His first duty was with the eagles. Many of them had pursued the goblins far into the distance and reported that they had been driven into the marshes or towards Mirkwood, sure to find their end in either direction, leaving few survivors and hopefully ensuring the freedom of the North for many long years to come. Now the eagles were eager to depart the battlefield. They expressed their sympathies and Fíli thanked them for their timely aid, for he knew that all would have been lost without the eagles. Then he gave them gold that Dáin had handed him for that purpose. When the great birds took flight, he saw them bearing several dead between them, and he hoped that it had been enough. What was the price of a life? He realised he would have to pay it many times in the days to come. And he would. For all he cared, the gold of Erebor could be distributed equally among all those who had fought in the battle. It did not matter to him. The gold had taken Thorin. But he guessed it should matter, for the sake of the people. He should not be selfish.
Next was a council with the leaders of the remaining armies that Balin insisted had to be done that same afternoon. They sat around a roughly hewn table. Fíli was painfully aware of just how short and insignificant he was. He had always been short, but never been too bothered about it, even though his brother teased him relentlessly. He really wanted to be teased by his brother right now. He wanted to make sure he was all right. Instead he was here. Bard, Thranduil and Dáin were here and each had brought a councillor. Gandalf sat at Thranduil's side and Balin had accompanied Fíli.
"Let's get straight down to business," Dáin said, wasting no time on pleasantries. "Give us a brief report on your forces so we have an idea of where we stand right now. As for my warriors, I have to report 140 dead with a further dozen or so not expected to last the night, another 150 are badly wounded, which leaves me with 200 men fit for duty, though many are only now returning from the pursuit."
Heads nodded all around. Fíli felt slightly sick. So many. So many had died.
Thranduil spoke next, his voice melodious, though bearing news that was no more cheerful than what Dáin had just reported.
"238 lives lost, 76 grievously injured that will not be able to be moved far within the next few weeks, my remaining host I shall withdraw to the Woodland Realm as soon as possible. It seems we have business of our own to take care of there."
Dáin grunted his approval. Finally, it was Bard's turn. He looked worried and downcast, his face reflecting much of what Fíli felt.
"I took with me from Laketown 204 men. Of those, 80 are now dead or as close to death as to make no difference. Many more are injured," he rested his forehead in his hand and swallowed before he continued, "we were insufficiently armed and equipped. All in all, I cannot muster more than 50 men to do any work."
"That will be quite enough," said Gandalf, gently laying a hand on the distraught man's arm.
The round fell silent. Fíli contemplated the numbers he had just heard. 459 warriors were dead already, not even counting the deceased eagles. This was a hard-won victory indeed. Had it been worth it? Could anything have been worth that much death? He had been so sure, back in the mountain when he rallied his friends around him, when he promised them freedom for all the Free People of the North. Was this freedom? He was only roused from his contemplation when he realised that everybody was now looking at him expectantly. His numbers. He did not even know. He had seen… Nori had looked dreadful. Dwalin and Balin seemed unharmed. He did not know about the rest. He had been the leader of the smallest group, and he had not even bothered to learn their fate.
Balin came to his rescue.
"One dead, three serious injuries though all are expected to survive. Five with minor injuries." He looked at Fíli. "And four unscathed, plus one slightly dazed Hobbit, all ready to help wherever they can."
"That leaves us with more than 1,200 mouths to feed," Fíli said, feeling the need to contribute something useful.
"Feeding can wait," Dáin said, brushing his remark aside brusquely, "what about the dead?"
"Mortal lives are fragile and death on such a scale harbours all manner of illness," explained Gandalf more kindly.
"I have sent twenty of my men to dig graves just west of Dale, this shall be our burial ground," said Bard.
"As we speak, the corpses of the goblins are being gathered and burned by the remainder of my third battalion," said Thranduil.
"Our thanks for that great service," said Fíli. "I'm sure Dáin and I can send some Dwarves to aid in that endeavour…"
"Nonsense," interrupted Dáin. "Our Dwarves are better-placed inside the mountain."
Gandalf explained that the first winter storms were not far off and shelter had to be provided for all those who could not be moved, either because of their injuries, or, in the case of the Lakemen, because they had nowhere else to go. It was even agreed that the Men should collect their families who had been made homeless by Smaug's wrath to come stay with them and the Dwarves within the confines of Erebor. It was decided that the Dwarves should focus their energies on clearing space in the large entrance hall for the camp to be moved indoors as soon as possible. Thranduil agreed to leave his tents and other gear behind to aid the refugees. His army would be returning to Mirkwood soon, but supply lines for food and other essentials would be established as a matter of urgency. The elven king was remarkably more approachable now and seemed to Fíli to bear little semblance to their captor from what felt like an age ago. He asked only one thing in return.
"King Fíli," Thranduil addressed him and Fíli flinched at the title. "It is customary for my people to be laid to rest under cairns atop a mountain. Would you grant us the right to bury our fallen kinsmen on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain?"
Fíli was happy to agree. "It is an honour for us," he said, "to have such worthy warriors surround us. We shall honour your dead and take care of their resting places."
