This is it.. The last chapter. It's truly been an honor to have travelled down this road with all of you. I thank you all for sticking with me, Fheon and Elijah, through thick and thin. But all stories must end.

I did my best to tie up all the loose ends, but I'm not known for being very good at that, so please LEAVE A REVIEW and tell me what you guys think! Of this chapter, and of the whole story.

Again, thank you all so SO much. Without further ado, I present the final chapter of Thorin and Fheon's story. Enjoy, and I'll see you all in the comments section! ;)

(P.S. Try listening to The Last Goodbye - Billy Boyd while reading this. IT'S NOT MINE, but it would help with getting into the mood of the chapter.)

THORIN WATCHED Fheon's chest as it rose and fell in a shallow, rapid pace, and he realized just how little their time together had become. His throat closed up just as a sob escaped him.

Hastily, he said, "I will see you again. By my name and the names of my forefathers, I will find you in Valinor." Though his voice was weak, his promise swept over him like a tidal wave. He knew he was bound to it.

Slowly, and grimacing slightly, the Ranger placed her hand atop both of his. Her fingers chilled his warm skin. "Then do not mourn me," she said, croaking. "And look for me only in due time…"

She did not have to explain herself to him. He knew what it was that she meant, and he despised the idea. He despised the fact that she was asking him to wait for perhaps another two-hundred years, to let his life go on as if it was so easy to forget such a tragedy—that he had lost her. She had told him to find a new queen and to listen to her, but everything he wanted for his queen—everything he never knew he wanted, but had realized too late—was right in front of him, in her death throes; the familiar, beautiful copper tone of her skin had gone, replaced by deathly paleness.

"Farewell, Thorin." When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. Then, her now-white lips turned up into a ghost of a smile—the smile Thorin had so rarely seen but had come to love about her. She said, "Farewell, Bilbo…"

But Thorin did not turn. He did not wish to take his eyes off her. What he wished was to look upon her face for the remainder of his life and know that, despite her human aging, he was not going to lose her until the time was right and she had reached a ripe old age. What he wished was to be able to stare at her and be happy, but it was impossible to be so whilst he held her cold hands and watched as the life slowly drained out of her.

For what felt like their last moment, Fheon met his eyes again, and only recently before had he felt that everything was right in the world whenever she did that. But not now. Now, it felt like the world was imploding in on itself. His heart clenched as if it was being squeezed by a glove of ice. Cold tears streamed down his cheeks and he allowed them to drip onto Fheon's face, hoping, praying that they would wake her from her stupor. But it did not.

His hands tightened around her fragile one; her lips opened to let out a long breath of air, and they did not close again.

In a second, her head slumped to the side and her hand limply fell away from his, dropping onto her armor. Thorin took it back and held both her hands within his now, placing his lips onto the crooks of her thumbs. He felt her cold, lifelessness transfer to him, but he was still breathing, and she was not. She stared at the horizon behind him. If she were not unseeing, Thorin would have thought that she found the scene rather beautiful. The sight of a kingdom that had entered a savage war outnumbered, and survived.

Thorin's mouth opened to let out an anguished howl.

He howled just as he had when Azog beheaded his grandfather.

When his throat was raw and he was out of breath, he laid his forehead onto Fheon's chest and wept. He let his tears cascade down the iron armor. After a while (to him, what felt like hours), he sensed Bilbo come to kneel beside him, and in his grief-stricken state, was able to hear the hobbit's silent lamenting. Thorin slipped his arm around Fheon's shoulders and pulled her to him, placing his chin on the top of her head.

By then, his tears had long run dry, but the thorns remained around his heart.

He cradled her body against him, so frail compared to his wide stature, yet they seemed to fit together so perfectly.

He cursed himself for letting this happen, for not doing more. He could have saved her. He could have. But he had allowed himself to be carried away by the fact that Fheon had always been able to escape the hands of death, even without anybody's help. He had been foolish and blind—blind to the fact that she was still human. If she were alive, she would have been angry at him for pointing out such a thing, but it was the truth.

With his lower lip quivering, he gathered the strength to pull her eyelids down with shaking fingers.

