The dialogue that is meant to be in Khuzdul/dwarvish is in italics. Cheers!

Chapter 2: A Message from the Raven

One year later…

"The ravens! The ravens are here!" called out a sentry near the battlements of the subterranean dwarf city. "Tell the Lady at once!" Gimli's heart stopped at the sight. Indeed, there they were, soaring in the horizon, ravens from the east, from Erebor. His feet carried him along the ramparts and into the throne room, where Princess Dis, Lady Regent of the Durin's Folk, sat. She abruptly stood once she caught sight of Gimli.

"What is it? What news, Gimli?" she asked, her excitement was palpable.

"Ravens, Azbaduh (my Lady)! From the east!" he struggled to catch his breath as he dipped his head into a bow. Princess Dis stood from her seat and ran to his side, holding onto his arms firmly.

"Take me to them at once!" He bowed his head and led on. Once they both got there, the rest of the sentries bowed deeply.

"Azbaduh! Joyous news! Erebor has been reclaimed! Their mission was a success! Praise Mahal!" Their faces beamed and tears filled their eyes. For so long, they have doubted Thorin Oakenshield and his foolish quest, but now, they sang praises of his name and cheered aloud. "All hail our king! May his beard grow ever longer!"

"And what of the company? What of my sons? Surely there's more!" Dis looked at the bird with desperation. It had been long since she used the raven tongue, but she still remembered enough to ask her sole question.

"I am only here to deliver the following: Erebor has been reclaimed. All of the Durin's Folk can finally come home and share the wealth of the mountain," squawked the raven in its harsh tongue.

"Then we must leave at once!" she looked around at her men, at Gimli. "Ready the caravans! We are coming home!" Tears of joy streamed her cheeks as she held onto Gimli tightly. She then said in a quiet voice, "My boys. My boys! I will see them again!"

Later that night, Gimli made his way around the halls of the Ered Luin for the last time before he himself embarked on the long journey back home. Home. Erebor was the homeland of his people. He should be delighted beyond all measure, but deep down, he felt sad. He looked up at the vaulted ceilings of the subterranean palace that his people had toiled to build since the years they settled here after the War.

He kept telling himself that it paled in comparison to the vast chambers of Erebor, but in truth, he really did not know what to expect. No, this was his home. These walls, these halls, this stone; they were what he had come to know as his home. But since the company left a year ago, his home seemed ever the darker and emptier. His heart sank as he feared that he would never see this place ever again. Was this the feeling Fili and Kili had when they had left so long ago?

"Fili and Kili," he remembered. Long had it been since he heard their ringing laughter echo throughout these halls. Even though they left on unhappy terms, the months have made his scorn melt away. In truth, he did not want to be left behind. He envied them, yes, but he also missed them dearly. After they left, he did not know what his place was. Was he the man of the house in his father's stead? Was he still a child? Fili and Kili were the closest people to brothers for him, being the only child of Gloin. Their absence bore heavily upon his heart.

He continued to walk through the halls, recalling different memories he shared with them. Here, they talked about the glories of restoring their Kingdom. A flame sparked within them as they sang aloud the odes to the Lonely Mountain. At that table in the corner, they spoke with such fervor and gusto about how they were going to slay the dragon and become the heroes of the Durin's Folk. Their names would be sung and praised, forever written in history as Dragonslayers. He could still hear their voices ringing, echoing in his mind. He too joined in on this. Many of the adults had laughed at them about it, but they did not care. But what could these nay-sayers laugh at now? True, he envied them for being able to realize their dreams, but he was also proud to know that they had indeed succeeded.

Along the long journey towards the Lonely Mountain, the dwarves caught rumor of an impending war that was about to break out. The forces of Men, Elves, Dwarves were against the foul Orcs and Goblins. Their travels had become exponentially more dangerous than they have thought, so they did their best to avoid the trouble as best as they could. The princess prayed every night for the well-being of her family and wanted to make haste, but her advisors said otherwise. If they were to go headlong into battle, they would most definitely perish. It tore at their hearts but they had no choice.

