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

Thorin lay in darkness, a starless night hanging overhead like the shroud of a dark god.

He had not slept tonight. Had been lying awake for... a long time. He did not know or care how long.

Perhaps it had all been for nothing. The King Under the Mountain.

The title was nothing more than a burden. A burden to carry forever, a burden he would die carrying, to surrender himself forever to a life of servitude and isolation. Strange, that servitude, when he was their King.

It was his duty to save his people, to bring them home. And yet he wondered now if he had the strength to do it. He would fail in that, too, as he had failed in everything else.

Silent tears slid down his face, the first he'd allowed himself to shed since her death. He'd failed her, too, the one who'd mattered most. And his mother, his brother, his grandfather, his father... And now he would fail his people, who were all he had left.

He couldn't stop crying, ceaseless and relentless. As if some damn had cracked open inside him the moment he'd seen Azog's pale, hateful face sneering at him. The Pale Orc, his eternal enemy, was alive. Not dead. Alive.

He didn't care if the Company saw the tears, laughed at them.

He wouldn't fight. Couldn't bear to fight.

He wished he could fold himself into the blackness around him.

Such silence filled the world. Then a loud snoring, likely Bombur.

Thorin blocked out the sound. Did nothing but gaze into the dark.

He was so tired. So, so tired.

Tired of pain, and suffering, and tears. Tired of failing to make it right. Maybe the world would be better off without him. Maybe his people would be better off without him.

And yet for his people, he had gladly done this. All of it. All of it for them. For his people, his friends, his family, he deserved to pay this price.

He had tried to make it right. Had tried, and failed.

My King.

The whispered words floated through the eternal night, a glimmer of sound, of light.

My King.

The woman's voice was soft, loving. Her voice.

Thorin turned his face away. He would not let gilded dreams and foolish wishes deceive him. Arien was dead, and he had failed her.

My King, why do you cry?

Thorin could not answer. He had spoken those words to her once, on a green hilltop in a foreign land, when despair and grief and rage had broken her. Another lifetime, another world.

My King.

The words were a gentle brush down his cheek. My King, why do you cry?

And from far away, deep within him, Thorin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And alone. Because I do not know the way. Her own words, spoken into the darkness, now become his.

Bombur was still snoring, the rustling of the sleeping Company still permeating the calm night.

But Thorin did not hear them as he found a woman lying beside him. A face he knew so painfully well, a face he had traced over and over with his fingers and mouth, so irrevocably etched into his memory. A face he had not thought he would ever see again.

Borrowed time. Every moment together had been borrowed time.

And yet Arien Feathalion ran gentle fingers down Thorin's cheek. Over the beard he'd kept short in memory of those burned dwarves.

Thorin could have sworn he felt those fingers against his skin.

You have been very brave, his queen said. You have been so very brave, for so very long.

Thorin couldn't stop the silent sob that worked its way up his throat.

But you must be brave a little while longer, my King.

He leaned into her touch, his heart aching so badly he thought it might break.

You must be brave a little while longer, and remember...

His queen placed a phantom hand over Thorin's heart.

It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home.

Home. He had forgotten how much he missed home. Missed her.

He managed to slide a hand up to his chest, to cover his queen's fingers. Only thick fabric and chain mail met his skin. Another sob cracked from him at that.

But Arien Feathalion held Thorin's gaze, the softness turning hard and gleaming as freshly-forged steel. It is the strength of this that matters, Thorin.

Thorin's fingers dug into his chest as he mouthed, The strength of this.

Arien nodded.

Bombur shouted something in his sleep.

Arien's face did not falter. You are my King. And theirs. You will always be their King. You are the heir to a mighty bloodline. That strength flows through you. Lives in you.

Arien's face blazed with a fierceness he missed so much he wanted to scream.

You do not yield.

Then she was gone, like dew under the morning sun.

But the worlds lingered.

Blossomed within him, bright as a kindled ember.

You do not yield.

Do not let that light go out.

It still burned within him, bright and unfaltering. A kernel of hope.

You do not yield.

He had not failed. Not entirely. Not yet. And the Company around him... He was not alone.

He had never stopped fighting, never stopped raging against those who had hurt him, who had taken them all away. His beloved dead.

He had never yielded. He would not now.

He reached to his side, where Orcrist lay, and pulled the sword to him. His people had lived in darkness for too long.

He drew Orcrist, the blade flashing and gleaming with otherworldly brightness despite the starless night overhead. Not even a glimmer of brightness for it to reflect. Yet it shone.

He had believed darkness would reign forever, for Arien, the only light that had ever shone for him, had been extinguished.

But he could make his own light.

You do not yield.

A beacon, guiding his people home. A beacon of light, and strength. Of hope.

It was not a burden, to protect, to serve. To care for those lesser than himself. They were not a burden.

You do not yield.

He wouldn't.

He had given everything for this. For them. Had been glad to do it.

And he would give it again, if asked. He would do it. Every loved one lost, every moment of pain and hardship and grief.

To whatever end.

And it would hurt, and he would break, but he would do it –– give his life for them if he had to.

And then he would find his queen again.