Summary: Thorin Oakensheild returns from the battle of Moria to an even more devastating slaughter. With their women and children cut down to a dwindling few, the last of his line and King-Without-A-Mountain, Thorin must lead his people to the Blue Mountains, a long journey fraught with great danger, to give them a place of safety. Along the way, the displaced young King may find hope again, but is the cost too high? Notes

I have taken great liberties with the history of Middle Earth, for example I am making the Battle at Moria take place far later than it did orginally so it ties in better with Fili and Kili's ages, I also had it last far longer than it really did.

This is also AU. You have been warned so please do not complain about it. Aside from that it will be mostly Cannon compliant if I ever let it get that far.

The dwarves that returned were so unlike the proud army that had crossed Middle Earth to reclaim the ancient halls of Moria, that it would have been easy to mistake them for naught but a band of dirty mercenaries; armour rent, faces still covered in the dirt of the hundreds of graves that had been dug, stinking of blood and fire and desolation. The had failed, and this truth could be read in each face, in the slow trudge of their feet and the slump of their shoulders. It was a weary group that returned across the rolling hills and through the scant forests back to the edges of the bog lands they had been forced to take their refuge in.

They returned, few in number and heavy of heart.

It was growing dark as they crested the last hill and had view of the small settlement they had built here after they had been pushed from the human towns they had sought some sanctuary in, their presence unwelcome after disease had struck. They eked out a living here, but it was not enough to truly live for long. Which had been why so many dwarves had joined the army to fight for Moria, they needed to be in their halls, surrounded by stone. They needed to retake Erabor. But until that time Moria would have made a suitable home.

Thorin, Prince of Erabor, now named Oakensheild, King-Without-A-Mountain, walked at the fore of his remaining army and looked down the hill, in the fading light and breathed a sigh of relief to see it. Not so glad though that he would have to tell his dearest sister of the loss of their family, to tell his sister-sons of their fathers death, though the youngest was but a babe and would likely never remember.

It was not until he was halfway down the hill that he felt a prickle of unease, his eyes fixed on the settlement. He swept his gaze across it and the land around it and felt his heart stop as he made out crude markers, near invisible in the growing darkness, markers that denoted graves.

They had been gone three years, but surely... surely so many could not have passed on in tat time.

There was an uneasy feeling that passed through all the dwarves on the hill, and silence fell completely hands gripping weapons and their steps became more cautious as they continued on. The settlement was still, too still. Not even a wisp of smoke from a cooking fire rose from it. The closer they got the more markers they saw, and it was clear the soil was freshly dug. A sickness perhaps?

Thorin shifted his grip on his sword as he stepped through the gate, his unease growing as he saw it was obviously forced, dented and broken. An attack then... but by whom? And were there survivors, or would they find the bodies of those who had not yet been buried and those who had tried to bury them? It was a sickening thought, but one Thorin knew to be crossing the minds of all those who followed him.

This settlement had held only women and children, and some youths who were not yet old enough to join with the army and a handful of warriors to protect them.

"Who goes there?" came a weary voice, a terrible kind of weary, one of youth that has seen too much.

Thorin looked around, trying to spot the speaker, but the shadows surrounding them made it impossible.

"Bofur!" came a cry from behind him, followed by a string of ancient speak Thorin recognised to be Bifur, who had suffered a terrible wound in the battle and was lucky o only have lost his ability to speak anything but the Ancient language of their people.

There was a startled sound in the darkness, and suddenly a youth, barely over 90 if that stumbled out, eyes wide, looking increadiably young under a large hat. He was followed by another youth, perhaps ten or twenty years younger. They both looked gaunt and tired.

"Cousin Bifur?" the youth called, revealing himself to indeed be the Bofur named.

"Lad," Thorin said, startling the child into looking at him. "What has happened here?"

Bofur did not hold his gaze, dropping his eyes to the ground. "Goblins... we think... We... they..."

Thorin stepped forward, resting a hand on the lads shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze which made the lad sag a little. "Where is my sister? The Lady Dis." he had no doubt his sister would have gathered the survivors together and hid them away somewhere.

"Lady Dis?" Bofur said, his face contorted in confusion before suddenly it cleared.

Thorin felt dread rise in him before the youth even opened his mouth.

"She... she died... near two months ago... during the third raid after the goblins took her... en the goblins took the babes."

The babes? Thorin's heart froze. His sister dead and his sister-sons... "My nephews, are they... are they still with us?" he asked urgently.

He let go of the boy when no answer was forthcoming, knowing that they were not. He felt Dwalin, his ever faithful friend, come to stand beside him, and watched numbly as Bofur was suddenly crowded by those who had wives and sisters and children in the settlement, each one demanding to know the fate of their families. Until Bifur, cut them all off with some harsh words, gathered his young cousin to him, and the other youth who might be Bofur's brother.

It was a gathering of grief that followed two younglings through the crude houses and to a small enclosure they must have built that housed the remains of their people. Such a pitiful few there were now, not more than thirty women left from three hundred, with may-haps four dozen children of varying ages, and pitifully few babes.

Thorin saw it all, and as he watched the grief consume all those, he felt his own clawing at his heart. Ripping it from him and leaving him cold inside.

He was the last of his line. A King without a Kingdom. And now it looked as if he might be a king without a people.