Thorin turned, eyes watering in the smoke that rose from the ground. He was dead. Where was he? "I...I'm dead." He mumbled to himself.
Sinking to the ground, he pressed his fists to his palms. "I'm dead." The wound in his side didn't throb anymore. In fact, he was as light as air. "I'm dead." A blinding light swam behind his eyes, begging him to leave this moment between the world and death. He rocked back and forth, feeling as helpless as Bilbo against an Orc. His splendor was gone, his throat choked up in a panic. "I can't be dead."
A soft music began to play. He managed to shakily get to his feet. A small light shimmered close by. Something took hold of him. He needed to get to the light. A soft singing radiated from it. "It's beautiful."
His fur coat was wrapped round his shoulders, pure and washed. His beard fell in great tumbling locks, and, as he looked around, the smoke coming from the scorched ground turned to vapors, then it was gone. The ground turned pearly white and was smooth beneath his feet. Being dead wasn't so bad. His throat felt dry and he gulped. Something stirred in him. He needed to sing.
Beginning slowly at first, he began.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold.
The Dungeons claimed and caverns new.
We did away... by the break of day...
And found our long forgotten gold.
He felt a flutter in his chest, and sighed. He had done what he needed to do. He had reclaimed Erebor. But his job wasn't finished. He forced himself to turn away from the light. There was something he needed to do. The ground became clear, and soon he was looking down at the company, gathered. Ori, Dori, and Nori were crying in a huddle, tears washing their faces. Bifur and Bombur sat, head in their hands, choking back sobs. Bofur wandered aimlessly, his usually cheerful face drab and dark. Balin sat, staring into the fading night, mumbling, as Dwalin gruffly widdled a piece of bark, trying to hide his emotion. Oin and Glion were out among the wounded, feeding and caring for them, keeping their minds off of the dead. Gandalf was gone. Thorin didn't know where.
Bilbo. Bilbo was still in the tent, and Thorin saw him. He saw Thorin. Dead Thorin. His body was pale and his eyes closed, a knife clutched at his side. His hair was wet with Bilbo's tears and his hands lying on his chest. Bilbo was in the corner, innocent face wracked with pain and loss. Tears spilled like a river from his eyes as he rocked himself back and forth. "..Thor-Thorin..." He choked in his tears. Thorin silently turned, walked over the battle field. The hills were strewn with dead dwarves, side by side with Orcs and Goblins.
Quietly, he reached the spot where he friends had fallen. His nephews. Kili and Fili. They lay side by side, arms twisted around their swords and faces white. Thorin gently reached to them and brushed their eyes closed. Then, he shook each of their shoulders. With a sigh and a groan, Fili and Kili got up. Fili's eyes sparkled and Kili's glistened. Leaving their bodies, they followed Thorin up, up, up. The two brothers walked by their uncle, softly and slowly. The war had hardened them, and their faces were tough, but as they walked higher, the pain and anger fell away until they were as fun and light as the dwarves who had arrived at Bilbo's house.
Turning, they gave one last peaceful look at their kingdom, Erebor, before following the light to heaven.