I do not own the Hobbit.

I've been listening to Nickelback lately and one of his songs inspired me (Someday). Part of the very last bit are lyrics from the song (which I do not own). In any case, I hope you enjoy this piece of writing. It is not the best, but I sorted of wanted to explore Thorin's character a bit in it. Enjoy.

Thorin pressed his head to the cool stone in front of him. He was finally alone for one blessed moment, alone to properly grieve over what he had lost without the condolences of others being shoved in his face the same way swords and maces had been just before dawn and in the early hours after.

His grandfather and king was being prepared for burial even as he knelt on the cold ground eyes full of tears that he somehow managed to hold back. His father had yet to be found among the carnage that had been the end result of the battle, for they had not won. No. They had merely been the last force still standing, the side unwilling to retreat. Too many had paid the price for that action; too many lives had been wasted for a hollow victory.

Thorin felt hollow inside.

"I'm sorry brother," he said, tears several tears spilling over as he drew in a shuddering breath and pressed one hand to the name roughly carved into the stone he leaned against.

Frerin hadn't even gotten a proper burial as his status as a prince had demanded. Instead he was buried in the earth with a headstone of cracked stone to show how they had failed, how Thorin had failed.

"I'm so sorry."

The words are now sobs, quiet wails of despair and regret. What was he going to tell Dis? How was he going to tell his little sister, his youngest sibling that her brother and grandfather were dead, as their father was most likely dead too. The simple answer was that he couldn't, he couldn't bear any more grief, couldn't bear the fact that this grief was his doing. Had he only been closer to Frerin, protected him better….

Thorin sighed, chocking back the wrenching sobs that threatened to tear free of him as he closed his grey-blue eyes. At least his brother had been buried, not burnt to ash as the vast majority of the slaughter dwarves had. There had been no other option, for the casualties had been too many, too numerous in number. Even now the smoke from the fires floated to him on the gentle breeze that pulled at Thorin's disheveled hair, the smell of burning wood bringing both comfort and despair to the dwarf.

How he had lost track of Frerin, Thorin didn't know, but he had and the result now laid before him. The mound of earth he knelt at seemed to be staring up at him as if it had eyes, accusing Thorin of brining about the death of his brother, his brother who had been far too young to be taken from the world.

"If you had to take one of us today, why then did you not take me?" Thorin asked of the heavens, anger beginning to colour his words as he slammed one fist into the ground in front of him, "Mahal! Why did you not take me when he had so much left to live for? When I was the elder? When it was my duty to protect him? WHY DID YOU NOT TAKE ME INSTEAD?"

The dwarf's shout faded into the air, the area around him soon falling silent again. The silence weighed heavily on Thorin, causing his to bow his head in weariness. His brother was gone and would not be coming back, given to the earth as a final tribute instead of being sealed away in stone as he should have been. No longer would Thorin wake to see Frerin's grin beside him. No longer would he walk into a room as though the world were crashing down around him and it was all his fault only to have his spirits lifted by the antics of his younger sibling. No longer would Thorin be able to assure himself that he would be able to face each new day with his brother at his side. Frerin would never be by his side again.

"I will ensure that a proper tomb is built for you," the dwarf whispered to the ground, "Even if it does not bear your body within, I will build a tomb fitting of a king for you when we reach home."

The problem was that Thorin did not know where home was.

His people had wandered over vast stretches of land in search of a place to settle down after the fall of Erebor. They were still wandering, a displaced people with no place to go that they could belong. Erebor had been their home, a home that a dragon had taken it from them. While both his grandfather and father had borne hopes that they could one day reclaim their homeland, Thorin had doubted if it was even possible. He still doubted it, even more than before in the face of what the battle had cost. A battle against a dragon would be even more disastrous, or so Thorin thought. All that was left then was to lead the dwarves of Erebor to a save haven they could build up to be a city half as great as the now fallen mountain, and they would look to the folk of Durin to lead them.

The realisation that if his father was not found, he would be the one expected to lead the people of Erebor suddenly struck Thorin. It would fall to him to find a new home, fall to him to protect his people, fall to him to ensure they survived, that each battle they fought was won. The prospect of such a fate terrified Thorin, for he had seen firsthand how his father and grandfather had caved under the stress of their duties when everything had become too much, especially after the fall of Erebor.