It was agreed that Thorin's funeral, and afterwards those of the other Dwarves, should take place the following morning, as the skilled miners and engineers in Dáin's army had already discovered that the crypts that were situated deep beneath the main chambers of Erebor had been left untouched by the dragon. Working through the night, they should be able to make the crypts and the way there safe for all the mourners. Thorin would be laid to rest next to his ancestors, but he would be the only one afforded an individual tomb. There were too many to be buried, too many to carve a stone for each one of them. Instead it was agreed to use several abandoned chambers as mass graves. They would be closed with slabs of stone for now and in time each name would be chiselled into these. At least they would all be resting within the mountain. No burned Dwarves this time.
They agreed to meet at sunrise to report back on the progress of their work and then Fíli was free to go. Balin wanted to usher him towards a tent that he said had been given over to just those who had travelled in the company of Thorin Oakenshield. However, Fíli insisted on taking a tour of the camp first. It was true, his arm pained him, he was weary from lack of sleep and exhaustion after the battle, and a deep sadness had taken hold of him, but he could not ignore the suffering that was all around him.
Dáin clasped him on the shoulder as he made to leave the tent. Fíli flinched, half from pain and half because he did not really want to have this confrontation right now.
"You've got your heart in the right place, Fíli," Dáin said gruffly. "But I shall not risk my men because of your inexperience."
Without waiting for a response he stomped away, leaving Fíli somewhat stunned.
"I believe what he meant to say is that you have the makings of a very fine king," Gandalf mused. "A capable warrior and by all accounts a magnificent leader, but tact might not be counted among his greatest strengths."
Fíli went from tent to tent, visiting Elves and Men and Dwarves alike. He comforted those grieving for friends and brothers, he sat with those who were near death, and gave water to those who had been wounded. He was still only dressed in a simple tunic, stained from battle, and he wore neither weapons nor any adornment, but wherever he went, people stopped and looked.
It was once again dark when he finally finished his round and followed Balin towards their tent. He thought about looking at Thorin once more, but he had said his farewells and he knew that with Dwalin as his amradshomak, Thorin was in the best hands. "Guard of the Dead" indeed, if anybody was suited to that job, it had to be Dwalin. Thorin's bulldog they had called him in their adolescence. Always at the ready, following orders without question, ready to protect, ready to care. He was sure to care for Thorin in the best possible way.
The tent was silent when they entered, illuminated only by a small cooking fire. Bombur was sitting next to the fire and was waving for them to come over, already ladling soup into bowls. Fíli gratefully accepted the offered food, only now acknowledging that he had not eaten since before the battle. As he slowly slurped the hot liquid he noticed that Bombur's right hand was bound in thick bandages.
"What happened to your hand?" he inquired.
Bombur blushed. "Just a finger," he said quickly. "Nothing much. I'll just tell the children that I chopped it into the stew one night. Nothing to worry about."
Fíli gently took his arm into his hand. "Of course it is. You have lost part of your body. I'm very sorry, Bombur."
Bombur blushed even more. "Nothing… nothing compared to… Bofur… he…" he broke off, wiping his eyes with his uninjured hand.
Fíli remembered. The screaming Dwarf. Bifur holding his cousin down.
"What is wrong with him?" he asked tonelessly, fearing the worst.
Bombur was crying in earnest now and his voice was almost too quiet to be heard. "His leg. It was bad, so bad. Bifur saved him; Óin said so, holding his hands around his leg all that time, out on the battlefield, stopping the blood. His leg. It was bleeding so much. They could not do anything. The healers, they tried, but…"
Fíli felt bile rise in his throat. No. Not another one.
"…They had to take the leg off. They amputated it this morning. There was nothing they could do."
It was a relief, if only momentarily. So much could go wrong with a wound like that. But for now, it seemed Bofur was alive. He comforted Bombur as best he could, but he could not stop thinking about his own little brother. Also injured and somewhere within this tent. Soup forgotten, he got up to search for Kíli. In the dim light it took him a while to locate him. He lay on a pile of furs, covered warmly. It was odd that he was still spread out and on his stomach. Kíli always slept curled up on his side, had done so since they were children. Next to Kíli, Bilbo had curled himself into a ball, seemingly asleep, but when Fíli approached, the Hobbit unfolded himself and sat up, blinking blearily into the firelight. Fíli knelt down beside him.
"How is he?" he whispered.
"I've been with him all day, since… since, well…" the Hobbit squeaked, voice abnormally high. "He woke once and I gave him some water, but he went back to sleep immediately and Óin said that's good, that his body needs all the rest it can get…"
Fíli stroked his brother's unruly dark hair. Then he lifted the blanket and shifted the tunic Kíli was wearing. His entire upper body was wrapped tightly in bandages. Fíli very gently brushed over them, then used his little finger to check that they were not too tight. That dreadful morningstar. It explained why Kíli was sleeping so uncharacteristically still and in such an awkward position.
