Chapter 39

Cautiously, Bilbo pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was plainly but tastefully furnished with a couple of sofas, a television, and a painting of a lake. Ori was standing in the corner with a rag in one hand, shoulders shaking with muffled sobs. When he heard Bilbo enter, he quickly wiped his tears away and went back to dusting off the TV stand.

"Um." Bilbo hovered in the doorway. "Did you want any help? Or…"

"Sure." Ori sniffled and wiped his face again. "I-I think the sheets in the bedroom need to be washed."

"Alright." Bilbo pushed open the door to the bedroom and began stripping the bed.

They'd finally started exploring the rest of Erebor. Ori and Bifur had found the apartments in one section, and had begun cleaning them out to make them a little more livable after years of disuse.

It was slow going, and most of their exploration lacked enthusiasm. For the first few nights, they'd all slept near the infirmary, camping on the floor in a mess of coats and scavenged sheets. The white, unchanging halls had all frozen them in a strange state of grief that was beginning to scare Bilbo. This wasn't the first time he'd caught Ori crying alone, but he'd gotten quicker at trying to hide it.

After the warehouse, after losing Dori, they'd been forced to battle the elements and the walkers, to push on and find shelter. But now…they were safe. They'd won, and that had left them with nothing to confront except everything they'd lost in the process.

Bilbo swallowed down the lump in his throat and continued to wrestle a pillowcase off of its pillow. When he felt eyes on him, he glanced over to see Ori standing in the doorway.

"Are you sure you're okay doing that?" he asked. "With your hand…"

Bilbo looked down. Óin had changed the bandage a few hours ago, and proclaimed it was healing nicely. But he still couldn't make a fist, and his middle finger was partially numb.

"I'll be fine," he said with a weak smile. He didn't see any point in complaining about it, especially not in front of Ori. "I don't mind helping out a little."

"Well…" Ori cast him a doubtful glance. "Don't push yourself, okay?"

Bilbo nodded, and Ori retreated into the other room.

In truth, he was still feeling a little dizzy. Thorin had needed another transfusion yesterday, and Bilbo had insisted on giving more blood. Afterwards, he'd tried to leave to get something to eat, and hadn't made it to the door before falling over. Thorin had nearly torn his stitches trying to see if he was alright, and Óin had promptly ordered them both to stay in bed unless told otherwise.

As much as he would have liked to lie down, it didn't feel right to be resting. He needed to keep himself busy, to try and quiet some of the worries swirling around his head.

A low knock sounded from the front door, and a moment later, Bombur walked in. White flakes of ash were stuck in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat.

He offered them a tired nod as Bilbo joined Ori in the living room. "They found it."

"Oh." A small shower of dust fell to the floor as Ori wrung the cloth in his hand.

"Fíli wants to do it now," Bombur continued. "So everyone's heading outside."

"I-Is it safe?" Bilbo asked, crossing his arms. As far as they could tell, the fire had attracted and burned most of the walkers, but it had also released a thick haze of smoke that made breathing nearly impossible. They'd all elected to stay inside until the fire burned itself out.

Bombur nodded. "The smoke's not too bad anymore."

"Okay." Ori released the cloth and set it on the armrest of one of the couches. "I guess we should go, then."

The three of them filed out of the room and down the hall. They met up with Nori and Bofur near the front door, and walked outside in silence.

The air was cold and threaded with the scent of smoke and rot. Thankfully, the stench was no longer as overpowering as it had been a few days ago.

The others were standing in a clearing nearby, gathered in a small semicircle. Thorin was there as well, leaning on a single crutch. Bilbo shot a questioning glance at Óin—surely Thorin was in no state to be walking around—but received only an exasperated shrug in response.

At one end of the clearing were two slabs of stone meant as crude grave markers. Only one grave had been dug, and next to it was Víli's body. He was wrapped in a sheet, but a small portion of dark blood had soaked through the fabric above his shoulder.

Bilbo closed his eyes as the memory overtook him. It was relentless, playing in his dreams and the quiet waking moments, yet the horror of seeing Víli's blank eyes was the same each time. He took in a shuddering breath and went to stand next to Fíli. He was standing with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes red-rimmed but dry. The exhaustion and pain Bilbo was feeling seemed like nothing more than a shadow next to what was on Fíli's face.

Bofur cleared his throat. "Well, now that we're all here…" He glanced at Fíli, sorrow dimming his normally cheerful face. "Did you want to say a few words?"

"Um…" Fíli's voice came out in a soft rasp. He blinked rapidly, like he hadn't even considered it before.