"We must turn back!" said one of the elders.

"We'll die for sure!" said another.

"But the Mountain is ours at long last!"

"Don't be a fool! Thorin was a fool to ever think he could do this!"

"We should have never come! Out of the frying pan and into the fire, says I!"

Dis, however, being the ruling regent in her brother's stead, still had them press on. They were too far along the path already to turn back now. "Where is your shame?! My brother, the King, has reclaimed our homeland with but a dozen men! A dozen! If he could take back the Mountain with just that, surely we would be more than capable of defending ourselves! We are the Durin's Folk! Durin spit upon your cowardice!" They all went silent and continued on their journey.

Gimli was ready for battle, ready to fight to the death if need be, but the council of advisors did not allow it. He was far too young, even if he was experienced in battle. He had to grit his teeth and bear with it as they slowly made their way towards Erebor. He wanted to run to his kinsmen, slay some orcs and defend their homeland but yet again he was denied. He was so close. Give him a swift mount and he would have been there, by their side.

Once they finally arrived, the carnage was horrifying. All of these tales and stories of a glorious death upon the battlefield were lies. Death and decay made the Desolation of Smaug reek. Bodies stacked upon each other, blackened with the blood of orcs and goblins. Their faces were so marred that they were indistinguishable. The weaker of the dwarves gasped and screamed at the sight. The braver of them casted down their hoods and bowed their heads in reverence.

All Gimli could think of was, "Please don't let my father be one of the many corpses. Please let my family be safe and sound." These very thoughts ran through everyone's minds, especially those whose family members had embarked on the journey a year ago. They trudged through the field of cadavers towards a distant encampment. There hang the banners of Men, Elves and the Iron Hill dwarves alike. Victory was theirs, but it hardly looked like it.

"Halt! Who dares come upon these lands?!" called out a sentry as the caravan approached. The princess had to summon all of her courage to speak with the man.

"We are the Dwarves of Erebor. We have come upon the summons of my brother, Thorin II Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. I am Dis, Princess Regent of the Durin's Folk," her voice had long since been conditioned into that of a monarch since Thorin's company left a year ago. She now carried herself with all the authorities of her forefathers. There was a clamor amongst the guards of the camp as they whispered inaudibly. Dis dismounted her pony and walked towards the entrance. "I wish to speak with the King presently."

The guards' faces dropped and they casted the gazes low to the ground. "My Lady," finally spoke a dwarf from the Iron Hills, "Fate has brought you here upon such a solemn day." Her heart stopped but she did her best to press on.

"Speak! Why is such a day so solemn! Bring me to him at once!" she tried her best not to scream at him. The rest of the company of dwarves behind her all gasped in shock as they heard the news. He bowed his head and offered her a hand.

"Then I shall lead my Lady to the King at once, though I fear no one else must follow," the dwarf gestured towards the other guards. "Make sure these people are well taken care of. This is their home, after all." The rest obliged and led the caravan into the camp. Gimli still remained with Dis. He held onto her other hand firmly, comforting her. He could tell that her heart was about to break. What solemn news were they speaking of? Surely not the king! Surely not the company!

"As I have said, no one else must follow," stopped the dwarf sentry. He glared at Gimli, treating him like a child. "Or are you none too keen of hearing, dwarfling?" The younger glared back at him, but reluctantly obliged. His own mother pulled him away from the princess as they made their way through the camp.

He looked about at all the foreign faces, most of which of an entirely different race. Some were barely injured while others we carefully tended to by their peers. A myriad of unfamiliar faces encircled him as he walked on.

"Gimli!" said a very familiar voice from behind him. He turned and saw his father, partially clad in golden armor and stained with orc blood. His mother let out a joyous cry and burst into tears. Gloin raced towards his family and embraced them tightly. "My dear! My son! Oh blessed be the Maker!" They held their embrace for a long time as Gimli too found himself bursting into tears of joy. He looked over his father's shoulder and saw his three uncles beaming at him brightly.

