When I was writing this chapter, I was listening to Dr Ford from the Westworld soundtrack, which is such a sad, haunting song that I think is perfect for this part.

Chapter 33

"When did it happen?"

"Must have been early this morning. Doesn't take long after, for…you know."

"Shit."

Bilbo leaned his forehead against the heels of his hands and let out a shaky sigh. The sun was fully up now, but it still felt like early morning—it was something about the drowsy, sickly shock that had settled over the motel.

They'd wrapped Balin's body in a clean sheet, though there was still a red stain on the bed, and a spatter of red on the dingy wallpaper that he couldn't look at for more than a few seconds. Dwalin had stormed off to the edge of the parking lot some time ago, and no one had worked up the nerve to follow him. Óin, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were standing in a tight knot in the room, speaking in low tones. The last time Bilbo had seen Ori, he'd been bent double over the toilet in the next room, and he didn't know where the others were.

"We should head back," Óin muttered. "This whole thing's been one fucking disaster."

"I say we hunt down those sons of bitches," Nori said. His voice had a low, dangerous edge to it. "What if they follow us back to the farm?"

Bilbo finally lifted his head and looked up at the group from where he was sitting against the wall. It was a terrifying notion, that they were essentially stranded out here. Maybe it wasn't safe to go back to the farm, but even if they stayed in this area, there was the chance Azog's group would attack them again.

He stood up, wincing slightly as his stiff joints protested. One hand went, almost unconsciously, to check that his gun was still at his hip. "Is anyone on watch right now?"

"I was just about to ask the same thing," Thorin said, stepping through the doorway. He looked ragged, his skin pale and his hair disheveled. But there was something hard and impenetrable in his eyes. "We need to leave soon."

Bombur eyed him warily. "To go where?"

"We press on to the mountain. We need a place where we can defend ourselves."

Óin spread his hands. "Thorin, we can't go on like this. Fíli was almost beaten to death, Nori can barely walk, and you're not in great shape yourself."

"And we need to bury Balin," Bofur added quietly.

Thorin eyed each of them, his expression unchanging. "Take one of the cars," he said slowly. "Whoever wants to go back can go back. I'll continue on foot." He turned and left the room.

Óin and Bombur exchanged a glance, but Bilbo ignored them. He hurried out of the room and caught up to Thorin just outside.

"Thorin, wait." He grasped his arm, making him pause. "Please, just think this through."

"I have." He only half-turned to face him, his voice coming out in a growl. "I'm not turning back now."

"We have to!" Bilbo walked around him so they were facing each other. "Everyone is terrified, injured, exhausted. Maybe we can try again at some point, but for now everyone needs a break. And that includes you."

"I'm not going back." Thorin was still refusing to meet his eyes. "But if you want to go, I won't stop you."

Bilbo clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to just start shaking him. "Thorin, it's not safe. We don't know what's out there, what's between us and Erebor. Getting back to the farm is going to be risky enough, but we all need to recover." He gripped Thorin's arms, staring into those clouded blue eyes. "I-I can't lose you to this."

"It's too late," he said lowly. "I can't turn back now."

"You can, you just won't," Bilbo snapped. "You're being incredibly selfish right now, you know that?"

Thorin looked down at him, eyes flashing. "Like I said, I'm not asking any of you to come with me. I don't need your protection, or your help." He pulled himself from Bilbo's grip and headed across the parking lot.

Bilbo watched him go, hands flexing helplessly, then stepped back inside.

Fíli was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the lines of the tiles until he thought they would be branded in his vision. The motel bathroom was filthy, the remains of some dark brown sludge sitting in an oval at the bottom of the tub, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He couldn't cry, either. There was only numbness, creeping over his limbs and up the back of his skull.

Balin was dead.

Balin, who had helped him with his homework at the dinner table, had taught him how to fold a perfect paper airplane, had only laughed when he'd caught Fíli sneaking cookies from the pantry.

He'd been shot right in front of him, and Fíli hadn't done anything about it.

His throat tightened, the pain of it crashing over his numbness. But before the tears could come, the bathroom door swung open, and he looked up.

Víli offered him a tight, weary smile. "Ready to go?"

"We're leaving?" Fíli asked, dumbly. He didn't know where they were about to go, not after everything that had happened.

Víli nodded. "We're going home. I already packed up your stuff."

"No." The word burst from his lips, and it took a moment for him to realize that he'd said it. Fíli stood up, swaying slightly as the bathroom tile wavered in his vision, but he held his ground. "I'm not going back."

Víli's brow furrowed for a second, but he didn't look surprised. "Come on, Fíli. It's over."

"No." He brushed past him and stepped into the bedroom. "It's not over until we make it to the mountain."

"Fíli." He reached out and gripped his shoulder, gently. "You're hurt. You could have died, back there. I'm gonna take you back before anything else happens."

The pain and guilt in his father's voice nearly made him wince. He clenched his teeth. He didn't want him to feel like that—he didn't want any of them to look at his bruises and see their own failures.