Bilbo reached over and squeezed his arm. "You don't have to right now," he said. "There's no rush."

"I just…" Fíli swallowed. His voice wavered at first, but became steadier as he continued. "He was a really good dad. H-He always cared, always wanted us to be happy, and I wish…" He lowered his head, the rest of his sentence breaking off into fragile silence.

Bilbo rubbed his back, tears pricking his eyes.

They stood quietly for a long moment, listening to the hollow wind in the bare trees. Once it became clear Fíli was not going to continue, Bofur nodded at Dwalin, who stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the second grave marker.

"We all know…who he was. He was my brother, but he helped raise me, made me into the man I am today." Dwalin's voice was a low grumble, thick with suppressed tears. "He always had something to give. But he was also a tough son of a bitch." He cleared his throat, like he was bracing himself to continue. "This world needs people like him."

Bilbo's chest shuddered with grief. Balin had been one of the first people to welcome him when he'd first arrived at the motel. They'd sat together on the roof of the warehouse discussing books, had sang and cooked together in Beorn's kitchen.

He could see it all, then, in a painful, watery flash—all the joyful moments and the darker days in between. He could see Víli lifting Kíli onto his shoulders in the middle of the orchard, laughing at one of his stories, kneeling with his arms around his family in the winter outside the warehouse.

It seemed at the moment that they'd left a trail of broken pieces, from his apartment, the motel, the warehouse, Beorn's house, the train station. And looking back on all that they'd lost, he didn't really know what was left.

Bifur and Bombur stepped forward to place the body in the grave, and spent the next few minutes filling the hole. Fíli watched them silently, shoulders twitching with quiet sobs.

And he stayed there, even as the rest of them began to trickle back inside. Bofur lingered at the edge of the clearing and gave a small nod, as if to say, I'll keep an eye on him.

Bilbo finally tore himself away. White sparks of exhaustion were beginning to dance at the edge of his vision, and he knew he would have to find somewhere to lie down before he fell again.

He found just enough steadiness to hurry up the slope to where Thorin was making his way back to the door, leaning heavily on his crutch. Óin kept pace with him nearby, looking grim and exhausted. Bilbo didn't think he'd seen him sleep once since they'd made it inside Erebor.

He slipped an arm around Thorin, offering himself as a means of support. Thorin's arm landed on his shoulders, but it took him a minute to actually put any of his weight on it. His face was nearly white with pain, his brow furrowed, but his gaze was distant. He'd hardly said a word since waking up in the infirmary. Bilbo had sat with him several times, to give blood and company, but they hadn't spoken at all about what had happened. Part of him still felt that this was a nightmare he had yet to wake from.

But this moment was painfully real, both the cold and the grief, and all he could do was hold onto Thorin as they walked inside.


Fíli looked up as someone knocked on his door.

He still wasn't really used to having a space for himself. The last time had been his bedroom in his old house, miles away and what seemed like a lifetime ago. After the outbreak, he'd spent most nights camped out with the others. Even when they'd lived at the warehouse and the farm, he hadn't really had a room to call his own.

The quiet, empty space of the apartment was a welcome retreat sometimes, when the pain in his chest started to drown him. Other times, the silence was deafening, and he would creep out to find someone else—not to talk, but just to be in the same space.

At the moment, he was just sitting on the couch and staring into space. He felt strangely heavy as he pushed himself up and went to open the door.

Bain and Sigrid were standing on the other side, and he blinked in surprise. Besides Sigrid visiting him in the laundry room, Bard and his family had kept mostly to themselves over the past few days. There had been no discussion of whether or not they were going to stay, but Fíli found himself half-wishing they would. Having them here made Erebor feel less claustrophobic, somehow.

"Hey." Bain gave him a small smile. "We found the game room, and we were going to go check it out. Did you want to come with us?"

"Um." Fíli was momentarily caught of guard by his casual tone. The rest of his family had been walking on eggshells around him—Bilbo would always take a moment to rub his shoulder, Bofur went out of his way to try and make him laugh, Óin made sure he got extra helpings at mealtime. He appreciated their concern, but seeing it only reminded him of why everyone was treating him this way.

Sigrid and Bain didn't look at him the way the others did. There was no sympathy or pity in their eyes. Bain had his hands tucked in his pockets like they were normal teenagers, like they did this every Saturday. And in Sigrid's eyes there was only understanding, a clarity that felt almost foreign to him.

"Yeah, sure," Fíli said, hoping he hadn't taken too long to respond.

