
Thorin bowed his head and closed his eyes but still refused to leave Fili in such a state. Not when it was his mistake, his decisions that had brought them all here to this place.
It was too little and far too late, but he would not let Fili go through this alone. And so he knelt before his heir, desperately trying to hold himself together because the line of Durin was strong and had endured the greatest of calamities and would emerge from this one needing a king.
Fili was still only crown prince, however, and he was allowed to feel the sorrow of a lost brother. Thorin could allow him that, and take on the stoicism himself. If he stayed in this room for now as he was, by morning, he could face a red-eyed company as their leader once more. As he must.
But the dawn came all too quickly. A beautiful morning in which the sun's gentle rays began to pierce through the fog that lay over the lake that stretched out toward the Lonely Mountain. The sky beyond the shattered glass of the window was just starting to turn into a rosy pink that seemed to give life back into Kili's face when the door behind him swung open.
Long booted strides softly crossed the room as if they knew by long experience how to avoid the boards that squeaked and groaned beneath a full grown man's weight. They stopped a respectful distance away from the table and waited; Thorin's frame hunched in on itself when he realized that he must turn around.
Steeling himself, he blinked red-rimmed eyes toward the door to see their host standing stiffly in the middle of his own home. His eyes cast over the sight before him and softened in a sorrow that looked well worn on him, as if it were the expression he was most familiar with even in his short lifespan.
"Thorin," he began.
The dwarf made no response but to blink.
"I have… made arrangements with one of the town's leaders for the housing of your company," he said quietly. "I saw them all off last night and they will be well looked after and well fed in a house not far from here. You need not worry."
Thorin pressed his lips together, refusing to thank the man who, by all rights, deserved every bit of the courtesy.
Bard shifted his stance as he understood the dwarf's manner. "Sigrid's taken Bain and Tilda out of the house. You and…" he paused, "your nephews are welcome to it until you make the arrangements for your journey home."
Thorin's throat burned, for this was supposed to be their home.
"I'll be downstairs if you need anything," he said, even though he knew the dwarf would not call for him. Would not move from that spot until the sun had set and risen again if he had the choice. Bard decided to take it from him. He would find the white haired dwarf before the day was out and let him try to persuade Durin's heir to eat something himself. And to feed his nephew before he lost the both of them.
He stared at Thorin for a long moment, too kind to tell him that if he had but left his quest for silver fountains alone, he might have been able to live out a happier life. He didn't need to form the sentiment into words, however, for much as he tried to hide the expression in deference to the grief before him, Thorin could read it all plainly in his face.
This is your fault, Thorin. You brought this upon your house when it was your task to prevent such heartbreak. If only you had left the dragon-cursed hoard buried in the mountain, this boy would be with his mother still.
Thorin managed to keep his head raised until Bard nodded and backed out of the room.
Then he put his face into the hand that did not grasp Fili's and he wept bitterly at all he had lost.