Three chapters, one for each of the line of Durin who died in the Battle of Five Armies. Kind of fits, I think.

This is the last chapter, obviously, and please read the A/N at the end of it.

The legacy of the rune stone

Dís doesn't know how long she remains kneeling on the ground. It can be a decade, with the sun rising and setting a million times above her head; it can be a mere second, insignificant to the outer world. Eventually she gets to her feet and is almost surprised to find Dwalin still waiting for her. He doesn't speak, but simply takes her hand and leads her away from the field. She is grateful for his silence. She doesn't know what to say, and she doesn't know what she'd like to hear. So they just walk side by side, and she keeps her eyes set onto the mountain and never looks back at the battle field.

Eventually they reach the mountain, and for a moment Dís can only stare at the magnificent beauty of the place. The lost kingdom of the dwarves, the lost homestead beneath the mountain, is right before her eyes. She is home, after all those exiled years, and she has dreamed of this day for so long, and yet her return is nothing like she ever imagined.

So many dreams have been broken, so many sacrifices have been made, and Dís asks herself if it was ever worth the price.

"Dís?"

She flinches as she hears Balin's voice, and realises that she cannot linger before the mountain forever, no matter how much she'd like to. Balin puts his hand onto her arm and leads her inside. She has always wondered what she'd feel when she finally enters the halls of her fathers, but nothing could have prepared her for the emotions that make her heart ache in a way she's never hurt before. This isn't the joyous, glorious return. These walls are built on the blood of all those she held dear, and if the stone walls would suddenly collapse and bury her beneath them, Dís thinks that the weight on her chest wouldn't be heavier than it already is.

She is faintly aware of several dwarves talking to her, she can feel someone shake her hand, but she doesn't stop for any of them as Balin leads her further into the mountain.

"Balin, where are we going?" she asks just when the white-bearded dwarf stops in front of a huge door.

"I figured you'd like to say goodbye in private, before the ceremony."

Goodbye.

They are standing in front of the crypt, and suddenly Dís understands what she'll have to face on the other side of the door, and it takes her breath away. They are waiting for her behind these closed doors, and yet she feels like she cannot move.

"Just take your time," says Balin softly. "I'll make sure no one disturbs you." He lays his hand onto her shoulder and squeezes it shortly, and she knows that he trusts her to do the right thing. He expects her to do the right thing, because she is strong, and brave, a daughter of kings.

And then Balin is gone, and the door is looming before her. Slowly she puts her hand onto the handle, and it feels cool underneath her palm. She inhales deeply, and pushes the door open.

The crypt is large, and illuminated by many candles which give a warm light that is reflected from the stone walls. Decorations are scarce, but nonetheless beautiful, with banners hanging from the ceiling and ancient weapons hung up on the walls. But when her eyes fall onto the three stone tombs in the middle of the hall, everything else becomes a blur. They will be closed soon, but now they are open. Slowly, one step at a time, Dís approaches the first one. She doesn't even have to look. She knows it's him before she sees his face.

"Oh, brother," she whispers, her quiet, choked voice seeming way too loud in the quiet crypt. He looks so different and yet the same as the last time she's seen him. His incredibly blue eyes are closed today, and he looks more peaceful than she's seen him in a century. He is dressed in fine armour, and he looks so much like the king she'd always thought he'd be that she can barely breathe. Her chest tightens when she sees the beautiful sword in his right hand, and she reaches out to touch his fingers. They are cold, not like Thorin's, and she withdraws her hand quickly. She wants to say something, anything, but can't find any words to say in this hall, and she knows that, as much as this hurt her and made her feel like she's buried alive, this has been the easy part.

She doesn't know how she can possibly face the two coffins at the other side of the crypt. After one last glace at her brother she wipes her eyes and slowly walks towards where she knows she'll find her worst nightmares become real.

They are so close to each other that she can barely fit in between. Close, like they have always been. Dís looks from the left to the right, and for a moment everything becomes a blur before her eyes. It's too unreal, it cannot be, it can't be them.

But she knows their faces better than anyone, and she can feel the emptiness wash over her as she stares at her sons.

Fíli's face is pale, his blue eyes closed. Someone must have braided his hair and beard, and she gently strokes his hair like she used to do when he was young and needed his mother's comfort. She used to tell him that everything would be alright in the end, and put little Kíli into his arms, and he'd smile through the tears and believe her because that's what little boys do. When their parents tell them that all is not as bad as it seems, they believe it, and she promised him that she'd always make things alright and now it's the one promise she couldn't keep.