If he had, neither of them showed it. They began walking down the hallway, and Fíli followed just behind.

They reached the game room after a few minutes. There weren't any windows in Erebor, but someone had painted a mural—grassy fields and a blue sky—on one wall. To one side were a couple of TVs with game systems next to an arcade game with a blank screen. On the other side were a pool table and a ping pong table, along with a couple of stools.

The memory came back to him like a lightning strike. The game room back in Rivendell had been smaller, but something about the blank screens, the false grass-green of the pool table, brought him back to that night. He'd been upset with Kíli, for some reason he couldn't remember anymore. But he could still hear the way Kíli had cried into Bilbo's shoulder, how he'd been afraid to go back on the road. He'd been feeling the same way—exhausted, scared, longing for a safe place where he could go back to being a kid.

Now, he knew better. He wasn't a kid anymore, and there was no point in pretending.

Sigrid and Bain had moved over by the pool table while he'd been lost in thought, either unwilling to wait for him or realizing that he needed space. He shook himself and went to join them.

"I have no idea," Bain was saying, inspecting the triangle used to hold the pool balls. "Aren't there a lot of rules to this game?"

Sigrid was holding the stick with both hands, casually, but Fíli didn't miss the way she gripped it, how it could become a weapon at a moment's notice. "You hit the balls into the holes, right? How hard can it be?" When Bain snickered, she rolled her eyes and glanced at Fíli. "Do you know how to play?"

"Uh, I don't know the official rules." He thought back to Bofur's pool table, which had doubled as a dining table in their cramped apartment. "My brother and I used to play Crush with it."

"What's Crush?" Bain started digging around in the pockets, setting the balls on the table.

"Uh, you stand on either end of the table and try to roll the balls really fast so it hits the other person's fingers."

Sigrid cracked a smile at that. "Yeah, let's not do that."

When Dís had found them playing it, she'd immediately berated both of them, distracting Fíli and giving Kíli the opportunity to ram the eight ball directly into his index finger. Afterwards, Víli had brought him an icepack for his throbbing finger and snuck him pieces of candy until he'd cheered up.

Fíli felt a familiar lump appear in the back of his throat, and he dug his nails into his palm to try and distract himself from the tears threatening to rise.

"Ooh." Bain pulled a deck of cards held together by a rubber band from one of the pockets. "We could play Crazy Eights."

Sigrid glanced at Fíli, eyebrows slightly raised as if to ask, You good?

He cleared his throat and nodded. He was so sick of fighting back tears. "I'm kinda rusty on the rules, though."

"It's really easy. So…" Bain leaned forward and started dealing the cards as he explained.

They played a few rounds, leaning their elbows on the pool table and idly pushing the balls around. At some point, Sigrid left to get some snacks. The chips were slightly stale and the soda was flat, but they still brought a strange, shaky sense of normalcy that Fíli hadn't felt in a long time. Tilda found them after a couple hours, and Bain dealt her a hand and lifted her onto the table so she would be able to reach the cards. Eventually, Fíli found it easy to lose himself in the afternoon. He enjoyed listening to Bain and Sigrid tease each other, and Tilda's youthful competitiveness made him ache for his own brother.

What the hell are you doing?

He wasn't sure whose voice it was that rung through the back of his mind, but it was enough to nearly make him flinch. The memory of where he was, of everything that had happened, doused him like a bucket of cold water.

Fíli dropped his cards to the table, struggling to breathe against the sudden vice closing around his chest.

He didn't deserve to forget, not even for a moment.

"I'm kind of tired," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He kept his eyes on the stack of cards in the middle of the table. "I'm gonna get some rest."

"Okay," Sigrid said, and he could tell that all three of them were watching him. "See you later."

"Yeah," Fíli rasped, and turned to flee the room.


Thorin was getting tired of the infirmary.

After the funeral, Óin had put him on near-permanent bed rest, and had threatened to cuff him to the bed again if he tried to leave. The short walk outside had taken every ounce of energy he had, and then some, and Thorin hadn't been inclined to argue at the moment.

But he was getting tired of the fluorescent lights, the featureless white walls, and the low humming silence that seemed omnipresent in every corner of his mind. It had only given him time to reflect on every mistake he'd made, and how blind he'd been since the day he'd received the packet of notes.

Óin had kept him on a strict schedule for his painkillers, but Thorin had begun to refuse them. The pain from his gunshot wound, which kept him awake most of the time, seemed like some sort of atonement, after everything. He'd pushed his family out of their home, had gotten two of them killed, had used their love and loyalty against them, all to try and relieve his paranoia.