She was no more immortal than Death was a man.

I saw the light fade from the sky.

On the wind, I heard a sigh.

He and Bilbo remained there on the frozen river of Ravenhill until the battle was over. When it was, Gandalf marched up to them, originally coming to check on Bilbo; yet upon seeing the lifeless face of Fheon, he stopped in his tracks. "Oh my…" Those were the only words that left his mouth. Then he just sat on a nearby rock and stayed there, mourning in his own way, Thorin knew.

However, the time came when they had to face the aftermath of the battle—the wreckage, the bodies, the goblins and orcs that escaped—and, of course, the burials of those who had fallen.

One of the giant eagles swooped down from the sky and waited on Thorin, squawking weakly. Its large eyes stayed on Fheon as it tilted its head here and there, almost as if it was curious. Thorin glared at it half-heartedly.

Standing on weak legs, he leaned down and picked up Fheon's lifeless body into his arms. He placed her onto the eagle's back, and to those who did not know better, it would have looked like she had just fallen asleep, if it were not for the gaping wound on her side.

Gandalf got onto the same eagle, so as to make sure her body would not fall off. After a moment, he gestured for Bilbo to get on as well, and he did. Thorin knew that they would not offer that he ride with them, and they did not. The eagle would not be able to take such weight. And even if they did offer, Thorin would not have accepted anyway.

Despite the utter sadness that gripped his heart, he was still the official King Under the Mountain, now, and he was to lead the arrangements for the burials. There was to be a feast as well—for they had finally slain Azog and defeated his armies. But it did not mean that the feast would be merry.

He looked on at Fheon's face, yearning to see her eyes open again of their own accord, so that he could once again see both the kindness and the firm determination in them. But her eyes remained closed.

The eagle took off and Thorin was forced to look away. Snow billowed around him for a few moments before settling back down to the ground. He felt even colder than before.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he proceeded to walk down the long, winding river, back to the cliffs where he would be able to look down at the carnage and victory that war had brought upon his kin.

As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers,

I will say this last goodbye.

The bodies of the fallen dwarves and men were brought into the dining hall, laid across the long tables until their caskets were brought forth.

As soon as the battle was over, Thranduil decided it best to carry the fallen of his kin back to Mirkwood, where they would be given a proper Elven burial. Thorin did not argue, but neither did he forget the condolences the she-elf Tauriel had given to him. She spoke to him about how she had admired Fheon's strength, and the blessing she had given her before she went out to aid him. And though it had not saved her from her fate, he was still grateful.

Thorin returned the White Gems of Lasgalen to Thranduil, along with the Necklace, which lay on the bed Fheon had used to sleep on. It was the deed she would have wanted him to do, ever she found out that the Necklace had not been his to give to her.

Because of the massive amount of their dead, it took three whole days for the dwarves to finish placing all the bodies into the caskets.

During these three days, Thorin ordered three small groups of dwarves to take boats out onto the lake and take three long, prodding sticks with them, so that they could find Elijah's body. They found him on the third day, bloated and as pale as his sister, covered in scrapes, with a large, ugly gash running from his shoulder to his hip. But he held a serene look on his face, the same as Fheon. Thorin ordered him to be clenaed up and changed into their most regal clothes, just as he had with Fheon.

On the second day, Bard came forth from their encampment in the ruins of Dale and asked for the payment he had been promised. In this, as well, Thorin did not have the grit to defy him what he deserved. His people had fought in the battle as well, and they had lost many men. In the end, however, Bilbo offered his fourteenth share of the Mountain's treasure. Despite the dwarves' urgings, he did not fall back on his proposal, and Bard was grateful.

The bargeman returned to the people of Lake-town, but whereupon they would rebuild their homes, when, and how, Thorin did not know. He only parted with them in peace. During the farewells, he spotted Bard's three children, and how they were giving him empathetic looks. The youngest had been crying, Thorin noticed, and it came to mind that Fheon had once taken it upon herself to talk to them, during their brief stay in Esgaroth.

His eyes stung with fresh tears as the thorns tightened around his heart.