She can feel hot tears run down her face, and her heart is aching from repressed sobs.

"I am so sorry, my love," she murmurs, for a while only staring at her eldest. He looks so much like Lîam, and she remembers the day of his birth when she could only gaze at him in wonder asking herself how two ordinary dwarves like her and Lîam could have created a miracle like this. "Tell your daddy I miss him," she whispers.

She can't bring herself to look at her youngest. She knows that it will break her, so she stares at the walls around her for what feels like eternity, taking in the decorations and the lights of the candles and the all encompassing silence.

"You know I didn't want you to leave," she hears herself say, and she hesitates for a moment, because it's ridiculous to talk to someone who can't hear you, but then again no one will notice and she's beyond caring anyway. "I told Thorin that you were too young, and he almost gave in. But you wouldn't let Fíli leave you, and I knew I'd have to set up a guard day and night if I wanted to make sure you stayed, and deep down I knew that there was no chance of holding you back. That's why I made you promise to return, even though I had already learned the hard way that it's usually not ours to decide whether we come back or not." She chokes, glancing sideways, catching a glimpse of black hair and quickly looks at the wall again. "So you left, and you were so happy that day that I told myself I'd done the right thing. And now I ask myself if that is true. Have I done the right thing? Should I have made you stay?"

The question lingers in the room, it becomes bigger as if it was nourished by her tears, and only now does she look at him. She can't breathe, she can't speak, all she can do is stare at the face of her baby, at his lips curled to an almost invisible smile, at his unruly black hair, at the bow and arrows at his side, at the armour that looks too big for his slender figure. She leans over and presses her lips onto his forehead like she used to do when he'd fall asleep as a baby, and she almost expects Fíli to show up behind her and imitate her like he did as a child, and if there's any comfort in this darkest hour of her life it's her knowing that her boys will never be separated again in the halls of their fathers.

She is standing between them, her left hand on Fíli's, her right hand on Kíli's, and tears are running unchecked down her face and drop onto the stone floor.

"Sleep, my boys. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal."

She doesn't know how long she stays like this. It feels like a lifetime, and yet not long enough. Eventually she lets go, and as she leaves the crypt she feels like a part of her is left behind with her loved ones behind the door.

She doesn't sleep that night, and the next day she is hardly aware of Balin leading her to the grand hall where the funeral ceremony will take place. She recognises many of the dwarven faces, but is surprised about the number of men and even elves who have come to Erebor. One man stands out from the rest, and she gasps when she realises that it's Gandalf, the wizard. She hasn't seen him in decades, the only memories she holds of him being those of her childhood. He walks over to her and takes her hand.

"My dear Dís," he says, and she can see a tear glistening in his eye, "I am so sorry for your loss. Please just know that, though I understand that my words mean nothing to you right now, their deaths weren't in vain. The history of Middle-Earth has been shaped anew yet again, and things have been set in motion that will change the lives of us all."

"You talk in riddles as always," she manages to say before she turns her head so that he won't see her cry. In that moment a soft melody fills the hall, and she holds her breath when she hears the familiar tune. She has heard it too often, and she wonders if it will ever stop hurting the way it does. She can hear Balin's deep voice behind her, and Dwalin's baritone as well as Bombur's unexpectedly pleasant voice. She is staring straight ahead, but she knows that the men and elves are quiet. They aren't familiar with dwarven customs, and she is grateful for their staying in the back of the hall.

When the singing stops, Dáin steps forward. She remembers Balin telling her that Daín will be king, but he doesn't look like a king now. He is dressed in plain clothes, and from where she is standing Dís can see his eyes shining suspiciously as he says a prayer for the sons of Durin. When he's finished he walks slowly back to the rest of the dwarves, and stops in front of Dís. He puts his hands onto her forearms, and for a moment it almost seems like he wants to pull her into a hug. But he only looks her in the eyes and talks quietly, so that no one else can hear him.

"I never asked for this role that I am now asked to play. I need you to believe me when I say that I always wanted Thorin to have this throne, not me. But I promise you that I will do my best to honour his memory."

He doesn't wait for her to answer, and she is glad about it because she doubts that she'd be able to speak. She follows him with her eyes until Gandalf's voice breaks the silence.

"Today we have assembled to mourn the loss of our friends, of our kin. I remember the day I first spoke to Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, about the lost kingdom beneath the mountain. He was eager to reclaim it, and I can still see the fire sparkle in his eyes when he talked about these halls. I knew then that if anyone could do it, it would be him. But at what cost Erebor would be given back to its rightful owners even I could not foresee. Many lives were lost in the battle against evil forces, and today we shall remember those who gave everything in that fight. We shall remember Thorin Oakenshield, and Fíli and Kíli, and the hundreds of dwarves and men and elves who died at the foot of this mountain. May your memories never fade!"

