A/N: Here is chapter one! officially, I accidentally labeled the preface chapter one before, but have since fixed it. This chapter is heavy on the angst so I hope that doesn't turn anyone off! things will get better as we go along I promise! Also it might be a bit disjointed, there is a section in here from every dwarf's perspective, some longer or shorter than others...surprisingly I think Bombur's is my favorite. Please review and let me know what you think!


It was almost a whole day before Thorin was found, half buried underneath a dead warg with its teeth still plunged deeply into his shoulder. He breathed, but barely, just long enough to tell Bilbo he was sorry and so many more words that the little Hobbit could barely bring himself to listen to, knowing his friend's fate. It was with bitter tears he met the others outside Thorin's chambers, after his last breath. He wept as hard as he could remember and at least was not alone in it, none of them able to keep their grief in check. Bilbo did not know if he could bear this. Making such a hard won friend and losing him so suddenly just as they accomplished their goal.

It was not fair, it was inhuman that they had come so far, that Thorin had done so much to give his people such a gift and he of all of them was lost to it. Bilbo thought of all the times he had wanted to turn back and had not for the shear desire to prove that hard headed dwarf wrong. He thought of the times that Thorin had blustered at him when he had put himself in danger and how irritated it had made him until he realized Thorin was worried about him, just as he worried about the others. And he remembered oh so dearly being commended for his bravery and being hugged for goodness sake, by the gruffest and grumpiest being he had ever met.

Even after that he never thought he would believe Thorin as the soft hearted dwarf his nephews painted him to be.

That is until the night they had all been frightened out of their wits when one of the ponies had fallen in a river and the boys had close to drown in an attempt to save their supplies. They were barely moving when they had been dragged back on shore but Bilbo's worry was all but forgotten when he witnessed the grumbling dwarf shake like a leaf as he embraced both sopping lads with no care for who was watching, speaking soft and fervent in the dwarven language Bilbo did not know. He did not think he needed to understand the words to gather their meaning though.

He had learned so much about the dwarf on their journey, but he knew now he would never truly know Thorin as he might have, given more time.

It just was not fair.


They could not bury Thorin until his nephews were found, for if they were alive, they should be there for the funeral. And if they were not, then they would be entombed together, to spend the rest of eternity at their king's- at their uncle's side. And so the search would continue, with less vigor, less hope, and entirely less cheer as each day passed. Balin and Dwalin stuck together, as did most of them, never wanting to be apart from their kin for longer than necessary after such events. Neither of them knew what to do with themselves, losing a best friend and something close to a son. Thorin had always been there. Even when Dwalin had been a child and Thorin the same, they had protected each other as brothers. Always standing together in the face of hardship even if it was nothing more than an overbearing older brother or the needy cloying of younger siblings. And even more so when the dragon had taken their home and he was shouldered with every responsibility he had never cared to take on, he had still spent so many hours with Dwalin, as he grieved for the loss of his mother.

Balin too remembered well the young lad who had asked him for help with his letters when their teacher had scolded him for falling behind. And the lad who had stood up under the weight of loss and led his people when no one else would do so, standing brave before them but hesitating and nervous before Balin, always asking his advice, always second guessing his decisions. It seemed like just yesterday that he was explaining the trade agreement the men of the Blue Mountains had presented to the Dwarves of Erebor to a young Thorin, brows drawn together in concentration as he asked the older dwarf to repeat himself once again, in laymen's terms.

There were long silences between the brothers then, permeated with many sighs and shaken heads. They could not let themselves break, not if the boys were still out there. With their uncle gone, they needed them both. So they searched with the others in a numb state, their victory feeling nothing more than hollow in their chests.

It reminded them both viciously of their days after Moria.


Nori felt more than sadness at Thorin's death, he felt anger. Furious with the universe for letting such a thing happen. For allowing such a dwarf to leave its inhabitants when they all still had so much to give back to him. He had been more than just a leader to their people to Nori. He had personally seen to getting him apprenticeships he never stuck with as a lad. Was the first grown dwarf to ever tell him he could be good at anything he stuck to. Even if it was not true, it was what his younger self had needed to hear so badly at the time. He had claimed him kin when his own father had not.

Nori was angry, because if Thorin died, he could never repay the debt he had waited so long for the opportunity to do so.


Bilbo was left to himself, no longer attempting to assist in the search after being gainsaid by nearly half the company to rest, after the blow to his head they didn't want him wandering off and getting lost somewhere. Of course he knew it was more than likely because they thought him soft and didn't want him to see more of the battlefield than need be.