On the third day, Thorin wandered the halls of the Mountain, watching silently as dwarves with caskets and dwarves heading for the kitchens passed him by. He noted little things that could be changed, but only ended up discarding them from his mind afterward. In the night, his eyes remained open; his body frozen in place but his consciousness elsewhere. It had been like this for the past two nights and would continue to be, he knew, for several of the nights to come.

The image of Fheon remained embedded into his mind; not as she was during her last moments, but as she had been before they had reached Erebor.

When, at first, he and she had been so hateful towards each other, and when it soon changed, slowly but surely; how Thorin had not even noticed fully until she had returned from her short trip to Esgaroth to look for Elijah. He remembered how beautiful she had been the night they escaped Thranduil's dungeons, and how her beauty had remained, despite the messy hair and the simple, dripping wet clothes.

Her beauty, he knew, would long endure in his memory, as well as how her words would remain a persistent echo in his consciousness—what she would want him to do.

Night is now falling.

So ends this day.

The road is now calling,

And I must away.

It was the dawn of the fourth day when Thorin called all the dwarves of the Company, including Bilbo, to gather outside the Mountain. There, they worked together to build two funeral pyres. They piled logs beside each other to form rectangles that were long and wide enough for the bodies; within, they stacked smaller wooden sticks.

Dwalin lifted Elijah onto the first pyre, and Thorin did the same for Fheon, carrying her onto the second. He took slow steps back, staring at her face, searing the image of her into his mind—her ebony hair, her copper skin, her long eyelashes.

Balin doused her and Elijah's bodies with oil, along with the wood. Fili and Kili stepped forward with torches in their hands, and then placed the flames near the pyres. The wood caught fire immediately. Soon, Fheon's face was obscured from Thorin's view by the tongues of flame.

He looked away and switched his gaze upward, watching as tiny orange sparks floated to the sky before they ultimately disappeared from sight. In his head, he stated his gratefulness to Elijah, for without him, Fheon would never have stayed with Thorin long enough for him to realize what she meant to him. He hoped his message would reach Elijah's spirit. He then also said a prayer to Mahal, asking him to lead Fheon's and Elijah's souls safely to Valinor.

And although he had only invited the members of the Company to witness the funeral, when the fires had died and nothing was left but ashes, Thorin turned to find Dain and several other dwarves looking down at the scene with mournful eyes. The ones Fheon had unknowingly saved from death with her arrows and her sword.

Realizing this, Thorin, without meaning to, shed a tear which fell into the outer workings of Fheon's pyre.

Under cloud, beneath the stars,

Over snow one winter's morn…

Late afternoon of the fourth day, the dwarves of Erebor and the ones from the Iron Hills gathered deep within the Lonely Mountain, where the halls were pitch dark. In front and below them was a massive chasm that travelled deep into the earth below. Within the circular chasm were billions of niches made out of stone, and placed within these were the caskets of the fallen. They would remain within these nooks until their skin dried up and their bones turned to dust, and possibly even afterwards—thousands of years afterwards.

Dain stood beside Thorin, stating his final words to the fallen, as Lord of the Iron Hills, that they would find safe passage to Valinor and into the Halls of Mandos.

After this, there were the initial festivities, and everything went just as Thorin had planned. The halls of the Mountain were filled with the merry laughter of dwarves, their singing, their merry-making. Every hour or so, a bard would come to stand on top of a table and recount a tale, either a happening of bravery from the battle that he had seen, or stories about those who had fallen.

One bard in particular came up and recited his account of a woman with long, braided hair, and how she had lived a short life, but killed many foes with the help of her brother and her simple, short blade alone. The bard was Balin, and at the end of it, he looked to Thorin with knowing, teary eyes. Thorin returned his gaze with the same emotion of woe flooding within him.

Many places I have been.

The festivities carried on until morning, and even through the next day. Sadness and triumph mingled together, and never had it made such a wonderful permutation. Fheon's laughter echoed in Thorin's mind as Fili and Kili danced a merry jig on top of one of the tables. Thorin found himself watching everything with a twinkle in his eyes, and there came fleeting moments when the pain in his heart dissipated.

Many sorrows I have seen.