"May your memories never fade," a rumbling echo reflected from the stone walls.

"Never again shall the free peoples of Middle-Earth be driven against each other! Never again shall evil roam these lands and bring death upon us all. A time will come when we will be tested once more, and then we shall stand united again, and as friends."

He bows his head shortly, and when he looks up again his eyes seem to gaze at everyone at the same time.

"Our friends, whom we mourn in this dark hour, gave their lives in order to protect those they loved. Let us never forget their sacrifice, but honour them by carrying on their legacy."

Gandalf turns his head, and Dís gasps when she follows his gaze and her eyes fall onto the banners hanging from the wall. She takes in the emblems on every cloth, different on each banner and yet there's a peculiar similarity to them, as if certain parts of one pattern are duplicated in another. Straight lines and edges, so simple and yet making up the most beautiful symbols.

"Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield. And Kíli and Fíli! May Mahal guide you so you may find peace in the halls of your ancestors."

With that he leaves, and one by one they follow, the dwarves and also a few chosen elves and men and Dís among them, until they reach the crypt. Dís is allowed to enter, as are the members of Thorin's company and Dáin. Everyone else stays outside, for no one should see the dead in their vulnerable state, least of all foreign men and elves.

But this funeral is an exception, and Dís knows that she should take it as a good sign, a good omen that in the future the bonds between the races will be stronger. A man steps forward, and Dís hears the gasps of the dwarves around her when they see what is in his hands. It is the Arkenstone, shining even brighter than legends could ever tell, and he places it upon Thorin's chest.

"There let it lie until the Mountain falls," he says. "May it bring good fortune to all his folk that dwell here after!"

He retreats after a respectful nod of his head, and as if on cue six dwarves step forward. Dís knows the reason for this, and she clenches her fists and tries to control her breathing and fight down the tears.

Dwalin and Balin lift the heavy lid next to Thorin's tomb and, after a last bow, place it onto the sarcophagus. To their left and right Bofur and Bifur and Óin and Glóin are mimicking their action, and Dís realises that she will never see her sons again in this world.

It is a thought that takes her breath away, and idea so impossible that she would laugh at the ridiculousness of it if her heart didn't feel like it was ripped to shreds when the sound of stone scraping against stone drowns out all other noises.

Suddenly an elf strides forward, to the surprise of Dís and many other dwarves. He is tall and slender, his face beautiful and stern, and on his head is a many-spined crown decorated with golden leaves and autumn berries. He carries a beautiful sword which looks of elven-making, and he places it onto Thorin's tomb.

After one last glance at the fallen, the congregation leaves the stone tomb, and when the heavy door is closed by Dáin, Dís knows that she will never tread these grounds again. She follows the group, but doesn't stop at the great hall where everyone else gathers for a festive meal. Instead she walks on until she leaves the mountain. She breathes in the fresh air and scans the area laid out before her. Her homeland. The air is cool, winter is close, and soon this barren field before her will be covered with grass again. Children will be born, families will settle, and there will be peace.

What is her own happiness against all this?

But she forbids herself to have such bitter thoughts. It isn't right, and deep down she knows that her sons wouldn't want her to think like that. They have died, but their legacy lives on in the mountain behind her, and all she can do is honour it by adapting to her new life. It will be hard, and painful, but she knows that she can do it. She will face the pain and grief and come out stronger, like she is destined to by her bloodline.

After all, you can't spell 'enduring' without 'Durin'.

And the line of Durin will not be so easily broken.

We're broken but still breathing
We are wounded but we are healing
We pick up right where we left off
Breathe on the ashes that remain
So that these coals may become fire
To guide our way

(Rise Against, „Hairline Fracture")

A/N 1: Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.= May we meet again with the grace of Mahal. (Formal goodbye, but I imagine it to be a traditional dwarven way of saying your goodbyes to the dead.)

A/N 2: The Dwarrowscholar has posted a very interesting text about dwarves and death, about their beliefs and customs. I hope I managed to stay close to those ideas. (For example, the dead aren't displayed publicly, because otherwise their enemies could see them and mock them.)

A/N 3: The man who lays the Arkenstone onto Thorin's chest is, of course, Bard; and his words are the original words as found in The Hobbit.

Reviews are very much appreciated! ;)