By the eve of the princess' awakening, what should have been the celebration of victorious battle and the birth of another prince of Durin was instead acknowledged as a time of sorrow.

Pyres blazed in great bonfires in the darkness, built by wood and stone.

Tears reflected from the faces of the living, mingled with variously city beards ragged from the battle they fought.

Many beards have been shorn that night. Including Thorin's.

Where there should have been five royal burials—including Lord Nain of Iron Hills and Fundin, father of Balin and Dwalin—returned to the roots of the mountain of their forebears, the ashes of the dead instead floated high in the stars, taken away into the wind where the stars managed to break through the clouds.

There was no feast, or song that night. Their dead went beyond the count of grief.

It was not traditional and many a Dwarf abhorred the idea that many of their fallen would not be returned to the stone where their bodies would find eternal sleep…but it had been the king's final decision.

The king. King Under the Mountain. Thorin Oakenshield, who was already used to making so many difficult choices that he wondered how it had not yet become second-nature. King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, who stood his face setstone in a grave expression, his head held high and the sapphire blue eyes blazing like the pyres of his male family members as they were sent on their way to what he hoped were the Halls of Mahal.

On either side of him stood Dwalin and Balin. A little further behind stood Oin and Gloin, and in between them was Ari, who had her hand clasped in Gloin's as the pair watched the fires burn.

Standing close on the Thorin's right was his sister, the Princess Dis, daughter of Thrain, wife—now widow—of Vìli, and mother of Fili and Kili. Though still weak with shadows under her blue eyes, she was standing now, wearing a light dress while bundled under a cloak of furs. In her arms was the bundle that held her newborn son. Kili was fast asleep, his tiny face glowing golden from the light and soothing heat of the nearest pyre, blessedly unaware of the grief and loss that was taking place. Unaware that his father, his uncle, and his great-grandfather was among them was being burned among the dead.

Fili, the little dwarfing who stood between Thorin and Dis, was very much aware of the precession, however. His little face forcibly set with his pouting lip trembling, blue eyes shining with tears the little lad had to swallow back like the dwarf prince he should be, he watched the pyre that held up his adad blaze. He wore his Uncle Frerin's hair clasp to pull back his bright golden locks, where he swore he will keep with him forever until he too passed into the Halls and returned the clasp to his uncle, like he promised.

Glancing up at his last living uncle, Fili saw his Uncle Thorin's face full of strength and endurance. No tears, no visible show of anguish, not like before in the privacy of their tent. He saw a warrior and he saw a king.

This solidified something in Fili, and he grasped on to it like a lifeline.

At the age of five, Fili would remember this day for the rest of his life, like a scar, like a brand, like a vow.

He would remember the time when the Dwarves of Erebor gathered under the banner of King Thror from Ered Luin and marched to Khazad-dum to take back the kingdom of mithril from the goblins, nearly to lose, only to win under the leadership of Thorin Oakenshield, as empty a victory it turned out to be. He would remember the night when he last spoke to his father, bleeding out in the tent, holding his firstborn close in his arms, and making him promise to be a good big brother when the baby came.

My little lionheart.

The day when he first held his nadadith in his arms, where Uncle Thorin was there to help support them as he first looked into Kili's big brown eyes—the same brown eyes as their adad—and when Fili knew a love like he had never known before. A love that would ensure that he would keep his promise to his father, and to himself, without words or rituals.

He would remember all of this, and then this day when all the Dwarves—his people, his family—had gathered around to burn the dead rather than bury them, where nought remained but a memory, on the foothills of Khazad-dum.

He distantly remember Balin speaking out the words of farewell for the dead, of Dwalin bellowing in Khuzdul, "A king is dead! Long live the king!", allowing the Dwarves to echo the chant before kneeling to their new leader, Thorin Oakenshield, who stood before them in his leathers and chainmail, his sword Deathless gripped in his hands and his shield—a thick oaken-branch covered in sword slashes—hastily strapped to his arm by their finest smiths.

Thorin gave them all a slight bow in return, but said nothing.

Nothing for rest of the night.

" Long live the king!"

Even from the highest ledge, the Hunter watched the dwarves chant for their new king around the burning pyres burning into the night.

How strange a sight it was, to see them send their dead off this way. The skull mask rotated continuously in his hands, its bone-white angles glowing in the darkness.

From their perch on the high cliffs of the mountain, the falcon let out a noise.

The Hunter glanced down at his friend, silently communicating with his companion. The falcon gazed back and clucked again.

Why do you linger?

"I do not know," whispered the Black Numorean in Sindarin, a language he had not used for many a cycle. The fluency of his accent was ruptured from all the years it switched between Common and Black Speech. His stormy eyes still fixed on the fires below, the hundreds of shadowy shapes gathered around. "To feel something. Anything…"

Anything other than emptiness, yes?

