Right, because I promised a warning when it applies, here we go: this Chapter will contain character death.
It is up to you guys whether you want to read it or skip it or bin this story altogether. I do hope you'll keep on reading though.

Thank you for your already overwhelming reviews to the last Chapter and I hope you'll still enjoy this Chapter as well.

The snow lay thick and heavy on the countless balconies that reached out to the Desolation of Smaug. The white crystals had washed away the blood of the battle and drenched the soil, cleansing it for new grass to grow in the spring and flowers to finally bloom and blossom again before the Gates of Erebor. For days, the snowfall had not ceased and the hours crept by slowly. The Kingdom under the Mountain lay in deep silence.

Every passing day, strong, brave warriors died of their wounds and every night, they were barred up across the bridge and burned in a bright fire. And every night, Bilbo stood by the Gates, often accompanied by Bofur and Nori, watching the flames reaching high up into the dark sky.

"The smoke guides them to the Halls of Waiting", Bofur explained quietly, watching the flames licking at the night sky while the wood cracked and scrunched. "They'll be reunited with their deceased loved ones and be in peace forever. It's not so bad."

"It doesn't sound too bad", Bilbo muttered and still his heart clenched as he watched. He kept on helping the healers with all the wounded warriors scattered across the Halls. Applying balms and pouring strong medication to drink, curing fever and stitching up cuts and tears. At night he couldn't sleep, haunted by the images that lingered somewhere in the back of his mind, creeping upon him in the dead of the night and during the day he felt tired and exhausted and he wished badly to be home in Bag End, far, far away from this dying and the wailing and crying that kept him awake at night.

The rest of Thorin's company had returned safe and sound. Some had suffered from small wounds that were easily patched up again and they helped wherever they could. None of them, however, dared to travel up to the highest floors of Erebor, where Thorin and Fíli were bedded.

The young prince was burning from fever and the arrows had left two nasty wounds on his back, after they had removed them carefully. The hearth in his bedroom was blasting day and night and he was covered with thick furs and blankets, his torso bandaged thoroughly. Across the hall lay Thorin in his old bed. His chest was shattered, ribs and breastbone broken and something inside him, maybe his heart, maybe his lungs were badly infected, spreading a dreadful poison through his ruined body. He suffered from ague and pain and the strong medication that Óin had brewed for him, knocked him out most of the time, for nobody wanted to see the King suffer like this.

Three days after the battle, Gandalf returned.

The Dwarves gave him a frosty greeting, many blamed him for the disastrous outcome of this battle and Gandalf never explained himself. While Bilbo felt quite relieved to have the wizard back in their company, Kíli entirely ignored him. He knew that the wounds of his brother and uncle were not Gandalf's fault initially but the wizard had abandoned them nonetheless when they had needed him most.

"If you would let me take a look at your brother, I might be able to help", Gandalf tried one morning, catching up with the youngster as he was on his way to his brother's bedroom again, carrying a bowl with hot water and a clean cloth.

"Your help is not needed", Kíli shot down the approach immediately, his gaze strictly on the stairs before him. "If you had been there from the start, it might have ended differently."

"I had other business to attend to. How could I have known that your uncle would start a war in my absence?"

Kíli stopped dead on his tracks and stared at the wizard in disbelief.

"My uncle started nothing!" he hissed, his eyes full of disgust. "He didn't even start this quest! It was you all along! You lured him on this journey and now he's slowly dying! You sent us out and then you abandoned us!"

"I-", Gandalf tried to defend himself but was not given any chance.

"When did you ever truly help us?! You did nothing for us! Nothing! And if it was up to me, you'd not even be here anymore but long gone or best beheaded already!"

Gandalf stayed behind as the youngster waltzed on and he stood speechless. Over the years, he had gotten used to cold greetings and shoulders turned but not many had outright wished death upon him. Deep in his heart, he knew that Kíli was merely hot headed and hurt, worried about his brother and uncle but still the words resounded in his head and clung to his innards like a veil, slowly choking him. He tended to the wounds of the warriors down in the Halls but he never entered Fíli's bedroom and was only allowed in Thorin's chambers when Kíli was not around. And for the first time, Gandalf felt great remorse for his actions and he wished to apologise, though he knew that the young prince would not accept any apologies anymore.