Thorin knew he did not live up to either of their names; he was not as strong as them and never would be. He was merely a prince, a heir that had somehow survived the battle, a battle of which he did not deserve to survive. Frerin was dead because he had failed as a brother. His father was missing because he had failed as a son. His grandfather was dead because he had failed as both a grandson and an heir. The only thing he had managed to do right was ensure the Defiler would suffer a slow and painful death and as great a deed as that was, it did not make up for his failings.

The dwarves he led would look up to him and judge his every move. Their faith in him would waver as soon as they saw him waver, and waver Thorin would for he was no leader. He could not conjure from nothing a home of which they could live in. He could not rally an army to fight for a cause of which he chose. Some would argue that he had done the very same thing only that morning at dawn, yet Thorin knew it had not been him they had followed into battle. The warriors had only flocked to him because there had been no others to lead them.

Thorin knew, however, that he would at least have to try. Even if he couldn't find a home for everyone, he needed to at least find a home for Dis. If Thorin's father was gone as he feared he was, Dis was all the family the dwarf prince would have left. Thrain had made Thorin swear to look after his youngest sibling, for there was a great chance that Thrain could fall in battle. Frerin too had sworn the same, uncharacteristically solemn at the time. The only difference between the two brothers in their promises was that Thorin had sworn to protect Frerin too. As the oldest of the three, he was expected to, and though Frerin was now dead, Thorin still had the other half of his promise to keep.

"If only the dragon had never come," Thorin sighed despondently, as if it were Frerin before him and not just his brother's cold and unresponsive grave, "Then none of this would have happened." Deep in his heart, however, the dwarfish prince knew this was not true.

If the dragon had not come, lured by the vast hordes of gold within the mountain's chambers, than misery would still have descended on the city of Erebor and in inhabitants only in a different form. There was no denying that in the last part of his life Thror had gone mad, no longer able to make trustworthy decisions from his over love of gold. War would have descended upon Erebor, whether it was from outside forces that had been caused to hate the city over time, or even civilly as the dwarves revolted against an essentially corrupted king. This far from the mountain the gold sickness could not reach him, yet Thorin still feared he would fall victim to its clutches if he became leader to his people. The dwarf prince doubted his decisions enough already, he did not need cause to doubt them more.

The other issue was that there would no doubt be a push to reclaim Erebor from the dragon. Thorin could not deny that he himself longed to return to the place from which he had been exiled, however the dwarf prince was afraid to return for more reasons than one. He feared to return to Erebor for what the gold would do to him. Even more he feared leaving his sister alone in the world with no family to surround herself with should he die on the journey. Yet Erebor was their home. It always had been and always would be no matter where its inhabitants took up residence.

Biting his lip in thought, Thorin looked back down to the grave in which his brother was buried. His previous thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as sorrow welled up inside of him, sorrow so strong it left him gasping for breath. It would all be so much easier if his brother was with him to help steer everything in the right direction. The dwarf prince would be able to ignore the fear and uncertainty inside of him if he could only see his sibling smile one last time. Even if it did nothing to relieve his anxiety, at least it would give him a good last memory to dwell on. Thorin would do anything to replace his final memory of his brother, the memory of Frerin surrounded by the enemy on a battlefield he was far too young for.

Thorin felt anger swell up inside of him as he thought of the final moments of Frerin. The anger was cold and pure, rooted as deep as hatred for Frerin would not have passed into a world where he could not follow unless he himself left everything behind. The dwarf prince was angry at this fact, the fact that he could not follow his brother for the duties he was sworn to and the responsibilities he had. He was angry at the Defiler for killing his grandfather and at the orcs for killing all the other dwarves who had fought so valiantly only to lose their lives. He was angry at the dragon who had stolen his home and the elves who had refused to help them get it back or merely help the dwarves themselves find a new home. He was angry at the gold in Erebor and his grandfather who had succumbed to its spell. He was angry at Thrain for abandoning him when he needed his father the most. Most of all Thorin was angry at himself, angry that he had not done better to protect his brother, to protect everything that he had held dear.

"Frerin, if you are listening, forgive me."

It was then that the dwarf prince finally allowed himself to openly weep at his brother's death and everything he had lost before it.

"Someday, somehow I'm going to make it all right," Thorin whispered amongst his tears, pressing his head against the headstone one last time as thoughts of Erebor and his childhood there with Frerin swam in his mind, "I swear, someday we will return home. Someday."

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