The sky was blood red, Bofur noted, as if the horizon was reflecting the battlefield beneath it. Bodies were littered everywhere, both of friend and foe, some slain by swords, other by axe or arrows. So many had been lost this day. And for what? What was it really for? A hoard of gold and their stubborn dwarvish sense of pride. It would be the downfall of their kind one day.
Out of their own company, they had lost only three. But those three were the ones that they had never expected, nor had ever wanted to lose. The three of the line of Durin. Thorin, their leader and King, had passed to the halls of their ancestors, only a few moments before and righting wrongs with the hobbit Bilbo. None had told him of the fate of his nephews. None had dared, agreeing that it was fairer to let him pass believing the half truth that they were safe and happy. In reality, they were far from harm now where they were, but there was no need to tell him that. Their King had gone, and there were no more direct heirs to be found, meaning that the throne would pass to Dain, of the Iron Hills. The line of Durin was broken and fragmented now, and they all felt the loss deeply. They would for years to come.
He had seen them removing the bodies of the two young brothers, the two young princes from the field as well, and all had heard clearly the cry of anguish from their mother Dis as she cradled their bloodied forms in her lap, sobbing for her poor dead sons. Kili and Fili had been far too young to die; they were children after all. Naught but children. Young Kili had been so excited about the prospect of his beard developing, boasting of how he would soon have one to rival any dwarf on this side of Erebor, but now such a thing would never happen. Now his beard would never grow. Never again would their laughs and songs ring out for all in the near vicinity. They had been so full of life, and it had been robbed from them so quickly, in the blink of an eye.
Kili had fallen first; an orc sword embedded in his gut, and had died in his elder brother's arms. The blonde dwarf had then flown into a grief-fuelled rage, driven by his sorrow and killing all who dared to come near his beloved baby brother, until an arrow had pierced his neck and he lay still next to his sibling, cold and unblinking. They would all be buried in a great ceremony, dressed in finery and made to look asleep, buried amongst the kings of old, never to be forgotten.
The toymaker barely noticed his cousin Bifur approaching him from behind and gently clasping his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. Bifur could only speak now in an ancient dwarf tongue, along with gestures, but even still he rarely did so. While only Gandalf could properly understand him, Bofur had learnt to get the gist of it. Besides, his eyes sometimes spoke more than words ever could.
"Was it worth it?" they seemed to ask, sadness and mourning clearly visible in their stormy grey depths. Bofur shrugged silently, allowing a light sigh to escape his lips as he turned his gaze back to the corpse strewn land before them.
"I do not know Bifur. I do not believe so, in my heart. What was this battle really for? Could it not have been avoided? Are we really any better than the terrible Smaug himself if we are willing to kill for some lumps of metal?"
Bifur however made no attempt to reply and no sign of response, leaving his cousin in silence. If he strained though, he could hear Bilbo saying his goodbyes and he couldn't help but echo the last part in his heart.
"Farewell, Balin! And farewell, Dwalin; and farewell Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur! May your beards never grow thin! Farewell Thorin Oakenshield! And Fili and Kili! May your memory never fade!"