He wanted to help find the boys, but there was no fight left in him with such a weight in his chest and such a pounding in his head. Nor did he desire to look upon more violence. Not when his friend was dead. Not when those two sweet boys who reminded him so much of his younger cousins had more than likely joined him. He didn't think he would want to look upon their faces if they had died, preferring to remember them in life, always laughing, always smiling.

And so he spent his time idling outside the room where Thorin slept on, keeping vigil at night in case perhaps he woke, though it was only a passing fantasy. Other times he hovered outside the healing tents, which still over flowed with injured, hoping to be there if the boys were brought back alive. But it was three more days until Fili was found, dead, black and red blood matting his hair together in knots, and covering every surface of himself it seemed. A number of Orcish arrows stuck out from his person, buried in his leg, his shoulder, three in his stomach, with a knife wound across the side of his face. His swords were found not far away, and had to be pulled from the carcasses of two Orcs speared together like meat on a kabob. There was no doubt he had fought with all his heart and every last ounce of energy he possessed, but in such a battle luck seemed to be the only thing that saved most of them. And Durin's line was never known for being lucky.

He was carried back to the castle by Bofur, who shook his head and did nothing to stop the flow of tears streaming down his face when he saw the Hobbit rushing down the steps to meet him only to stop in his tracks with a look of great pain flashing across his round face.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no." It sounded like the whine of petulant child in Bilbo's ears and he buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe as Bofur marched past him, decidedly not looking upon the dead prince. Bilbo concentrated, trying his best to remember the night that Fili had asked him of his homeland, for tales of the shire. And how he had listened so thoughtfully and laughed at all the funny bits. And he thought of one of the many nights towards the beginning of their journey that Thorin had snapped at him when not an hour later Fili had sat down beside him and told him stories of the king when he and Kili were children. Of how he watched over them as a father would and how he used to play with them, letting them ride around on his shoulders while he neighed like a pony and made a right fool of himself. He thought it might help, but the tears only seemed to come faster.


Bofur wondered how there could be tears left to fall but they always came, never deserting him even when his cheeks were dry and raw. He wanted nothing more than to see the beaming smile of the little boy who, even when presented with much nicer and more newly made toys by himself and his cousin alike, had held one of Bofur's very first finished carvings, complete with gouges on every surface and a barely recognizable form, as if it were made of gold.


Dori knew most everyone thought he came on this quest simply to watch over his younger brothers. That he was fussy and overbearing and not much fun. And perhaps they were right on most counts but his younger brothers were not the only ones who needed watching out for on such a dangerous journey. And he was not about to let two reckless and hardheaded brothers such as Fili and Kili go off on an adventure when their uncle was to be the leader. Dori knew that Thorin would have to be concerned with the quest before making sure his nephews were well fed and clothed. That he would be distracted from his kin by a large degree unless something drastic happened. He knew he could not constantly keep an eye on them and so Dori figured he could.

What was a little more fussing when it really came down to it?

He had not expected the confused smiles he would get for folding their bedrolls in the mornings, or the carefully suppressed laughs when he made a point of dishing them and Ori more food than the others, the polite and honest thanks he received for mending their clothes. He had been entirely taken off guard when one morning he was presented with a rather poorly carved pipe and some pipeweed. Being told they noticed he had lost his, and sure, neither of them was very good at carving and it wasn't exactly a pretty thing, but it would do its job and they hoped he liked it, what with all he was always doing they could at least give something in return.

He knew the princes were never spoiled as lads, and he had known that Ori liked them both while he didn't always get on with many dwarrows. But he hadn't expected…he simply hadn't expected to get so attached.

It was after this that any real hope was lost, by Dori and many of the others. For surely, even without knowing his brother's fate, one could not survive while the other perished.


Bilbo did his best not to create more despair where there was already plenty and kept himself busy with Bombur after this. Helping prepare food and bringing tea to their companions who needed the rest most. It was something he found he was better at than many dwarves and he found Bombur good company in grief, they could work side by side quietly and comfortably without too many words. But when one let out a breath between a sigh and a sob, the other would pause and come sit. And sometimes that's all they would do, just sit in each other's company and stare into the middle distance, seeing things far away. While other times they would talk, about the boys, about Thorin, reminiscing in good memories of both and they would cry or they would talk about nothing in particular.

It was this job that had him meeting many dwarves he had never before seen and catching snippets of whispered conversations between waylaid warriors and the injured who had spent time in Oin's healing tent. He tried his best to ignore it, ignore all of the whispers that stopped as soon as he was noticed and the incredulous looks that accompanied their conversations. But no matter how he tried he was left feeling panicked and out of breath, with a cold hard stone weighing in his stomach.