But in the morning of the sixth day, Bilbo approached Thorin and said that it was finally time for his leave-taking, back to The Shire. Thorin nodded. He knew it had to happen sometime; he had hoped the hobbit would stay longer, but he could not be given everything he wanted. Still, the night before, he had taken it upon himself to prepare a pack for the journey as well, to go there and back again.

At Bilbo's confusion, he explained, "I have to tie a few loose ends there… what with Fheon's and Elijah's passings." A sad smile inched up his face. "Their friend Hiram will want to know what happened."

"Can't any of the other dwarves do that for you? You are King now, after all. Your people need you."

"But my duty is not only to them… not anymore."

Bilbo nodded and breached the subject no longer.

Originally, the hobbit had wanted to leave without a fuss, slipping quietly back into the wilderness outside. But Thorin, of course, would not have that. Bilbo was waiting for him at the front gates, and when he met him there, he brought the dwarves of the Company as well. Upon seeing them, Bilbo sighed, as if in exasperation, but a smile brightened his face nonetheless.

"If any of you are ever passing Bag End…" Bilbo paused, thinking about his words for a long moment. And then a look of acceptance crossed his face, and he bobbed his head with pursed lips. "Tea is at 4. There's plenty of it. You are welcome anytime." The dwarves bowed with teary eyes, and Thorin sent Bilbo a small smile of approval, chuckling along with his brethren when he slowly added, "Don't bother knocking."

He walked to where Gandalf waited, holding the reins of two ponies and a horse. Thorin turned to the dwarves and told them, "I will return." Balin stepped up from behind him and clasped his arm. Thorin no doubt surprised him by pulling him into a brotherly embrace, which he, thankfully, returned.

"Make sure Dain does not completely destroy the kingdom," said Thorin, earning him a chuckle from the older dwarf. Then he walked over the newly rebuilt bridge and joined Gandalf and Bilbo. He mounted his pony and, together, they began their journey back to The Shire.

But I don't regret,

Nor will I forget,

All who took that road with me.

Winter passed in the blink of an eye, and soon spring was upon them once more. The lush green of the rolling hills and the bright blue of the sky brought memories to Thorin's mind, reminding him of the time when their Quest had begun and things were still so simple. All they had to worry about were wolves and the predators of the forest. He recalled being concerned about his Company, and instantly finding relief once he saw how skilled Fheon and Elijah had been with their bows.

There still were the problems of rain and finding shelter, but the excitement had gone out. They were no longer being chased. Azog had been slain, the remainder of the orcs were being hunted down, and the goblins had retreated back into their caves and tunnels underground. There was no more danger than there should have been.

Occasionally, they would pass by a familiar lake or a stream, or Thorin would lay eyes on a small mountain range in the horizon, and he would know where they were. He would also remember the events that had happened the first time they passed by such pastures, and how different everything seemed now that there was no conflict.

With two of his sole enemies dead, Thorin felt like he had nothing to strive for. Of course, when he returned to Erebor, there would be many duties thrust upon him as King Under the Mountain; but journeying for The Shire, he felt more pained than he had been before, for he knew that he was going to the place where Fheon belonged, yet she nor her brother were travelling with them.

At night, he was often tormented by thoughts such as this. However, he soon found that talking to Bilbo was a relief. The hobbit knew just as much as he how horrible it was to have lost Fheon, for he had garnered her friendship as well. The more Thorin talked to him, the easier it became to think of her and not feel like his heart was being crushed.

Bilbo recounted the moments he had had with her, in which Thorin was nowhere near. Be it conversations they had had at night, whenever they could not sleep, or the conversations he had had with Elijah, which was equally enlightening. Thorin only wished that he could have talked with Elijah more before his passing. He recalled what he had said to him during their leave-taking from Esgaroth, his request: "I will protect your kin if you protect mine."

Knowing that he had failed, Thorin once again thrust his concerns to Bilbo, who spoke about it so effortlessly.

It occurred to Thorin that hobbits were as wholehearted as they were hospitable.