It was the least he deserved, to endure the silence.

He raised his head as Dwalin walked into the room, carrying a tray of food. He set it on the table by the bed—soup and crackers. Bilbo was usually the one to bring him meals, though they rarely spoke during these visits. Thorin was never sure what to say, if there was anything he could say, and Bilbo seemed to sense this. His presence was enough of a comfort, even if Thorin wasn't sure he deserved it.

"Thanks." Suppressing a wince, Thorin readjusted his bed so he could sit up. The pain from his wound had lessened somewhat, and Óin had said it was healing—slowly, haltingly, but healing nonetheless.

Dwalin grunted in response. Thorin fully expected him to leave the room, but he only leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

A moment of silence ticked by. "Well?"

Thorin glanced at him, brow furrowed. "What?"

Dwalin made an impatient gesture with one hand, as if to say, You first.

He looked down at his hands. They'd never really had the need before to speak about things like this. There had always been a silent understanding between them, but something had fractured after the motel. Something that day had disconnected him from the others.

"I was wrong," he said after a long moment. "I shouldn't have forced you to choose, back at the motel. I shouldn't have pushed you all…"

If Dwalin noticed the slight waver in his voice, he didn't show it. "Well, I was being kind of a dick, too. Said some things I shouldn't have."

Thorin shook his head. "You were grieving. I…I should have respected that."

Dwalin only grunted in response. After another stretch of silence, he said, "We're going to have to tell the group at the farm what happened. Fíli's probably going to want to go."

The mention of the farm, of his sister and nephew that had been left behind, hit him like a blow to the chest. He had no idea how he was going to face Dís, after she had been so opposed to any of them leaving in the first place.

"How…How is everyone else?" He hadn't seen much of the rest of the group, besides Bilbo and Óin. He'd received assurances that they were all uninjured except for a few scrapes and minor burns, but the images of their deaths, of walkers and rifle-wielding men descending on them, still haunted his dreams.

"They're keeping busy. Probably wouldn't mind hearing from you." Dwalin finally stood up straight, moving so he could look Thorin in the eye. "Prove it. Whatever you're feeling now, you have to prove it."

He left the room without another word, and Thorin closed his eyes with a sigh. Exhaustion weighed on him, seeped into his bones like cold water.

Eventually, he would have to speak to the others. But no apology would heal what he had done.

There was nothing he could do to bring back all that they had lost.


"You have everything you need?"

Fíli looked up from his backpack. Bilbo was standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.

"Yeah." He zipped up his pack but didn't put it on yet, just letting it rest on the couch. "Are you coming with us?"

Bilbo stepped into the apartment and shook his head. "I'm going to stay here, keep an eye on Thorin. But you'll be in good hands."

They'd finally made the decision to return to the farm, to tell the others what had happened, and Bifur and Bofur had volunteered to go with him. The thought of seeing his family again, of having to tell them what had happened, made dread rise in his lungs like water.

"You be safe out there, alright?" Bilbo crossed the room, taking his face in both hands, and smiled. "Take care of yourself."

"I will," Fíli murmured. A part of him was scared to return to the world outside the mountain. As far as they knew, most of Azog's men were dead, swallowed up by the flames or the walkers. But he knew better than to think that group had been the only bad men out there.

"Oh, here." Bilbo pulled out a packet of cookies from one pocket and handed it to him with a smile. "This is our secret. Because Bifur will steal them if he finds out about them."

Fíli snorted out a soft laugh, which disappeared after a second. It still felt wrong to even smile.

"Come here." Bilbo pulled him into an embrace. "You're going to be okay."

Half a sob built in his throat, and he held Bilbo tighter. When Bilbo said those words, he could almost believe them.

"Now," Bilbo pulled back after a moment, his eyes looking a little misty, "I think Bifur and Bofur are waiting for you."

"Yeah, I should probably go." Fíli stepped back and went to sling his pack over his shoulders. He made for the door, then paused. "I…I don't know how I'm going to tell them."

"Fíli." Bilbo went to stand next to him. "They're going to be happy to see that you're alright. And the rest…it's not going to be easy. But we're all here for you."

He nodded wearily. Whatever was going to happen, he just wanted the dread to end. He just wanted it over with.

"I…I'll see you in a couple of weeks, maybe," he said.

Bilbo smiled and walked with him through the door, but the word hung in the air like a silent omen: maybe.


By the time they reached the farm, Fíli thought his anxiety was going to burst out of his chest. It was a swarm of cold needles whirling in his chest like bees, and he might have emptied his stomach if there had been anything in it.

