The flurry of steal, Dwarf King versus Orc-Lord. It was an impossible battle, but one meant to save Thorin. To save his nephews, Fili and Kili. But more than anything, Thorin was fighting to save his home. It was for naught though, he soon found, as the mace struck. It was sure and fast, and thought to be fatal. He'd taken what was assumed his last breath, as his friends sobbed. Then the world went black as the darkest depths o' Erebor.

It was a long journey, that of the Dwarves. Who could have know they'd accrue a wizard? Or a Hobbit at that? Thorin, ever prideful and stoic, had not. But he'd grown to love those men on the arduous travel. Like brothers almost, they were. He only had wished he'd fixed his mistakes with Bilbo. That he'd have set aside his pride for a moment and said he was sorry. But after the dust settles, no one can choose how their story ends. Not a king, nor a cricket chooses their time, as it is left up to the world. Up to destiny.

But it hadn't been the last breath. While the world assumed Mighty King under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, dead, he was not. But, the Dwarf was far from stable. He awoke to the sound of movement nearby him. "Who goes there?" Thorin gasps out, his voice as mighty as one on death's door can muster. His hand grasps for his sword, which is nowhere to be found, and likely left on the battlefield. Had his friends survived even? Thorin manages to open his eyes, blinking into the afternoon light, up at the one patching his many, many wounds.