To these memories I will hold…

The undergrowth of the Borders of The Shire was a light green, with the leaves above them already taking on a vaguely orange hue. Every tree and shrub seemed to emanate an aura of warmth and benevolence about them. Thorin thought that it would not be a very bad fate to be born in such a friendly location.

He stood aside as Bilbo said his farewells to Gandalf, preferring that they be separated when he did the same. And though their voices were still loud enough for him to hear, he banished the thought of keeping any of their words in mind. For several more minutes, he waited, until finally Bilbo shook Gandalf's hand and lumbered towards Thorin, the various dwarf materials clinking noisily against his body.

Thorin looked at the hobbit with a warm gaze and then wrapped his arm around his shoulders, casually resuming their walk to The Shire. Bilbo looked surprised, but said nothing of it.

Only a few paces afterwards, Bilbo turned and said to Gandalf, "You needn't worry about that ring. It fell out of my pocket during the battle. I lost it."

Gandalf raised his chin. "You're a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I'm very fond of you… but you're only quite a little fellow in a wide world, after all."

The tone that had crept into his voice disturbed Thorin, and he sent the wizard a questioning look. Gandalf only dipped his head lightly, resulting in a shadow to cross his face, before turning around and walking back to his horse. Uneasy, Thorin adjusted his grip on his pony's reins, but otherwise followed Bilbo deeper into The Shire.

When Bilbo asked why he was venturing so far in, Thorin told him that he would rather have the Rangers find him than he look for them. It would be rather easy for them to spot a dwarf walking into The Shire with a hobbit that had been missing for the better part of two years.

"And my sentiments have gotten the best of me, it seems," he continued. "If you remember the first time we met Fheon and Elijah."

Bilbo smiled. "Yes, I remember."

With your blessing, I will go

To turn at last to paths that lead home.

Thorin walked with him as far as the main gate, but there, they had to part.

Bilbo gave him such a sad stare, yet underneath, Thorin could see a fundamental joy—even gratefulness. Smiling, he placed his hand on Bilbo's shoulder and said, "I will not forget you, Master Baggins. You were the best burglar any dwarf could ever ask for."

This got him a light chuckle from the hobbit. "I'm glad to have shared such a journey with you," he said. "It was far more than any Baggins deserves."

"Then take this"—Thorin pulled out an amulet of a dwarfish statue from his pocket. He had carved the talisman himself out of a small pebble, and it was simple, but he had worked hard for it—"along with the mithril, and know that if you ever need help, the dwarves of Erebor will come."

The hobbit looked down at the pendant, and Thorin thought he saw a tear fall from his eye.

"Thank you," said Bilbo, slipping the amulet over his head. It came to rest on his chest, looking so regular above the dwarf clothes he wore. "And… goodbye, I suppose."

"Goodbye, Bilbo." Thorin pulled him in for a hug, which he returned with equal vigor. He noticed that he was trembling slightly, and patted him firmly on the back.

Bilbo was the first to pull away. He looked at Thorin for a moment longer; lips curled up into a half smile, and then without another word, turned and continued on in his usual rapid pace. Thorin stared after him fondly, waiting for him to walk far enough for his figure to be all but a speck in the horizon, before sighing heavily.

"He'll have a lot of questions thrust upon him."

Thorin jumped slightly at the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind him, but it was only to be expected. From his experience with Fheon and Elijah, he knew better than to dismiss the fleeting shadow that had been following him and Bilbo ever since they crossed the border.

Slowly, he turned around.

A man with dark blond hair stood before him, garbed in the clothes Elijah had been wearing the first time Thorin laid eyes on him. On his back were a bow and a quiver of arrows, and on his hip, a sword. He had a roundish face, not particularly fat, but giving the impression that he was. There was a hint of stubble above his lips and on his chin, trailing to the fronts of his ears.

He had grey eyes, and though they were stormy, they held a certain kindness in them that Thorin had often seen in Balin's. But along with the kindness came a particular wisdom, and it was then that Thorin noticed the several white strands that had begun to appear in his hair.

The Ranger did not have his bow drawn, nor did he look very threatening, so Thorin relaxed a bit, but kept a guarded look on his face.

"Are you Hiram?" he asked.

