Heart of Embers (Thorin Oakenshield Love Story)

A Merrier Place

A/N: So I've been feeling very guilty, because I promised to do this but haven't, so I finally got round to writing Thorin's death and reunion with Arien. So... here you are! Hope it works! Also, sorry it's so long, but there was a lot I had to get in! Xxx

He had given everything for them, and had been glad to do it.

He had not yielded, nor had he let that light go out.

He hoped he had made her proud.

And yet there was still one last thing he had to do, one last thing to make it right. "I am so sorry," he rasped, even as the pain tore into every memory of light and joy. "That I led you into such peril."

Blood bubbled in his throat, but he forced the words out, tears starting in his eyes.

"I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin," Bilbo murmured, the hobbit's hand clasping his own an anchor in the pain and the blackness that threatened, like the looming shadow of the cresting wall of night. "Each and every one of them. That is far more than any Baggins deserves."

Thorin smiled. For he hoped his friend would remember him, and he hoped his memory would live long past the final shadow that was calling to him. He was glad to pay the price, if it had given them all the gift of living. "Farewell, Master Burglar," he breathed, the breath sighing from his lips. "Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your trees... watch them grow." He did not mind, that his last breaths were to say goodbye to Bilbo Baggins. "If more people valued home above gold... this world would be a merrier place."

A king. He had been a king to his people in his last few hours. He hoped he had made her proud.

When the quiet darkness came for him, Thorin Oakenshield was not afraid.

***

It was not darkness, for there were stars wheeling overhead. And they came to him like jewels out of the galaxies, the faces of the ones he had loved with his heart of embers. He saw Gandalf, leaning upon his staff with sorrow etched into the weary lines of his face, staring at the living and the dead around him. Eagles wheeled overhead, and their cries echoed through this shadow-world, this place-that-was-not-a-place.

He saw Balin, his oldest friend, and Dwalin, who had fought with him to the last.

Óin and Glóin, clasping arms with yells of victory amongst great piles of orcs.

Bifur and Bofur and Bombur, lifted in the claws of Eagles and borne upwards to that tower of ice and stone, to Ravenhill.

Dàin, his cheers of victory louder than the horn-call of Erebor.

Dori and Nori, hauling a bloodied Ori to his feet.

And Bilbo. The hobbit was curled around himself, and sobs shook his small shoulders as he remained beside the body that had once been Thorin's.

Yet though he looked for him in the stars and the night, Thorin did not see Kili, his heir, his sister-son. Not on the battlefield or the ruined city or the mist-shrouded watchtower of Ravenhill.

But he saw his home, snow-capped, rising to scrape the brooding clouds, and the halls of his fathers that he had known once again. And he saw the valley in a foreign land, the green that grew over a fallen city, and the westering sun over a bright hilltop, scattered with niphredil and elanor.

He saw the Shire: all its rolling hills and its little rivers and its precious, merry folk. He saw the darkened dusty halls of Moria, and the rocks of the Battle of Azanulbizar.

He saw Rivendell, the dwelling of Elrond where peace lingered over the land.

He saw empty plains and a golden hall; and horses galloping over the grasslands. He saw a white city against lofty mountains, and a dark shadow to the east. He saw Angmar, and Lórien, the pinnacle of Orthanc and the moonrise over Ithilien; the Iron Hills and the Havens of Harad and the misty green of Fangorn.