"It feels…like a dream," he continued quietly, solemnly. "Like another trick…conjured by Him." He said this with bitterness. "Like this escape—this freedom—is a lie…"

You will not know if you do not try. The falcon's wings fluttered and its head tilted up at the man crouched at the death's edge, cloak fluttering the wind. You killed your jailer. The Defiler looked as good as dead when he was last seen. The One's mark has weakened, if not broken entirely.

The red line crossing the black eye mark across the flacon's chest flashed with emphasis. Even now, the stinging singe at the back of the ranger's neck was all the more apparent.

"We can fly," whispered the ranger, "but can we ever hide, melon? For me, His black cloud will always follow me, wherever I go."

What irony, he thought wryly, for the Hunter to always be the hunted.

We will find a way, the falcon told him. We found away break his leash…now we will find a way to escape his sight forever. The world is full of peril, yet remains full of mysteries. Here, and perhaps beyond our understanding. We will find it—one day—or let death be our escape, if that is how it is to be.

"Hm…" The Hunter pondered his avian friend's wise words, and nodded to himself, before he turned to look down at the bird. "Are you to remain like this, even with your newfound 'freedom?' Or are we to part ways, like you had desired? You are not alone this world. Not like me."

Am I not? The falcon looked away, focusing its sharp eyes on the fires below, in the dwarves who still had each other, in spite of the odd they faced. I like this form. Even in servitude I could taste the freedom…feel a little closer to him even when it can never be, as it will never be when you and I eventually part ways. I made my choice…and this was the reward I suffer for it. If I am not like this, I only feel pain. Does that make me craven?

A gloved hand lowered, placed the skull mask on the craggy rock, before formed a fist. The falcon looked down at the fist, before leaping onto his new perch, climbing up to the ranger's shoulder. The man reached up to tickle his friend's feathers fondly.

"I am not one to judge how you handle your grief when I never had such a luxury," the ranger said. A phantom pain tightened in his chest, when memories of decades ago threatened to resurface, haunting him like a spectre throughout his bondage when he resolved to kill his humanity in order to survive.

With a sigh, he continued tiredly, "I had thought that I would save at least one life today. But…all I did was prolong his suffering, I think."

He remembered what his falcon friend had told him when the silver bird encircled the camp, leapt from perch to perch, hearing voices, hearing the weeping and whispers among the dwarves, avoiding detection and scrutiny.

The dwarf—Vìli—of whom the Hunter spared, after slaying Marukan the Torturer, had only managed to live throughout the night before finally succumbing the knife-wound he received. Long enough, apparently, to say farewell to his family, his brother-in-law—the new dwarf king, to his children, his newborn, his wife, a princess among dwarves…

Pain. And more pain.

Death always followed wherever he went.

The Hunter stood up, cloak sweep in the breeze as the light of a sunrise began to break through the dawn in the distance.

Whether his freedom was real or not, this was his only chance to run. He and the falcon only had one another.

He would forever be cursed with the knowledge of whom he had served, he will perhaps forever be a murderer and an outcast to those who knew his identity—but he did not want to die. Not yet. Not when he and his friend finally regained some control.

He cannot go home. But he will find a new one. No matter how long it took.

And so the Hunter ran, leaving behind his name. His chains. And his bone mask, which he abandoned the rocks of the mountain, red-and-blood blood still stained around sockets.

The only things he took with that had been given to him in his service were his two black swords and the falcon, who had taken off to the skies from the shoulder and flew in the same direction to where in ran.

That morning, the Hunter, a Black Numenorean who had once been the Bane of Orcs, a servant and assassin of the Dark Lord, had disappeared.

The day after the burning, the camp of two armies were packed and ready to leave for respective homelands. Two cousins, both young and now the new leaders of their people, exchanged solemn farewells. Lord Dain Ironfoot departed northeast to the Iron Hills, and King Thorin Oakenshield southwest to Ered Luin.

Kili was already a few months old by the time the dwarves led under Thorin returned to the Blue Mountains. Though still tiny for a newborn, he had filled out considerably, despite the hard winter they traveled through.

For nearly the entire time, except when he had to have his wrappings changed and his blankets replaced, he had been wrapped snuggly in at least three layers and a sling on either the care of his mother, his uncle (even during his duties as king), and his nurse, Ari, who had gotten herself betrothed to Gloin during the journey back. His nadad, Fili, was almost always nearby, snuggled next to him in their mother's lap, or holding him close in their shared bedding, which rolled along the cart that continued to carry their belongings.

The little golden haired dwarfling would stroke their babe's unblemished cheek, let his finger get snagged by his nadadith's tiny clutch, and hum different tunes either to make the baby laugh (his first laugh had been due to Fili making funny faces, which in turn made everyone around them laugh along) or get him to fall asleep when neither his mother or uncle were able.