"Depends," said the Ranger. "Who're you?"

After a moment of contemplation, Thorin said, "I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King—"

"Under the Mountain," the Ranger finished; a look of wonder and veneration crossed his face, and then surprise, and then he shook all these away to replace them with curiosity. "Yes, I am Hiram… I—I never thought… should I—should I bow, or…?"

Thorin's lip twitched up slightly in amusement, but he kept his composure. "There is no need."

"Was your Quest completed, then? Did you succeed?"

"Yes."

Hiram nodded and stepped forward, glancing around, though not in suspicion. "Where are Fheon and Elijah?"

After the words escaped his mouth, a hawk flew into view and perched onto one of the branches above his head. Its familiar red tail gave Thorin a deep sense of nostalgia, and he suddenly had trouble speaking.

He took a deep breath before replying, "Fheon… she… she was slain in battle only a few days ago."

"Ah…"

Hiram's knees buckled visibly and he brought a hand up to his chest. He trudged to the left and came to lean against the tree Caligula was perched on. His throat convulsed as he swallowed. "And Elijah?"

"When the dragon Smaug laid siege to the town of Esgaroth, Elijah was there with four of my kin. He did not make it out with them…" At the look of deep sorrow on Hiram's face, Thorin sent him a sympathetic gaze. "If you must know, he died saving a young boy."

Hiram only nodded. Above them, Caligula uttered a high-pitched keen. Thorin could almost see the sadness on the animal's face. She flapped her wings twice and tilted her head right, then left. Thorin's pony nickered softly and pawed at the ground. Thorin looked away from the red-tailed hawk and watched Hiram walk away from him, head bowed.

When Thorin did not follow immediately, the Ranger looked over his shoulder and at him, saying, "Come, have a drink of rum with me… only if you want to, of course."

"I'd like that."

And though where the road then takes me,

I cannot tell.

They sat on two separate logs across from each other, with Thorin's pony tied to a nearby tree. In front of them were the remains of a campfire. If Thorin had to stay until nightfall, Hiram would no doubt have a flint and steel to light it with.

Once they were comfortable, with Hiram holding a flask of rum in one hand and stroking Cali—who sat perched on his leg—with the other, he nodded to Thorin. The look of despondency remained on his face.

After a moment of reluctance, Thorin opened his mouth and recounted their journey from the very beginning. He did not leave anything out—not the trolls' ambush on them, or the appearance of Radagast the Brown, or Rivendell, or their escape through Goblin-town, or the first attack of Azog (at this, the lines on Hiram's face deepened), or the skin-changer Beorn, or Mirkwood. He told him everything.

When he finally reached his account of the events after Smaug's demise, the Ranger leaned forward. Thorin continued on to explain the dragon-sickness that had once taken hold of him, and he felt as if Hiram's eyes were boring into him. Not a judgmental gaze, not even angry, but it was the look of trying to read somebody. Fheon used to have the same expression.

Thorin briefly wondered whether he should tell Hiram of his relationship with her, and then decided against it. However, he placed little hints here and there, trusting that the Ranger would understand. He just did not want to explain his feelings aloud to someone he barely knew.

He ended his tale after telling of the feast, and Hiram took a swig of his rum, just as he had after Thorin described the fates of Elijah and Fheon, as well as the funeral of the fallen dwarves. His esteem for the old Ranger grew.

"It is good that you burned them," said Hiram. "Souls are not meant to be trapped within the ground. That is what we men believe." Thorin nodded and said nothing of it, believing that he meant no disrespect for the dwarves' beliefs. "They were exceptional people."

He nodded again. "Indeed, they were. And they spoke highly of you. I doubt they would have survived many of the skirmishes we had to go through without your training. You have my respect and my thanks."

"I wasn't their only teacher," Hiram mumbled before taking another swig. After a while, he said, "And your bards will recount their lives?"

"The dwarves will remember them as if they were gods."

"No!" the Ranger suddenly said. "Not gods. There is only one true god—Death. Remember them only as warriors… the best Rangers that have come to pass." Thorin nodded. "It saddens me to know of their passing—they were the only survivors of their village, the last of the people of Evendim—but their deaths were honorable ones, I think. They would be proud of what they have accomplished."

