A Promise

Chapter Three: Long Live The King

"We can't stay here, lad."

Thorin could hear the numbness in Balin's voice without even looking at him. He doubted he would meet his eyes for some time. Balin would look upon him in sympathy, heartbreak; and trust.
It was that last one he wasn't prepared for.

The battle may have been won, but Moria was not. Their number was crushed, and morale desiccated. It didn't matter to him that he had mortally wounded the infamous Defiler, not when Azog had taken so much from him in one battle.
Four dwarves of the Durin dynasty had drawn swords that day, and four had charged to battle. Yet only one remained. Only he remained. Azog had sworn to wipe out their bloodline, and he almost had.

When he had seen the pale orc strike the King's head from his shoulders; when he had watched his grandfather's crown be flung across the battlefield like a trophy, Thorin had accepted the likelihood of his death. He had accepted that this battle could never have been won. Because of this acceptance, there had been a brief reprieve in his mind amidst the rage of steel and blood around him. A moment where his mind cast back to his sister. If all of Durin's sons were killed here on this day, at least two would remain. In the sanctuary of the Blue Mountains, he hoped his sister would raise them to be the Princes they were. That their people would have a chance at survival, a chance to be led by a King who was not as blind to enemy strength as his grandfather.

In years to come, Balin would say that Thorin changing his mind from this wish that day set the future of Erebor into place. If he died here, if Azog lived, he would strive to fulfil his oath. The Blue Mountains would burn, and his sister would be slain. His nephews...
When acceptance broiled into anger inside Thorin's heart at that thought, his body found the power to charge at the pale orc. He cast his legacy on that fated day. An enemy was slain with an oaken shield and pure fire from his wounded heart.

The valleys had been quiet for almost an hour now. Their enemy had fled, and they had not the number or the heart to give chase. As Thorin sat on that boulder and looked out at the bleak midday sun, he was aware that Balin and Dwalin were searching amongst the fallen. Hoping in vain that they would find survivors.

His grandfather was dead. His father missing. A few moments ago, Thorin had found his little brother impaled on an orcish javelin. Frerin, who had been so adamant on their journey to Moria that he was ready to fight, was pierced by the javelin at such an angle that his corpse still stood. When Thorin had cradled his head in his hands, the fact he was standing had made it seem as if he had merely fallen asleep on night watch again. Thorin had agreed with his little brother on the journey to battle, clapped him on the back and told him all would be well so long as he listened to their father.

His brother hadn't even grown a full beard yet. He never would now.

He should be weeping, should he not? He felt such pain, such debilitating, raw pain that he knew he should be crying out. But nothing came.
"Thorin," Balin spoke again, his voice hoarse from his shattered soul. The hand on his shoulder was light, and brief, as if he knew he did not want to be touched. He lifted his eyes to his former mentor slowly. They ached, everything did.
Balin, with blood on his white beard and an emptiness in his eyes, nodded towards the forest they had emerged from mere hours ago. "I've...I've sent for them to fetch carts, lad. For your grandfather and your brother...." He trailed off, and Thorin knew that he had finally spotted the motionless figure propped against the boulder Thorin was sitting on. If Balin reacted, Thorin didn't see it on his face. The dwarf lying at his side was just another in their tallies of loss.

"Thorin..."
"I'll carry my brother." Those were the first words Thorin had spoken in some time. He nodded over to where Frerin lay a short distance away after Thorin had pulled the javelin from his chest. "Others..others may need to help me with the King. And..." His words escaped him again as he turned to look at the body at his side. At the blond hair matted with blood and dirt. With a tight jaw, Thorin shifted his hand in Vili's cold grip. Balin swallowed painfully and sniffed once nodding.
"Vili too." He may have continued speaking after that, Thorin did not know, for when he next turned his head towards where the older dwarf had stood he was no longer there.