Kíli tended to his brother with utter love and care, cleaning the sweat off, changing the bandages, applying balms to the wounds but Fíli's state remained critical. Óin did not dare to make any predictions in case they wouldn't come true and thus Kíli waited. He spoke to his brother, stroked his hands and hair, sometimes begged him to wake up again but Fíli never reacted to any touch or word. As the days passed by, Kíli grew more and more desperate and he began to hate himself, for he was utterly helpless and unable to truly safe his brother.

"It's not your fault."

One night, Bilbo and Kíli sat by Fíli's bedside together and the young Dwarf found the waiting in Bilbo's company more bearable. He sipped on a cup of wine, watching his brother's face carefully, following the dancing shadows the fire in the hearth cast on Fíli's features with his dark eyes.

"There has to be something I can do for him", the youngster muttered against the brim of his cup and Bilbo sighed, shifting a little closer.

"You've done all you can. You must keep on hoping though."

"Do you think he'd leave me like this?"

"No", the Hobbit smiled, watching Fíli's peaceful face. "He loves you too much. And he loves his life. He's a fighter. You all are, remember? I think he'll come back to you."

They listened to the commotion coming from the Halls downstairs for a while, listened to the cracking of the fire and the silence of the falling snow outside and the more time passed by and the quieter the Halls of Erebor became at night again, the bigger grew the lump in Kíli's throat. The nights were worse than the days, for those were the hours where he felt incredibly alone and missed his brother's company, his voice and his warmth. He felt his own body growing weaker with each passing day, his skin pale as the snow outside to a point when Balin and Dwalin had begun to worry about him just as much as they worried about Fíli. No food, no sleep, only copious amounts of alcohol and Kíli felt miserable, for nothing was left of his charming personality and his dazzling smile.

Some silent tears fell onto the thick fur that covered Fíli's cold body up and Bilbo saw them but didn't say anything. He could only imagine the agony the youngster was going through and he had long ceased from trying to understand all this pain and suffering. Never in his life had he witnessed something so heart breaking. He listened to the silent snowfall, the quiet sobbing and it was this silence that killed him over and over again.

"Oi", the sudden sound made them both flinch and it sounded deafeningly loud, once they had grown used to the silence. "Don't stop talking. I sleep better when you talk."

The tone that came from Kíli was anything but human, a supressed squeal maybe, possibly he was choking, Bilbo couldn't tell but the tears began to fall again, when the youngster looked at his brother. Fíli watched them curiously with his clear blue eyes, peeking from underneath the thick covers and though he was weak and tired, a small smile tucked at the corners of his lips.

"You're awake", Kíli's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper as he lovingly clasped his brother's heated cheeks in his hands, his eyes swimming with tears and the brightest smile on his lips. "You're awake! Thank Mahal, you're awake!"

Bilbo beamed like a child as he watched Kíli leaning his forehead against Fíli's and the older brother carefully wiped the tears off with his thumb, still fragile but smiling again.

"You've come back to me", Kíli whispered, his eyes closed and Fíli's smile grew a little wider and he lightly nudged the tip of his nose against Kíli's.

"Promised you, didn't I?"

In the course of the following days, Fíli's fever vanished bit by bit and he soon sat upright in his bed, eating and drinking properly again. Everyone knew how lucky he had been, for the arrows had neither pierced any vital organs, nor muscles and he soon began to walk around again, slowly but steady, always supported by Kíli who barely left his side. Unlike the youngest though, Fíli found himself unable to hold a grudge against Gandalf and secretly asked the wizard to tend to Thorin whenever he could.

Their uncle remained in a devastating state, the blood poisoning spreading in his body and nobody found a way to cure him. Óin grew more and more desperate with each passing day, often breaking down crying for he blamed himself for the bad condition of his King and nobody was able to soothe or comfort him. Soon Gandalf's magic was depleted as well and a devastating truth spread throughout the Halls of Erebor. Thorin would not live to see the day that his people would return to their homeland.