"Thank you, Bilbo," he finally said. "Stay with him. Stay with him… when I can't…"
He made his round through the tent. Óin and Glóin were asleep next to each other, both snoring loudly. Fíli smiled when he saw their fingertips touching. Brothers. Bifur woke and growled at him when Fíli approached, but quickly caught himself when he realised who was standing in front of him. Bofur rested on a cot, the stump of his left leg propped up on a folded cloak, asleep, probably with the aid of Óin's drugs. There was another cot a little further along, holding Nori, his head covered in bandages all the way down to his nose, Ori and Dori asleep on either side of him. So many had lost so much, but they were all here, and that was what mattered most. For a few hours, Fíli rested next to his brother, not daring to touch him for fear of aggravating his wounds.
He rose early the next day, wondering idly where Bombur had managed to find clean water as he washed and braided his hair, finally ridding himself of the grime of the battle. He dressed in a blue cloak that had somehow found its way to him during the night. By the time the sun rose, Fíli was once again sitting at council, feeling somewhat more rested, but also more aware of the dull ache not just in his shoulder, but in his very soul.
They discussed the order of the ceremonies they would undertake. The men and Elves wanted to be present when Thorin was laid to rest and seeing that they had parted on good terms and as close allies, Fíli saw no reason to deny them that. It would however mean that the ceremonies could not be conducted in Khuzdul. They were just debating whether or not that also applied to the traditional mourning chants, with Dáin and his councillor arguing against their use and Balin and Fíli insisting the chants would not reveal any secrets of their language or culture, when Ori burst into the tent. Fíli looked in surprise at his usually timid friend. Ori had trouble drawing breath and looked like he had run the whole way here. He looked around the table until his eyes fixed on the one he had come to fetch.
"Balin," he panted. "Come quickly. It's… it's Dwalin… he… he just collapsed!"
Balin turned as white as his beard and was following Ori out of the tent without the word.
"I think we are done here," said Dáin and took Fíli outside with him.
They went to the small tent where Thorin rested. He had been beautifully dressed in furs, his face clean and his hair freshly braided, but Fíli hardly spared him a glance, eyes instead fixed on Dwalin who seemed to have crumbled at the entrance to the tent. There was a hubbub of activity around him, with Óin and another healer kneeling next to the unconscious warrior, hurriedly dabbing at blood that seemed to be flowing from everywhere. Balin had cradled his brother's head in his lap, staring unseeingly at the scene in front of him, Ori hovering behind along with Glóin.
Dáin took one look at Dwalin, took a low bow and said: "I relieve you of your duties, your work as amradshomak is done."
Then he drew his axe, planted it firmly in the ground and stood next to Thorin, stiff and still, a guard on duty.
Everything was delayed. Fíli was hesitant to leave Dwalin behind, but after a while Óin ushered them out of the tent saying that they were not being any help and needed to give him space and time to help Dwalin. Balin seemed to be in shock and continually repeated that he should have noticed, should have known that his brother was hiding his wounds. Fíli could say nothing to that, as he also blamed himself for not realising Dwalin's condition. He had seemed pale yesterday. And all that blood on his clothing. What if it had not been his or Kíli's? What if it had all been Dwalin's?
Elves, Dwarves and men were lining the path from Dale to Erebor and Fíli knew it was time. Along with Balin, Ori, Bifur, Bombur and Glóin, he stood next to the tent where Thorin and now Dwalin lay. The six of them would carry Thorin's body to the crypts, followed by Dáin. Dori had been keen to take Fíli's place and allow him to walk behind, but Fíli had insisted on doing this last small service for Thorin and so Dori would walk with Bilbo and Gandalf. The rest of their small company was too ill to leave their tent and that alone grieved Fíli immensely.
Their progress was slow. Fíli was supporting Thorin's head and shoulder. His own wound protested at the strain, but he bore the pain silently. They passed so many whose bandages indicated much worse injuries and yet everybody who was able to get up seemed to have done so. It was worse once they entered the mountain. In the entrance hall all the dead Dwarves were laid out. Rows upon rows of dead warriors. They had followed Thorin into death though most did not know him.
The darkness of the crypts was in sharp contrast with the bright sunlight outside. Fíli guessed the crypts had been beautiful once. They still looked impressive, but he spared little thought for the architecture. He did not even glance at the tombs of his many ancestors that were buried here. He marvelled at the living that were assembled. Bard laid the Arkenstone upon Thorin's breast and Thranduil laid Orcrist upon his tomb. Dwarves, men and Elves, all peacefully united, all mourning their dead, all mourning the death of one who had truly not proven to be the greatest of diplomats. They were here, they were together, and maybe, just maybe, that alone had been worth the many sacrifices.
He did not say much, but he did say that. There was crying then. A distraught Bifur being comforted by his cousin, Dori clutching a shaking Ori while wiping his eyes, a wailing Bilbo being held by the wizard, and many, many more. Fíli did not cry. He came closest when he watched the long procession of teams of Dwarves bearing the corpses of their friends and brothers. There was chanting then. It rose to the high vaulted ceiling and echoed back, the voices magnified. It was both beautiful and immeasurably sad. Those who were strong enough to carry a body had to return to the entrance hall several times to collect more fallen warriors, so great was the number of the dead. Each one of them a son, a brother, a father maybe. Each one of them a sacrifice for a future that Fíli would have to build.