Summary: Thorin survives the Battle of the Five Armies relatively unscathed, but just how bitter-sweet is the victory? Where are his newphews and his hobbit?
Part 1: His Kin
Some say that when you lose someone you love, you can feel it. Even if they're miles apart, you'll be able to know.
Thorin felt nothing through the adrenaline of battle. The only thing that he was aware of was the warmth of the Orc and Warg blood mixing together down his arms and against his face. The king saw the eagles come and watched Beorn scatter their enemies away from his mountain.
This was what a victory must have felt like. An actual victory, where he could reap its benefits with his dwarves and kin. He would be able to live out his reign, crown his nephews, and the line of Durin would run strong once more. There would be feasts and songs of their accomplishments that day, he was sure of it.
But the king should have known better than to be so cocky, so self-sure.
When Thorin regrouped with his company, he noticed that they were missing something. Actually quite a great deal of somethings. The king cried out for his nephews and bugler. What in Aulë's name were those idiots doing at a time like this?
Surely Kili had run off to see the extent of their victory, to merely gloat at the numbers they had slain. And Fili was accompanying him, making sure that his brother was safe. Hah, probably to gloat with him! Boys would be boys after all, even if that meant they would be idiots for a good deal longer. He sent Dwalin and Balin to go fetch them before they fell on a Warg's tooth and impaled themselves.
Now for that blasted Hobbit. That stupid, selfish, absolutely idiotic Hobbit that did nothing but cause him stress. If the Hobbit was successful in anything it would be giving him a stroke before he was 200, that son of an elf. He wasn't fit to be his burglar, let alone his husband. The nerve of that Baggins! He sent Bofur to go look for the Hobbit who's only successful steal was his heart.
The sun had already pasted the middle of the sky by the time one of the search parties returned. By then the elves and men had returned to Lake Town to celebrate the victory further. None of the dwarves had moved from their camp.
Balin was the first to return. He approached his king with a sullen gaze, one that begged not to be broken. Thorin rose just in time to catch the older dwarf who had crumpled against his leader. He whispered quickly, quietly, as if to hope that if no one heard him, his news would not be true.
What a fool he had been to think that this victory would come without payment.
He pushed Balin aside as gently as a distressed parent could and took off to the west. He chased the sun that was now just behind Dwalin's broad silhouette. The bald head was bowed, unmoving. Just beyond him there was a white cloth -- no flag -- covering the tops of two bodies.
He knew that bracer for he had made it himself as a present for his youngest kin.
He knew that pattern on those pants and the fur on those sleeves for they marked his first heir.
Thorin did the only thing he knew he could do: he yowled. He yelled to the heavens as he dropped to his knees. He cursed at the sun for setting on his kin. He cried out at every last survivor, damning them for living when his nephews had not. He slammed his fists into the ground, willing for it to open up and swallow them all whole so that they may be born again in a time when war would not take those dear to him.
He continued to yell and scream and beat the earth until he felt drained of every last ounce of energy. Dwalin moved forward then and put a thick hand onto his king's shoulder. Thorin continued to kneel, dragging in deep, ragged breaths. Balin came to them, suggesting that they moved the bodies before dark so as to prepare them for a proper burial. Thorin rose and gave the two bodies a last look. He saw his two children, too young for battle, much too young for death, laying under the cloth. It reminded him of the countless times he tucked them in when they lived together.
Good night, Fili.
Good night, Kili.