"You don't get it," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You couldn't protect me." Víli flinched at his words, and he forced himself to continue. "And that's not your fault. It's not safe here, and for all we know, it's not going to be safe back at the farm, either. Those people are going to follow us until they kill us all."

"But it doesn't have to be you," Víli said hoarsely. "No one is expecting you to take care of this." He cast a pleading glance over Fíli's shoulder, and he turned to see Thorin standing in the doorway.

"Víli is right," Thorin said. His face was obscured in shadow. "This isn't your fight. Go back to the farm." He gestured out the door. "We fixed up one of the trucks in the parking lot. It's ready to leave when you are."

"No." Anger flushed up his chest, hot and energizing. "I'm coming with you. We're gonna finish this."

"I'm going to kill every single one of those bastards." Thorin stepped into the room, light falling over one half of his face. He looked even more ragged than Víli, but beneath it was a burning determination, reflected in Fíli's own gaze. "I'm going to make sure none of them ever hurt any of you. But you don't have to be a part of that."

"Fíli, we're just trying to keep you safe," Víli said.

He couldn't help but feel cornered, but he wasn't going to give up. "I've already made up my mind."

"Fíli." Thorin's voice had lowered to a growl, but there was a gleam of regret in his eyes. It was the same expression he'd worn after the warehouse, and in brief moments after the train station, and it made something desperate and wild unfurl in his chest. "You're not putting yourself through this. Not after—"

"I'm not him, you know," Fíli snapped before he could stop himself. "I'm not Frerin." He almost stopped at the stricken look on Thorin's face. "I…I am nobody's victim. I survived what happened at the warehouse, and the train station. I am not here just so you can feel guilty about what you couldn't do. I survived, and I am going to make that mean something." He stumbled over the last few words as a sob rose in his throat. Once he was done, he stood still, glaring at Thorin and Víli in turn, daring either of them to argue.

Thorin stared at him for a long while. Something like anger rose in his eyes, but as soon as it had come, it was gone under an impassive mask. "I'm done making choices for the rest of you," he said lowly. "You can come with me or you can go back to the farm—that's on you." He turned and left the room.

With a weak sigh, Víli stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked more exhausted than Fíli had ever seen him, and the seed of guilt in his chest made itself known again. For a moment, he wondered if he was being selfish.

"You know I don't want this for you," he said after a long moment, directing his words at the carpet. "And I know I can't stop you, either."

Fíli couldn't speak. The guilt was growing like a foam, and bringing with it the sudden urge to flee the room. Willing his movements to be slow, he crossed the room and grabbed his pack. "I love you, dad."

Víli met his eyes with a tired smile, then moved to grab his own pack. "Let's go."

Dwalin was still standing at the edge of the parking lot like a forgotten statue. He must have been there for hours at this point, but his posture seemed almost timeless in its rage.

Thorin approached, letting his shoes scrape against the pavement so Dwalin would know he was coming. "We're getting ready to leave."

"To where?" His voice was low and rough, enough that it almost blended in with the scraping of his shoes on the pavement.

"We have a truck ready to carry…" He paused, the familiar chill of grief creeping over him, then forced it back. He wouldn't allow himself to feel any of it until he'd put a bullet in Azog's head. "To carry Balin back to the farm. I'm leading another group to Erebor."

Dwalin finally turned to face him. His eyes were like bruises, tinged red with the ghost of some greater pain lying beneath. "You're still going after that mountain? After everything?" His voice cut across the air like an accusation.

"Yes, after everything." Thorin met his stare, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. He would have thought that Dwalin of all people would understand. "Azog and his men cannot be allowed to live. And we need Erebor if we're going to retaliate."

Dwalin let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "That's all you can think about, isn't it?"

"None of us are going to be safe until we stop them."

"We were," he replied, his upper lip lifting in a snarl. "Five years wasn't a coincidence, and it wasn't damn luck. We had something, and then you convinced us that we didn't."

The words were soft-spoken, but they hit Thorin like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

"Who else is going to have to die before you give this up? If Bilbo had taken that bullet, would you still be here asking us to press on?"

Thorin's fist clenched at his side. "How dare you ask me that?"

Dwalin met his glare head on—a challenge. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to continue, but all he said was, "To hell with you." He brushed past him and made for the truck.

Some time later, the rumble of an engine sounded, and Dwalin pulled out of the parking lot.

Quivering with rage, Thorin made his way back to the motel. Fíli and his father were waiting by the door, looking travel-worn but ready to continue. Óin had his arms crossed, an ill-disguised glower on his face. Ori, looking pale, was standing next to Nori, who was trying to hide the fact that he'd shifted most of his weight onto his left leg. Bombur handed a rag to Bofur so he could clean the grease from the truck off his hands, while Bifur checked the ammo in his handgun.

Bilbo was leaning against the wall, his curls hanging limp against his forehead, staring at the ground as though he didn't have the energy to look any higher.

"Let's get a move on," Thorin said. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that most of the group had decided to continue with him. "I want to cover some ground before sundown."

Another pretty short chapter. I'm trying to pace things properly with all of this emotional shit, so I hope you guys will bear with me. Next chapter is going to be more action-packed, and we are getting a new development that I'm pretty excited about.