He then handed Thorin his flask. The rum swished around inside, eliciting a strangely calming sound.

Thorin pulled open the lid and placed its mouth onto his lips. The liquid burned down his throat and warmed his chest. After several passes of the flask, his mind became hazy and distracted.

He thought he saw Fheon sitting beside Hiram, running a finger down Cali's wing. Of course, when he blinked, she was gone. It did not stop him from finishing the rum with Hiram, just to allow himself the fantasy of her being there with them, if only for one last time.

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We came all this way…

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But now comes the day…

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To bid you farewell…

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Thorin stood before a hall made of gold. He thought he had never seen anything like it. Within the walls were large niches where statues had been built—stone statues of men, elves, and dwarves alike. He looked up and found the ceiling to be constantly shifting, a moving portrait of a sunset sky. Sitting atop the clouds were archers. They drew their bows and released arrows that disappeared off to where Thorin did not know.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and reached Thorin's ears, followed by the sound of laughter. Two voices, one melodic and belonging to a woman, and the other an average deep of a male's.

Excited and anxious in equal measure, Thorin dropped his gaze and saw two people standing at the end of the hall, both with dark hair and copper skin.

Elijah's face broke out into a wide grin. He elbowed the girl beside him and, reading his lips, Thorin was able to make out what he said: "Talia, look."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Thorin, like something he had heard long ago, but he could not quite bring to mind where he had heard it from. He held his breath.

And then Elijah was marching down the hall. He captured Thorin in a tight embrace, surprising the dwarf, but the sight of the two delighted Thorin so much that he could not argue. He returned Elijah's hug, clasping his shoulders tightly, though he was the first to pull away. The grin on the Ranger's face was still yet to disappear.

"She's missed you," he said, and then gave Thorin a slight push forward. The dwarf was then suddenly standing face to face with Fheon.

And she was just as beautiful as he remembered.

No words were said between them. By mutual agreement and at the same time, they stepped towards each other, closing the distance, and captured each other in a warm embrace. Thorin buried his nose into her neck, breathing in the scent of her and reveling in the warmth she offered. He held her body close, nearly thinking that perhaps she was suffocating within his tight grip, but he heard no complaints from her. He could feel her warm breaths cascading over his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine.

"Fheon," he breathed.

It was a fair minute before they pulled away, and when they did, Thorin was astonished to find her cheeks wet with tears. He had never seen her face so bright with happiness before. The sight made him want to crow at the sun.

Then, he pulled her in for a kiss, and her lips were just as soft, just as warm as he remembered them to be.

He felt her tugging lightly at a braid of hair at the back of his head and pulled away slightly, only enough for him to be able to look at her face. She was smiling.

"What?" he asked, a bit startled by the roughness of his voice.

He cleared her throat and she laughed—a loud, clear, ringing laugh. Thorin marveled at the sound. Still tugging at the braid, she said, "What took you so long?"

"I am not supposed to be here," he replied, "But Mahal gave me his permission to stay with you, at least until you leave for the next world."

"And Mandos only permitted me to stay here for this long because he took pity on us. He told me I could see you again, before I go." A smile trailed up her lips, showing both joy and an underlying sadness. "It seems our sacrifices have paid off."

Thorin grinned. "So it seems."

He was about to pull her in for another kiss—one where he would lose himself a bit more—but then her eyes flickered behind him, and he gained a growing suspicion as to why. Pursing his lips, he turned his head and eyed the excited grin on Elijah's face.

"I knew it!" said Elijah, and then, "This calls for celebration! Follow me!" He jogged ahead of them and down the hall, turning the corner to the right.

Fheon followed after him, though waited for Thorin to regain his self-control. Once they were walking side by side, and by unspoken, mutual agreement again, they laced their fingers together. The sensation filled him with such gladness. A sense of contentment flooded through him. Though he knew it would not last—for most things never did—he allowed himself all the bliss his body could take at the moment.

Fheon's shoulder brushed against his, and he felt that all was right in the world.

I bid you all a very fond farewell.