They had buried her in a small, unadorned grave in a field beside the Keep.

No tomb, no funeral, none of the respect she deserved, just a small black stone with her name on it.

Arien Feathalion.

Nothing else.

The flash of anger Thorin felt seemed separate from his body as he approached her grave.

Her grave.

He had no black clothes fit for mourning, but he did not think Arien would have wanted him to wear black. She would have wanted him to wear clothes that reminded him of life. Of hope.

The field was empty, the headstone and grass covered in dew from the early morning. A breeze coming in from the direction of the Keep lifted his dark hair. Would have lifted hers too, if she were here. One tree stood alone in the field. One soul, stripped of its leaves because of the approach of winter. Alone, just as he was.

For a moment he stared at that stretch of grass, at that black headstone. For a moment he could see that beautiful face smiling at him, laughing with him, loving him.

Then he knelt beside her grave, resting his head against the smooth, cool rock. He had brought nothing, no flowers or gifts. The dwarves never did. Nothing material could contain their grief, for things that existed, flowers and tokens and even stones... His love was eternal –– they were not. He said nothing for a time, just allowing himself to be with her, even in this form.

Then he said the words he needed to say to her, words he should have said when she lay dying in his arms. Words that wouldn't change, no matter what befell him.

"I will miss you," he whispered to the sunlight, to the earth, to the body far beneath him. "Every day, I will miss you. And I will wonder how things could have been different if you... if this had not happened. I think you would have been a wonderful queen. I think they would have liked you more than me, actually." His throat tightened. "I love you, Arien Feathalion, and I know a part of me will always love you. We could have had a hundred years together, and I will never stop regretting what was taken from us, or being sorry that I will never get to live it with you. You were my queen, and maybe... maybe I'll see you again in Valinor, and then we can live that life together. But until then... until then I'll miss you, and I'll wish you were here."

He clenched a fist in the soft grass, his eyes stinging as he fought against the tears that threatened. When he spoke again, his voice was raw.

"I promise," he murmured, to himself and to the world. "That I will not run any longer, that I will turn and fight. I promise that I will find you again, no matter how long it takes me. And I swear to you, on my crown, on my honour, and on my heart that I will not let that light go out. I swear it."

He laid a palm on the ground before the stone, willing those words to be carried to wherever she was now, safe at last. From now on, there would be no other oaths but this, no other contracts, no other obligations.

And then he let the silence wash over him, through him, into him, the grief and the rage and the emptiness. And he stayed there for eternity.

He looked up at the caw of a raven, harsh and loud in the stillness. The jet black bird, the symbol of Erebor, alighted on one of the bare branches of the tree and stared at him.

And he could have sworn he heard her voice in his head.

'I will wait for you,' it whispered. She whispered. 'I will wait for you beyond the Western Sea.'

Fresh tears filled Thorin's eyes. She had come to him.

Come to him like this, as a raven, because it was the bird of Erebor. And he still had his duty as king.

A crack in the silence –– spreading wider and wider as the raven's depthless eyes stayed steady on him.

He could not stay here, consumed by his grief. He could not abandon his people.

'Do not let that light go out.'

He could not look back, he could not give up. He could only go on.

And he would.

He would go on. He would find a way to reclaim his homeland. Their homeland. However long it took, however far he had to go.

He would not fail his people.

He had made an oath to her, and he would not break it.

He would shatter himself, sell himself, wreck himself, but he would not fail them.

He would not let that light go out.

Thorin raised his head and met the raven's fathomless eyes.

'I will find you again,' he promised silently. 'Someday, I will find you.'

He could have sworn the raven dipped its head. And then it spread its night-dark wings and took off from the branch, letting out a croaking cry as it swooped away. Thorin watched its flight. He closed his eyes.

He would not forget Arien, his queen. He would hold her memory safe in his heart, would cherish it, a bright light to take out whenever things seemed darkest. And then he would remember how it had felt to be loved, when the world held nothing but possibility. Whatever happened, they could not take that away from him.

He opened his eyes.

He would face whatever hell the world threw at him, however difficult, however painful. And he would not crumble.

He was Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and rightful heir to the throne of Durin, and he did not forgive, he did not forget.

He was not alone. Never had been.

Thorin Oakenshield lifted his chin, squared his shoulders.

And he did not look back.