They survived! They had all survived! They broke their embrace and were led to their tent. Dwalin had a nasty scar across the bridge of his already-broken nose, Balin had his arm in a sling, Oin his leg in a cast. Gloin supported himself on his ax like a crutch. The rest of the company was being tended to by the healers. Even Ori, the meek one, had a battle wound that begged a tale or two. Gimli was overjoyed to see that everyone was there and well. His mother would not let go of his father, crying her eyes out. His uncles laughed as they rustled his hair, saying how much they had missed him.

However, his joy was short lived as he looked about the tent. His uncles were all accounted for, but what of his friends? Where were Fili and Kili? He looked around in desperation and pricked his ears, but did not hear or see them. Maybe they were in the king's tent, he thought to himself.

"So Fili and Kili are with the King then?" he asked amongst the clamor. The whole tent went silent. Their momentary joy fell and the company avoided looking him in the eye. His eyes widened and his heart sank as he whispered, "No."

Then, a deafening scream rang throughout the encampment. It came from the King's tent. It was the princess's voice. She cried hysterically, "You promised me! You promised me!" She wailed and moaned and there were sounds of guards restraining her. Then there was a gasp as the cries stopped abruptly. They heard a bunch of voices order her to be carried away and looked after.

Gimli's eyes went back and forth amongst the company, searching for the answer—nay – for confirmation, but none dared to speak. "Aye. It is true, laddie," Balin's quivering voice finally broke the silence. "They are gone. They died defending their uncle." He placed a hand on his shoulders and tears streamed down his cheek, stinging his open wounds, "I am sorry."

A few days later, Thorin Oakenshield joined his nephews Fili and Kili. Strong as he was, his wounds were too great. But Gimli knew that the real wound that killed him was that of his broken heart. He could not do the very thing he promised his sister. Though he made amends with those who were still alive, he was never able to forgive himself for the deaths of his beloved nephews. They died because of him, because of how inadequate he was. In the end, they were the ones protecting him, with sword, shield and body. A grand funeral was held in service of the King and his princes. Even the elven king, Thranduil, paid his respects as he placed the Arkenstone and the elvish blade Orcrist upon Thorin's breast.

As they were entombed, Gimli casted his eyes down to the ground, the so-called sacred ground that they had lost their lives for, as tears streaked his face. Was this place what they had sacrificed their lives for? Beautiful, it might have been, but it meant nothing to him. He secretly hoped that they had stayed behind and lived out their days in the Ered Luin.

Sad as he was, he had no right to wail, not when the princess was gravely silent. The life in Dis's face was completely drained. She was but a shell of her former self. Two men had to support her from collapsing. The dwarves then began to sing a requiem, with deep, yet quavering voices, so full of woe and despair. Their beloved king and the young princes were gone.

After the mourners had left, Gimli stayed behind. Memories of his final words to them flooded back to him. He remembered the horrible things he said to them. He had called them fools. He had cursed them. He had wished them to die a most painful death. Now, he wanted so desperately to take back what he had said so long ago. He clenched his fist at his chest tightly as the pain ensnared his heart. The lump in his throat prevented him from uttering a sound before, but now with everyone gone, he wailed. His knees buckled and he fell upon them besides Fili and Kili's tombs. He placed his head upon the stone sarcophagus.

"Oh my friends, my dearest friends, forgive me," he managed to say between him choking on tears. He closed his eyes tightly and hoped that once he opened them, they would be standing there in front of him, calling him "Gim" again. He used to hate that name and often got angry at them about it, but what would he not give to hear their voices once more? To see them laughing merrily? He prayed to Mahal, over and over again, begging him to change their fate. But as he opened his eyes, the scene remained the same. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Was it his curses that killed them? Was that why he still lived and they were gone? He could no longer speak, for the grief was too much. The pain did not go away. Was it his fault? What was the use of asking for forgiveness now? Never would he ever see them again. They would never sing and make merry again. Their voices were forever lost in the darkness. Their beaming faces were now set in cold hard stone. The chairs and tables would forever be empty.

This piece was inspired the the song "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" from the musical Les Miserables. Kudos if you find the references!