The boys slowly grew accustomed to the thought, spending many hours crying and questioning Mahal, cursing him and wishing they could die in Thorin's stead but no praying or swearing helped. Soon all their tears were shed and nothing but dry sobs remained, hurting their throats and their hearts and the small Hobbit watched them in agony, for their pain burned worse than hellfire and would not end.

They spent every waking hour in Thorin's bedroom, often falling asleep by his bedside and many days they were joined by Balin and Dwalin, who suffered just as much for they were Thorin's oldest friends and loyal companions ever since they could remember. Whenever Thorin was awake, though dazed with fever, they talked to him, told him about minor things or reminded him of the glorious old days in the Blue Mountains, only to see him smile a little every now and then. And whilst they were close to breaking down more than once, Thorin faced his fate with the pride and courage of Durin's line and he often comforted his nephews, even though he was the one who lay dying.

"They'll be coming soon. You should really try to stick around until then", Fíli sat by his uncle's bedside, playing with the silver ring that Thorin had long taken off and handed to him to wear.

"So they can see me like this?" the King under the Mountain smiled, his voice raspy and quiet. "I think I'd rather be gone before your mother gets here and gives me a last beating for all the things I put you through."

"Don't say that", Kíli muttered. Coping with his uncle's inevitable death seemed harder for him than it was for Fíli, since he had always been the emotional one amongst them. The youngest, the child who could not deal with loss at all. "Maybe you'll be fine again."

"You know that I won't be", Thorin still smiled. "And remember what you promised me."

A couple of days ago, Thorin had made both his nephews promise that they would go on without him, keep him in good memory and represent him with dignity and honour for as long as their lives would last. He had reminded them of their heritage and their family and of the importance to protect those they loved. He had also spoken to Bilbo for a while and when the Hobbit had left his chambers again after hours, he had hidden himself in the Hall of Thráin for the night and he had cried worse than he had ever cried in his entire life.

"You do remember, right?"

Both boys nodded at once and they looked up when the door to Thorin's bedroom opened and the large frame of Dwalin entered, closely followed by Balin.

"You looked better before", the old warrior smiled, taking a seat on the other side of Thorin's bed.

"So did you", Thorin replied and when Dwalin reached out for the King's hand, he gently clasped the tattooed fingers. "Keeping me company before I go?"

"We thought we better guide you a little, before you get lost again on your way."

Thorin chuckled quietly. The pain was blanked out with Óin's strong, mainly alcoholic brews and though he could not sit upright or move too much, the King under the Mountain smiled, looking graceful and strong as ever, if a little pale maybe.

"If you two ruin this Kingdom as well, like you did with the Halls in the Blue Mountains, I'll come back and haunt your backsides", Thorin sternly looked at his nephews and he wasn't sure if Kíli laughed or sobbed in return, while Fíli smiled a little, hurt and afraid. "This throne is yours now, Fíli. You're going to be the King under the Mountain and I want you to carry the crown with dignity, do you understand?"

The youngster nodded faintly.

"I've done everything I could to raise you two right and I could not be more proud of you if you were my own sons. I know that you will rule these Halls honourably and carry on the Line of Durin with the same pride like your forefathers have. And always remember that I love you both. More than anything in this world or any world beyond."

The snow silently kept on falling and the fire cracked in the hearth. Sometimes they sat in silence, sometimes they talked quietly, remembered their journey and the past years, talked about the things to come and the things that had been and they watched the falling snow and the settling sun and when nightfall came, they brought the wine and the golden harps and played and hummed songs of old. The peace that lingered in the room was not to be disturbed by anybody and nobody came knocking that night. Sometime late at night, Thorin fell asleep, the hands of his nephews safely clutched in his own and they watched him and smiled quietly.

Thorin Oakenshield passed away in the early hours of the morning. A smile played on his lips as he silently left them in his sleep, going on his last journey to the Halls of Waiting to meet his grandfather and father again.