In another corner of the makeshift healing ward, Bard fought off the red haze of pain from his injuries, coming back to consciousness with a groan. He tried to sit up, only to discover heavy bandaging across his torso, and the itchy pulling he could feel underneath made him glad he could not see the extent of his wounds.

"Best lie still milord," a quiet voice advised from nearby.

Bard turned his head slowly, ignoring the growing ache that shot through his temples as he sought the owner of the voice. He was soon faced with a pair of familiar dark brown eyes. "Hilda," he muttered in greeting. The soft-spoken woman nodded in return, pausing in her current task to hold a cup of water to his lips. When he had drunk his fill he sighed in relief, feeling the headache begin to retreat the smallest amount, and leaving him able to focus on other concerns. "My children?" he asked, glancing about to see if they were nearby, and half hoping they were not, as the room he was in was full of wounded men, and he did not wish for them to be exposed to such trauma. They had already seen too much.

"The girls are sleeping," she responded shortly.

Had Bard been any less coherent he might have missed the shaky tone to her voice, or the fact that she had only offered a partial update. As it was, he began to feel the first stirrings of unease as he went over her words. "You said the girls are sleeping," he repeated slowly, earning a nod of confirmation, his stomach dropping as he noted the growing worry in her gaze.

"You ought to try and get some more rest," she blurted out hurriedly, in an obvious ploy to distract him.

Bard fought to keep his hands still and his face calm, but he was certain something was horribly wrong now. "What of Bain?" Hilda stared at him, looking close to tears, and he snapped. "Hilda, where is my son!" he yelled furiously, feeling the world crash around him as fresh pain burst through his middle. He glanced down idly, watching as red bloomed through the bandages, and he barely caught her answer before the room went dark once again.

"We cannot find him," she whispered despairingly.

When Bard woke again he had only a cold numbness in his chest, and restraints on his wrists, to remind him of the nightmare that he had been so close to convincing himself was just a dream. Sigrid and Tilda were now on the bed beside his, their cheeks streaked with tears even as they slept. He did not realize he had made some sound of distress, but the two woke instantly, and were soon on either side of him as they sobbed in their fresh grief. Slowly the story came out, bit by bit as they fought for a steadying breath.

"He was so angry," Tilda murmured. "When you sent him back, he spent almost an hour just pacing. He wouldn't even talk to us, tell us what was wrong, but we knew."

"It's my fault da," Sigrid moaned disconsolately. "I tried to stop him, I couldn't get him to listen. I couldn't leave Tilda. He ran out of the room, said he was going to protect you. We haven't seen him since..."

"They're still bringing in bodies," Tilda whispered shakily, and Bard felt himself struck again, as if with a dagger to the gut, that his daughters had to bear witness to all this tragedy.

"Shh, it's alright," he tried to sooth them. "You have been so brave my girls." He clasped Tilda in his lap with one hand, raising the other to turn Sigrid's face to his. He gently pressed their foreheads together. "Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Do not blame yourself for this, darling. I should have taken better care to make sure he would stay, the fault is mine." Tears still slid down her face, but he felt her nod against him, and for now that would have to be enough.

Two more days would pass before they received word of Bain's fate.

Legolas was out on the battlefield, quite prepared to ignore the order that he return promptly to Mirkwood as he continued to aid in carrying in the dead. The elves had already borne their deceased comrades back to the forest, along with their wounded, but the young prince felt that it was not enough. As long as the men and dwarves needed help, he at least would be there to provide it. After that? He did not know if he could bear to return even then. His father was too distant, and it had been grating on his nerves to lock himself away from the world.

He was stepping over yet another warg carcass when he stopped short at the sight of a familiar face. The young son of the bowman, half buried under the dead around him, a sword still thrust through his middle. For the first time since entering the wreckage the elf felt nauseated. This was a mere child! Far too young to be out here, but just old enough to defy his father's orders. Shoving the foul beast out of the way, Legolas gently picked him up, leaving the sword behind. The chance that it may have been holding in his blood had come and gone long ago. In spite of this, Legolas covered the wound, and much of his body besides, with his own green vest. At least then it merely looked as if the boy was sleeping.

Legolas could still remember smiling at the family in apology as they wound their way towards Erebor not three days ago. It was no consolation that the presence of his people had not caused the ending of this young life. He approached the room that he knew housed the men of Laketown with heavy heart, shoulders bowed over his burden.

Bard glanced up when the door to the room opened, feeling surprised at first to see the elven king's son framed by the stone. He was spared no more than a moment to wonder at his presence before he looked down at what Legolas was carrying, and a cry of agony ripped from his mouth, entirely against his will. The elf strode carefully over to him, placing his load down on the bed nearby. At his side, Sigrid and Tilda were frozen in place, shock nearly causing them to fall to the floor. Legolas faced them when Sigrid choked in despair, blue eyes meeting grey across an ocean of tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Not far down the hall, Thorin heaved himself out of bed at the sound of grief that echoed towards them, wincing in pain and swaying until he managed to catch himself on the wall. He had been granted permission to leave the bed not one day ago, and the sudden movement was a solemn reminder of just why he had been confined to it in the first place. Cursing under his breath, he exited the room, waving off the helping hands of his family before making his way slowly down the hall.

An open door close by ended up being his destination, and the sight that greeted him had his eyes closing in sorrowful denial. A surge of emotion hit him, stealing his breath. It could have been his own son lying there so cold and still. Would have been, if not for a certain invaluable hobbit. He hesitantly approached the grieving family, placing a hand on Bard's shoulder as he held his son's head.

The bowman looked up at him sharply, eyes misted with tears, and Thorin felt his voice catch as he struggled to pull forth something meaningful to say. "There are no words I can give, no price... If there is anything you or your people require, you need only ask. Erebor will provide." Bard was left gaping at him in shock as he hand dropped back to his side, and he turned abruptly and made to leave the room.

"Thank you," Bard whispered behind him, before turning back to his family and drawing them close.

Author's note: This is the last of the battle aftermath (for the most part). We leave behind the angst for a bit next chapter as a familiar face returns to Erebor with an interesting request.