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The hall had grown very quiet, only the ten of them were left standing by the tombstones and none of them had the will to break this silence with unnecessary words.
Balin took a deep, trembling breath. Images surged through his mind uninvited; two Dwarflings running to him, one with a messy golden mane that glistened in the sunlight, the other with silky hair as dark as midnight, yelling: “Uncle Balin! Can you read the story book to us again?”, laughing brightly. And then memories from much earlier, of a serious young Dwarf watching over his younger siblings as they played, of the soft hint of a smile on his face as his baby sister brought him a flower. The thought of Dis made Balin’s heart fill with shame; he had had no choice but to deliver the news to the Princess through a messenger. He would never forgive himself for not being able to tell her in person, but he had known his duty was to stay with the King and the Princes, to make sure everything was arranged correctly. Dis had thanked him for that sincerily, but he suspected that his guilt would never quite subside.
Ori felt like he hadn’t stopped crying for days. He had reminisced about the time he had first laid eyes on the two Princes, back in the halls of Ered Luin. Only slightly his senior, but so much higher in social standing they were, and they had had such a regal air about them that Ori could do little but stare in awe. They had never had much to do with each other back home, and when Ori had first run into them in Bilbo’s silly little house, he had been quite scared of being in their presence. But to his amazement, the Princes had greeted him with excited voices and pats on the back, and immediately offered him some of the Hobbit’s very fine ale. And even the King, as stately and highborn as he was, had never once acted like Ori didn’t deserve to be along on their great journey, even though he had more skills with a quill than a sword. For once in his life, Ori had felt truly accepted and important, and he would have done anything for the descendants of Durin. But in the end, nothing he could have done would have made a difference. That’s why he felt his eyes filling with tears again as he looked at the tombstones.
Bofur had, for once, left his hat in his chambers and was standing between his brother and cousin with his hair on two very sleek braids and a solemn look on his usually so cheerful face. He hadn’t sang along with the funeral hymn – music was very close to his heart and with a broken heart, he could not sing. The hymn had brought tears to his eyes. It was a hauntingly beautiful and sad sound when hundreds of Dwarves joined their voices in a vast mountain hall. Bofur had also spotted the only other person in the hall who didn’t sing: Bilbo, who didn’t know the words. The Hobbit had slipped away right after the ceremony had ended, his gentle face stricken with sorrow. Bofur sighed deeply as he thought of all the times the Company had sang songs around the campfire, the Princes’ young faces flushed with joyous laughter at the dirtiest lyrics of the more questionable tunes. Their uncle joining in on the more serious songs, his beautiful deep voice leading all the others. In time, Bofur mused, he would find the will to sing again – but he would not be likely to forget those voices that he would never hear again.
Nori was clenching his fists and staring hard at the golden lanterns. He would not cry, not while his brothers could see. He needed to stay strong for them, he was the tough one. The lanterns made him think of the piles upon piles of gold and treasures that lied inside this mountain. How amazed he had been to see them for the first time. How Dori had, quite dryly, told him not to steal anything. But that had been unnecessary. Nori would never have stolen anything from his King. Trolls, Elves, other Dwarves – that was a different matter. The King had accepted Nori as a part of his company, even though his unsavoury reputation was known far and wide. He had never doubted him. Neither had his nephews, who had treated him like any other. And in the end, Nori had seen the King fall under the spell of the gold. The whole treasure now felt tainted to him. He would sooner go back to poaching in the forests than take any of it.
Gloin was holding his silver locket tightly to his chest. It held the drawings of his wife and son. They had not come to the funeral – his wife was tied to her political duties in Ered Luin at the moment, and Gimli was too young to travel alone. Gloin thought of his son and was reminded of the excited smiles of the two Princes, who had been not so much older than Gimli after all. He had expressed his condolences to Princess Dis upon meeting her, and tried to imagine her pain. Would he be able to stay standing if he were to lose his son, and brother? It hurt too much to even think about. It was horrible enough to have lost his King and Princes, his traveling companions, even if they were only distantly related. Gloin had often been quick to complain about the hardships and terrors of their journey. Little had he known that the worst had been saved for the last.