Winter for the dwarves had been rough. Though sturdy by nature, those who had suffered infections from inflicted wounds in the aftermath of Moria had caught the sickness that had been spreading throughout the camp. Some had perished in silence, while others who fortunately learned not to be as hard-headed as the diseased eventually stepped forward for further treatment from Oin and other fellow healers.

Dis, who had been sick even while giving birth, had still been recovering in the weeks after the funeral and was forced to stay bundled in the royal caravan while Ari and Thorin helped take care of her sons.

Slowly, gradually, she would be back on her feet and taking a walk beside her brother and friends by the time the dwarves reached the halfway point to their home, holding the hand of her golden-haired eldest in one hand and the bundled of her youngest in the other.

Home.

And there they were. The Blue Mountains shone majestically like a silver-blue crown embracing a head full of greenery, the last traces of winter's chill melting the morning of pale spring. The briskness of the rural winds had an icy briskness in its strong billows, sweeping through the manes of the dwarves and the wild flowers on the hill making their first bloom.

The city of Ered Luin, however small it was compared to others, awaited them at the foothills. And at its foundation, a bordering village of men and dwarves, one of which awaited the house of Vili and Dis. A cottage that now had lost its master, only now to be run by its mistress and two little masters.

Dis inhaled the wind do deeply through her nose it burned, letting its dryness freeze away her tears before they fell. This was their home, longer now for her than it had been in Erebor, but with her One gone, it would no longer be same. Without Vili's roaring laughter, his jokes, his boisterous spirit, the house––the world––felt emptier than before. But the house was still her home regardless, and she was its mistress. She would not moving into the dark barriers of the Ered Luin fortress that served as the Dwarven settlement that did not shine nearly as majestically as Erebor had done.

Their house was the place she had wanted to birth their boys in, but was unable to due to unfortunate circumstances (one of them her own fault, she would admit begrudgingly). It would be, however, the place their boys would grow up in, thatshe could still guarantee. They would grow up the way their father did: footsteps in the grass, faces turned toward the sun, eyes fixed on the mountains and sharpened by the awareness of nature would give them lessons in hunting and scouting.

It was not the "Dwarven" way, but because of Vili, Dis had soon realized that this new way of life fulfilled her in ways that her blossoming adolescence in the Lonely Mountain didn't. And she knew Thorin and Frerin adapted beautifully to the region as well, though perhaps not as thoroughly, but given all their youthful days of sneaking out of Erebor together to go hunting with Dwalin and his father, Fundin, it was not that surprising.

In the middle of the journey, when Dis made it perfectly clear that she and her sons would be moving back into the house of Vili (brushing aside all protests of exposed danger to a dwarrow dam and her dwarflings, ect.), a reluctant Thorin had then her that he would be moving in with her rather than the Dwarven fortress where their grandfather had ruled, just until the boys were old enough to roam about with constant supervision.

At first, Dis protested, but Thorin was absolutely firm in his decision. He would not, could not, leave his sister to take care of two baby dwarves on her own when their house was more exposed to all sorts of danger, ranging from orcs to bandits. She had only given in after seeing the tiredness in Thorin's eyes and how tightly in he held a sleeping Kili at the time of their discussion. Dis had very quickly realized that Thorin's request was more than just as an overprotective brother and uncle, or the promise he was keeping to his late brother-in-law: he needed them. He needed to be close to them, his remaining family. He had very little desire to return to the Dwarven fortress that was not even his own to rule, despite all of Thror's previous half-mad claims of ownership.

With this, Dis welcomed Thorin, who was now her king as well as her big brother, into her household, however humble it would be compared to a kingdom.

Thorin stood next to her now, a tall dark presence at her side, as brother and sister gazed with matching blue eyes across the landscape toward their place that served as their home. Little Fili squealed with excitement and ran before leaping to rolled down the hill of flowers, his golden hair shining like the gun across the green grass.

In her arms, Kili also squealed with laughter, which as still new with joy. Feeling her heart lift a little, Dis leaned over to kiss the tiny babe across the nose, seeing his round dark eyes glittering brightly like a pup's. Exactly like Vili's. She then glanced over to see Thorin gazing at a playing Fili across the field, his normally hardened gaze softened and shining with love and memory, a look that very few were entitled to witness, and she knew now (as she knew then) that he would be a father to her sons in more ways than anyone expected from him.

Dis leaned her head on Thorin's shoulder. She felt his lips press the top of her head in response, the brush of his now-trimmed beard against her forehead.

Together, with the march of their people following behind them, about to enter their home, they spent these few minutes in silence, watching Fili play happily in the flowers with baby Kili, who giggled in the arms of his mother and uncle.

Safe and happy.

The End

Happy Father's Day!

That's a wrap-up! Finally! I sincerely apologize for the length of time it took to finish this, and apologize in advance for how long it's taking for others. That is the last time I'm making any claims for future updates, because there's really no guarantee when inspiration will hit.

Thank you all for the lovely review, kudos, and follow-ups! This has been quite a journey!