Oin was an almost impossible dwarf to find if you were uninjured, and worked more tirelessly than all of them combined in the aftermath of the battle. There was very little that could make him pause in his work, littler still that had him stopping in his tracks to look at something again. But that is exactly what happened when he brought young Fili into his Uncle's chamber. Where he had braced himself for the smell of death and decay, for the sight of his once beloved king succumbing to nature, he found none of those things. Thorin remained….as he had on the day of his death. Placing Fili on the cot next to the King's he quickly checked the wounds on his shoulder and found them unchanged. Utterly confused he held his hand over the dwarf's mouth. There was no breath. Then he put his finger to his throat.

No pulse.

What was going on?

He tried to speak of it quietly with an elf healer one day but whenever a dwarf spoke to an elf all seemed to have open ears. The elf only looked at him rather gently, with the skeptical but soft expression you hold for grieving ones spouting nonsense. Of course he insisted it was true, leading the taller man through more untraveled corridors towards the inner room where Thorin and his first heir resided. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving room for the elf to follow, still flabbergasted by the lack of change in either of them.

"Do they not appear as if asleep?" He spoke almost to himself but the elf heard clearly. His long dark hair fell forward as he leaned over the king, placing a pale and delicate looking hand on his chin. Oin watched him closely and did not miss the crease forming between his eyebrows.

"He does indeed…but I could not tell you how or why, for he is truly dead." Oin swallowed harshly and nodded in response. He knew. He knew the king was dead but perhaps….perhaps this odd turn of events meant something could be done? Surely it was not nothing. Even Fili was perfectly preserved as he had been. Looking pale and rather frightening with the slash across his cheek, but it did not bleed nor did it close up nor did his skin gain the shiny, bloated quality of the many days dead. They both seemed frozen in time and Oin had an unshakable suspicion that Kili would be the same when they found him.

He hated to think it but he knew kili was long dead by now, even if he wasn't before, so long alone on the empty battlefield, he would have succumbed to any wounds by now.

"I will speak to my fellow healers, and see if they have seen anything like this before." The elf looked up at him with serious eyes as he drew back from the King and his first heir who he had also inspected carefully. Oin nodded in response, at a loss for words and more than likely unable to speak even if he found them. When the elf left the room, Oin stayed behind, taking a seat on the stone floor between the two beds. He should certainly be getting back to the healing tents, seeing to injured and checking on his established patients. But God if he wasn't so tired. He was losing his clinical distance, his decidedly impersonal attitude. He could only keep it for so long when some of his most precious patients continued to come to him entirely beyond his care.

He reached up a hand and gripped the edge of Fili's sleeve, mind grasping at straws, trying to figure a reason for this strange turn of events. It had to mean something. Nature did not simply stop its course for royalty. All were equal in death after all.


It was four more days until Kili was discovered, after many had begun to wonder if they would find him at all. That much time out in the open, in the rain, in the sun, vultures in the sky….most dead would be unrecognizable by then. But they were steadfast, beginning to take shifts, half of them searching while the other half rested, never stopping until night fall. It was Bifur of all people who brought the lad back. The sun was just setting as the other's gathered back at the mountain, frowning and shaking their heads at their failure once again, when Bifur was spotted some distance away, walking slowly with a heavy burden in his arms.

Ori was the first to see and rushed out to meet him, but Bifur only shook his head mutely, a flat face and shaking hands still wrapped around the lads legs. There was a gaping wound in his chest, where a spear had found its mark, and blood caked and dried down his chin. Bifur cradled him like one of his own lost children, aching and numb at once at the thought of losing such a sweet soul at such a young age. He had been one of the only children in the Ered Luin who hadn't been afraid of him. Eyes bright and concentrating as he stumbled through his first sign in Iglishmék, telling him Hello, with small and graceless hands but a smile a mile wide. He had learned later from Bofur how Kili had begged his cousin to teach him the signs that Bifur was always using, so that he could talk to the older dwarf on his own.

He wasn't sure he had ever smiled as wide as he did the next time he had seen the lad, and he had signed "How are you?".