He hadn't eaten much the past few days, though Bifur and Bofur had kept an eye on him. They'd retraced their route from the farm to the mountain, and besides a handful of walkers, the journey had been pretty uneventful.

And now it seemed like it hadn't taken any time at all. Fíli could only stare at the gate, the familiar worn wood, and wish he had another day to wait.

Bifur stepped out to open the gate, and Bofur glanced back at him from where he was sitting in the passenger seat. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, averting his gaze to the trees outside. "I just hope…"

The thought hit him, like a sickening moment of free fall. He'd been so focused on everything his group had gone through, all the losses they had endured, that he hadn't even considered what had been happening back at the farm. If someone had attacked the house, with so few of them left to defend it…

Bifur stepped back into the car, and Fíli swallowed down that train of thought. He just had to wait another minute.

They drove down to the house. Fíli watched the darkened windows, the empty porch, and felt his stomach churn.

Before they'd even parked the car, the front door swung open, and Fíli felt some of his nervous tension release. Glóin stepped outside, one hand on her gun, but when Bofur leaned out the window to wave at her, her shoulders sagged with relief.

Bifur parked the car and went out to greet her. Bofur turned to look at Fíli again. He felt slightly cold, like all the blood had drained from his face, and wondered if it showed.

"You take your time, alright?" Bofur gave him a small, reassuring smile, then stepped out of the car.

Fíli slumped a little in the seat, searching for any shred of courage that might motivate him to step out of the car, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.

"The others are staying in the mountain," Bifur was saying to Glóin. "Recovering, mostly. We had a rough time of it."

"So you made it into Erebor." Glóin put her hands on her hips. A furrow settled on her brow. "Did…Did everyone—"

Before she could finish the question, the door swung open again, and Gimli's shock of red hair flashed into view.

"Uncle Bofur!"

He tore down the stairs, Grim barking at his heels, and leapt at Bofur, who greeted him with a laugh. Brana followed him a moment later, a smile lighting up her face.

"You came back!" Gimli tugged on the corner of Bifur's jacket. He looked around, as though expecting the rest of the group to jump out from behind the car.

"They're not here," Bofur reached out to pat his shoulder, though a glimmer of grief passed over his face. "They're waiting somewhere else."

Beorn stepped out of the house, drying his hands with a dish towel, and his eyes widened in surprise as he took in the newcomers.

Fíli's heart was pounding. His fingers closed around the handle of the car door, but he still felt frozen in place.

"Can we go see them?" Gimli turned to his mothers.

Glóin crossed her arms. "You're gonna have to tell us the whole story."

Beorn stepped aside as someone else pushed their way onto the porch. Kíli stepped outside, eyes roaming over the people standing in the driveway, clearly noting how few of them there were.

The car door clicked, and before he knew it, Fíli was stumbling out, nearly tripping over the straps of his backpack. He only had time to straighten up before Kíli was sprinting across the grass, a grin lighting up his face like a sunrise.

"Fíli!"

He couldn't speak—and the breath was knocking out of him anyway when Kíli barreled into him. Fíli held him close as Kíli wrapped his arms around his chest, leaning his head on one shoulder.

"You're back," he said, sounding just as breathless as Fíli felt. "You came back."

And then the tears came like a rushing tide, surging forth before he could stop them. His chest shook with a thundering sob, and he clenched his jaw to try and muffle the sound.

"Fíli?" Kíli pulled back, and Fíli reluctantly released him. "What happened?"

He took in a shuddering breath and dragged his sleeve across his face. Bofur took a step towards them, one hand out like he wanted to intervene, but before anyone could speak, another figure appeared from around the side of the house.

Mom.

Dís had her sleeves rolled up, an empty bucket in one hand, but it clattered to the ground as she caught sight of them. Eyes wide, she rushed towards him. When she reached out to wrap her arms around him, Fíli felt a fresh wave of tears come forth.

"It's okay, baby." She held him tightly, one hand stroking his hair. "I've got you."

His nerves were gone now, replaced by a dense cord of dread that coiled around his heart like a snake. He didn't deserve this. She still didn't know what had happened.

Dís pulled back, holding his face in her hands. She looked up at him, and he could pinpoint the exact moment that she realized.

"Oh," she said softly, her expression crumpling, and she pulled him back in.

And Fíli could only gasp for air as her tears began to soak into the fabric of his shirt.

Posting this from the back of my lecture hall haha. Updating is going to be weird with this time difference, but I'm going to try and keep it consistent.