Disclaimer

I do not own The Hobbit and its characters.

This is solely a non-profit fan activity, and in no way intends to infringe on copyrights held by Tolkien/MGM/New Line Cinema.

Chapter I

HE was alive. Barely. Yet alive. Thorin Oakenshield had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. Had ousted Smaug the Fire Drake from the greatest of Dwarven Kingdoms rightfully his and lived to tell the tale. Had had Dragon Sickness infest his heart and mind, nearly succeeding to corrupt his very soul. Had been deaf to the council of his trusted friends and blind to the loyalty of his kin. Had unleashed a terrible war and yet survived the ensuing Battle of the Five Armies. He was alive. Barely. Yet Alive. And it troubled him.

He remembered little of the days following the carnage that had taken place at the very doorstep of his beloved Erebor. But every night in his feverish dreams he would revisit what memories of it he still possessed. He would see again the cruel murders of his Sister-sons by that honorless Orc filth that had vowed to wipe out Durin's bloodline. And he had nearly ended it that day. There were now no heirs to the throne. He was the last of the Royal Family that had for many centuries dwelled in the Lonely Mountain. He had regained the Crown, but fate it seemed was not without a bitter irony as it left him utterly alone with a right to rule he could no longer pass on.

In those dreams he would also see before him the Pale Orc, gliding through the freezing water, pitiless eyes boring through the ice, locking him into a battle that was over. And yet he could not look away. It seemed he was doomed to endlessly drift along in pursuit of his enemy. Even in his waking hours he could not forget. Although the pain in his chest was subsiding, it would return when he would least expect it, sharp stabs of it that made him double over and gasp for air as he felt the ghost of Azog the Defiler's rugged blade pierce once again through his flesh, skewering his lung and shattering his ribs.

In his disturbed sleep he would again stand on the edge of that frozen waterfall, look out on a world on fire as huge, winged creatures loomed overhead, their shadows gliding over him as they dominated the sky. He could feel his strength draining with every ragged breath until his knees buckled and he collided hard with the ice. Could still hear the gurgling and wheezing sound as he had coughed up blood -the strong ironish taste of which he swore he could still detect in his mouth- as his chest heaved up and down costing him the greatest effort. Lastly he remembered the Hobbit's face, hovering close to his own. Could recall with vivid clarity how Bilbo's hands had cradled his head with tears welling up in his eyes and he had begged for his friend's forgiveness before his own vision had faded. Before darkness had enveloped him.

But death had not come. The blackness had been penetrated first by hushed whispers and urgent voices, then by a pungent smell that reminded him of herbs in the wild. The cold that had crept into his bones and taken a stubborn hold on him had slowly retreated, leaving his skin burning as if liquid fire had coursed through his very veins. He had felt sweat trickling down his temples and a tingling starting in the tip of his fingers. Most of all he recalled the chanting. His heart throbbing wildly in an unsteady rhythm as if in reply to the singing voices around him, steadily beating louder until it was like a drum that was hammering against his broken ribs trying to break free. The world had been spinning at every attempt to open his eyes and it had felt like hours, days even before the brightness around no longer hurt. Before he had been able to move his muscles. To lift his aching head. To stretch his sore limbs. To find his voice. To return to the realm of the living. To return and not find Fíli and Kíli there with him.

He did not know which weighed heavier on his shoulders. His own intense sadness at their passing or his sister Dís' utter anguish when they had sent for her not a day after her sons had fallen and she had arrived just in time to bid her own blood farewell. Even now, whenever he would close his eyes, his brooding thoughts would transport him back to that vault at the heart of the Lonely Mountain: to the Royal Tomb and his kin that lay there embalmed in eternal sleep. He would again attend their burial in his mind. Would follow his inner gaze as it wandered over the myriad of fluttering flames of wax sputtering candles the waning and flickering light of which did little to lift the seemingly impenetrable darkness enshrouding the dead and the living alike in their grief. He feared he would forevermore be haunted by the image of the two unmoving figures of his young nephews who meant more to him than anything else in Middle Earth. He would murmur again under his breath the Songs of Mourning, together with the memory of the guttural and deep voices honoring the fallen in a sorrowful melody accompanied by the reverberating cadence of iron boots stamping on the ground, returning as echoes that bounced off the walls in the intervals of the words sung.

Since that dark day, the days had stretched into weeks, until a new moon was born and for the first time after the Great Battle for the Mountain he left its sheltering embrace and stepped out into the night air. As his lungs filled themselves with the bitter cold also biting at the exposed skin of his fingers and face he involuntarily shuddered. The battlements were deserted for all but the solemn figures of his guards, shields and spears with banners in hand and standing still as statues on their vigilant watch.

Thorin, King under the Mountain, took some faltering steps closer, hands clasping the edges of the nearest merlon for support as he stared up at the stars strewn across the black night's sky as if in search for their guidance. A sigh passed his lips, his despair forming white breathy clouds the wind quickly took for its own. He could not afford to remain this way now his people looked to him to lead. Nevertheless most of the time his mind was still a confusing tangle of broken images and distorted sounds that he could not make sense of. And as for his heart.. He did not dare inspect what was hidden away from sight in its dark recesses. It would take many more moons for him to feel whole again.

He was alive. Barely. Yet Alive. Though part of him could not but stir uneasily at this and feel that, perhaps, he should have been dead...

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