Ori put a hand to his mouth, tears welling in his eyes at the sight of his close friend. They had been friends before the journey ever began, but after their quest Ori felt he knew him like another brother, he had felt similarly about Fili, them all being around the same age, related if distantly. He remembered well all their shared meals, the times Fili had given up part of his share of dinner for Ori, when Kili had praised his drawings like no other, always requesting things he might give their mother when the journey was done. He still had all of the sketches tucked away in his notebook. Of the lads together, of them with Thorin, of Thorin sleeping with his mouth open even. He had been embarrassed and slightly flustered at drawing that one, afraid that Thorin would not be so happy about it but Kili had laughed so hard and smiled so much at the thought of giving it to Dis when she met them in Erebor that Ori had done as he was asked. He would have to give them to her on his own now. No Fili or Kili to explain them with a smirk. Poor Dis. Oh poor Dis, Ori thought. Left just with him and his bumbling, graceless words. Perhaps he could write her something to go with the drawings, he was always better with writing his thoughts than speaking them.


Bombur cooked like there was no tomorrow. Like nothing in any larder in the world could fill his stomach. It was all he could manage to accomplish, all he could think about that wasn't a picture of a young dead Kili, blood all over himself, lifeless and still as stone. He was so young, and so special. Him and Fili both. He remembered well a day many years past when he had fallen into a melancholic state as he was sometimes apt to do, getting down on himself about various things. Most everyone would step around him, let him have his little sulk and he would bring himself out of it. He always did eventually. He'd heard friends speak of it when they thought he wouldn't hear. Soft Bombur, so sensitive, you'd think with all that extra padding he'd have a thicker skin!

Some friends they were. The same friends who laughed at his cooking and called him lazy at every turn of the hour. A queer one was he, apparently. Bombur had stood in the back doorway of the tavern he cooked for, cleaning the last of his dishes. He had jumped and nearly thrown the pot and ladle in his hands when a voice spoke from around the corner.

"Not so queer as the young prince who sports a bow and arrows and leaves his hair unbraided, bounding through the forests and trees like an Elf whenever he has the chance." The voice was unfamiliar and Bombur suddenly straightened, clearing his throat and sputtering a bit in his haste to rebut such a nasty thing. Of course he lost his chance as a laughing Kili rounded the corner to meet him. Pitching his voice low again, "No one could be as queer as he." The lad pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated honesty, feigning horror, before breaking out in giggles again, coming to stand in the shadow of the door by the much larger dwarf. "Thin as a waif that one, and no beard to speak of, just isn't natural!"

Bombur blinked for a moment before knocking the young dwarf in the back of the head with his ladle, grumbling about 'such nonsense' and 'don't be listening to such refuse'. Kili only laughed and rubbed the back of his head, grasping his bow and giving Bombur a similar, but much gentler knock to his skull.

"Same to you," he had said.


Gloin was a warrior in spirit and a loving father at heart and nothing could be a greater tragedy than the loss of two good lads. He could only be grateful for Thorin that he passed on with them, for surely the pain would have taken him regardless.

There was little the red bearded dwarf could find to make himself useful with and in no time he longed for teeth to knock in and legs to break. Something to throw an axe at, at least. Anything to stop the aching in his throat at the prospect of breaking the news to his son. The breathtaking relief that he hadn't brought him along was enough to make him sob in guilt. Which he had a time or two already. He remembered well grumbling to himself within hearing distance of anyone who might care to listen that the lads were old enough to be making their own decisions. Old enough to earn their mettle as warriors, which he supposed they had.

They had shown such maturity, he remembered, on the day they had been told they could come along. Gimli had been pouting, though trying his best to hide it. They'd walked him home from training, as they sometimes did, leaving him at the door with a last comment Gloin had happened to overhear.

"Don't go thinking you'll be having it easy with all of us gone Gimli." Kili had said, his older brother quick to jump in.

"Certainly not, with what a hole such dwarves will be leaving you'll have quite the task on your hands to fill it. But I don't imagine we could be leaving the place in better hands."

"No I don't think so." Gimli had grumbled good naturedly back at them and suddenly seemed to be in much higher spirits, asking question after question about the other dwarves and what important tasks might be being abandoned when they left.

They were such good lads.

It was enough to make him lay down his axe for good, never wishing to see such things again.


Bilbo tried not think it, he truly did, but the day they brought back Kili he had wondered to himself that perhaps things would have been better had the Dwarves simply stayed away from Erebor, that they might have left him alone in his hobbit hole to live to a ripe old age and never grow out of his fussy ways and keep all of his preposterous views of propriety. He would gladly sacrifice his own personal growth if it meant that Kili could once again laugh with his brother and uncle. That he might jokingly punch Ori in the arm and pretend to hurt his hand.

As it was now, he would never be teasingly called by Boggins again. Nor taught to handle a bow as he had promised to teach the hobbit as soon as they could get him one in his own size when he had expressed his interest in passing.

He thought he would willingly go back to being grumpy old Bilbo Baggins of Bag End if it meant smiles might once again grace three dwarven faces even if it meant he would never meet them.