Dori was grasping Ori’s shoulder, both to comfort his weeping brother and to ground himself. He had always been a very proper Dwarf, prided himself on his composition, and it would not do to break down now. But it was a hard thing to do. They had lost their King, the greatest King the Line of Durin would have ever seen, had he been allowed to live. Dori didn’t doubt it in the slightest. But he had died with honour and grace, and that offered a small consolation. And the two young ones – a proper nuisance they had been, introducing Ori to all manners of improper language and pranks! But Dori had learned to love them all the same, cherish their joyful natures, and in a battle he would not have hesitated to give his life for them any more than he would have done for his brothers. It was a cruel fate that he had not been able to do that.
Bombur was fidgeting with his carefully braided large beard. He thought of the lamb stew he had cooked one night at the very beginning of their long journey. It had been raining, half of the Company were sneezing with colds, and the King had been in the worst mood any of them had seen so far. He had sat down with a bowl of stew, grumbling to himself about something or other – but after the first spoonful, his eyes had gone wide and his lips turned to a smile. “This is delicious, Bombur.” The Princes had agreed, slurping down their portions like a pair of hungry wolves. The two young Dwarves had always been hasty and sloppy eaters, but had never forgotten to thank Bombur for the food. Few things in his life had brought him as much pride as cooking for the Heirs of Durin. It was something to tell his grandchildren in the long, quiet years to come.
Bifur stroked his beard softly as he stared at the words engraved on the tombstones. The letters seemed strange to him, like fragments of a dream long since forgotten, but he knew what they said. Eventually, Oin had said, he would find the letters in his memory again, and all the languages as well. He had been glad to travel in a Company of mostly his own people, who understood him. Well – they all understood spoken Khuzdul, but only few of them knew Iglishmêk, which was a bit frustrating since even the Khuzdul left Bifur’s mind occasionally and he found it easiest to communicate with hand gestures. He had been amazed to find that their leader knew the ancient sign language, and they had had many silent conversations on the occasion they had both been on the watch duty. The young ones, Bifur smiled faintly as he remembered, hadn’t known Iglishmêk but had been most keen to learn, and Bifur had gotten many a good laugh watching them sign absolute gibberish with a stern concentration on their faces. He wished he would have had more time to teach them.
Oin knew that even without his hearing loss, the hall around him would have been eerily quiet. If he closed his eyes, he could faintly hear the chanting of the red-headed Elf in his mind. It was not such a wonder that the memory of that moment should come to him now; after all, he had failed then, failed to save the young Prince from his pain, failed to take the scared look off the older Prince’s face, and Tauriel had succeeded where he had failed. He had been relieved to see the young Dwarf get better, of course, but it had hurt his pride as a healer. He had sworn then that he would not fail the descendants of Durin anymore. He had not been able to keep his promise. And the portents… Had he not deciphered the signs and prophecies and relayed them to the King, would he even have taken on this fatal Quest? Would he still be alive? Oin had spent many a sleepless night wondering about it.
Dwalin had not eaten much of anything for days. Or weeks, maybe. He couldn’t remember very clearly. All he remembered was the cry of the fair-haired Prince as he was dangled over fifty feet of nothing but air, pleading his companions, his family, to run, the look on his face as his body was impaled, his silent fall. He remembered running towards the wails of the Elf girl, only to find that he was too late, to see the dark-haired form, dispropotionately tiny next to her tall frame, lying still and cool and distant. With a clench of his fists, Dwalin remembered staggering towards the edge of the ice, trying to find the words to explain the loss of the family’s youngest to the King; and then seeing the impossible, seeing the Hobbit curled up with his whole body shaking from sobbing, seeing his best friend, his brother in arms, his King on the ground, a peaceful look on his face and empty eyes glassy, and how the entire world had stopped at that moment. Dwalin was still waiting for it to start moving.
The ten Dwarves, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, stood by the graves for an unknown amount of time; no one wanted to leave, for no one dared to make this horrible nightmare a reality. And down in their resting places, Thorin, Fili and Kili slept peacefully, but remained untouched by both nightmare and dream, for now and forever.