"Bilbo was right. You sit on a throne, with a crown upon your head- yet you are less a king than you have ever been. You cannot see what you have become- what you have done," Dwalin murmured, eyes glistening tellingly from the reflective light of the gold surrounding the two dwarves.

"Do not speak to me as though I am some lowly dwarf lord," Thorin replied, voice distant, "Everything I did…I did for her, and like the Mountain- she was taken from me. I will not lose either again. Do not speak to me as though I am still…Thorin Oakenshield." He covered his face with a hand as wild sobs shook his frame.

"Thorin-"

"I am your king!" Thorin roared brokenly, and wildly swung his sword. Dwalin dodged with wide eyes, and his lips set in a grim line.

"You were always my king. There was a time you knew that.

A lucid light filled Thorin's beautiful eyes as he looked upon his friend."Leave me. Before I kill you," he murmured gently.

My body had been laid to rest in the depths of Erebor, placed on a slab of jade amongst Thorin's forefathers. He would spend hours at my side, an ever-present kneeling vigil. He laid his legendary shield at my bosom, and I remembered the day when I returned it to him at the river alongside the Carrok. "You look after this for me, Lyra Earthshaker, for you bore the last of the dwarf prince-lord you knew," he murmured, gazing at my face with eyes bereft of the sickness.

Darkness descended upon the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin was so far lost in the gold-sickness that he soon stopped coming to my tomb… I had become a distant, agonised memory that sputtered in the dwarf's weakening mind.

"Thorin," Bilbo began in earnest, "The Thorin I met at Bag End would have never gone back on his word. And you are not the Thorin Lyra fell in love with- the Thorin we know would never let people suffer when it was in his power to help. Think of what Lyra would say, Thorin, this is-"

"-She would say nothing. She is far away…she is far, far away from me," Thorin interjected, voice broken and full of a darkness I had never heard before, "She was taken from me forever. She gave her life so that we could reclaim Erebor, and so we will give our lives to defend it- to protect her memory. This gold is ours, and I will not part with it. I will not part with a single coin- not one piece of it."

Bilbo was the only to visit me in those dark days; his own silent vigil eased the ache I felt amongst my mentors. He spoke to my body of how the dwarves of Erebor made to wage war with those previously called friend and ally. "He was fighing- holding off the full curse of the dragon sickness- for you, Lyra. He was waiting for you to break through the mountain itself if you had to, to come back to him," he announced faintly, "His hop of you coming back to him kept him from faltering. But now, Lyra, you have broken him- any fight he had against the gold gave way when Thranduil brought you up the slopes of Erebor. You broke him."

That was the only time I truly wept through all that- for the Hobbit had spoken the words I feared to be true. Bilbo withdrew the Arkenstone from his jacket, his gaze flickering between the gem and my body. "Lyra, what would you do?" he thought aloud.

I walked up to the image as close as I dared press Thraa's leniency, and whispered to the hobbit, "Take it far from here- get is as far away from Thorin as you can, Bilbo!" The hobbit looked about in surprise- by some miracle he had heard me. A determined gleam sparked in his gaze, and I knew he would do as I urged. He would save Thorin when I could not.

Thorin sat upon the throne of his line, the seat of power in the kingdom of Erebor. He sat slumped forward, a broken king upon a crumbled throne garbed in armour. The once mighty icon of the Lonely Mountain was nothing more than a broken relic.

"Thorin," I whimpered, falling to my knees before him. "Thorin, you keep fighting this! Don't give in! Damn it- fight!"

But he couldn't hear me, not anymore; he was far too lost in the darkness. He was lost to me. A silver glint in the palm of his hand from the torchlight caught my gaze; two entities, one whole- the other wrenched open…our courtship beads. The one I wore was marred by black scorches from my skirmish with Smaug whereas Thorin's gleamed wickedly with an open maw. Thorin curled his fingers over the beads, his fist clenched so fiercely it trembled. I clapped my hand over my mouth to muffle the moaning cry that rose within me.

I followed Thorin as he paced the gallery of the kings. He stared down at the floor of pure gold as he muttered under his breath. "Gold….must be kept safe, yes…" I faintly made out.

"Thorin, this is not you," I whispered desperately, "This is not you. You are not your grandfather, do you hear me?" I made to reach out and touch the image projected through the fire, but Thraa held me back. "You are stronger than this- stronger than him. You are not your grandfather," I continued, "You keep fighting.

"You are not your grandfather, Thorin!" I yelled in earnest, and then continued softly, "You keep fighting even though we will never be together again. You have my heart, Thorin son of Thrain, and so you must fight for them. Look at me, Thorin, you look at me." My breath hitched when his vacant eyes glazed over as he looked into the darkness and through me. The fiery lens shifted so that I stood before him. "Heart of Durin, heart of stone, Amrâlinè," I finished.

Thorin crumbled to his knees, a guttural cry torn from him. After several lengthy moments he staggered back onto his feet, wrenched his crown off his head, and threw it to the ground. The only sound that echoed through the hall was his haggard breathing, and the echoing ring of the crown's meeting of the golden floor.

"Gandalf!" I cried, "Where is Gandalf? Please, show me him."

The flames faltered as they struggled to find the wizard. Either he was from the dragons' sight, or some ill fate had befallen him. My unease grew as the dragon's flames kept roving across Middle-Earth.

"He left to Dol Guldur," I urged emphatically, "The old elf- fortress!"

That was what my mentors needed to find the wizard. Darkness clung to the scene before me like an opaque film; I saw Gandalf lying broken upon the ruins of the fortress, covered in grime as a Gundabad Orc bore down upon him. A bright figure approaching the wizard caught my eye- Lady Galadriel- she looked afraid. But she fought for him.

The darkness is coming.