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It hurts.
Even after what must have been months after months in the mortal realms of the world it still hurts. There’s a trickle of blood from his forehead and Thorin shivers, the blood feeling far too real for a world where everyone is dead. Absent-mindedly he pulls out a cloth and dabs it away, staring for a moment at the fabric in his hands that’s blotched with a multitude of stains already.
He will never forget the moment he had seen Kíli standing next to his brother, the golden prince and the brown one, both in the Halls of the Maker where they shouldn’t be. He remembers his ears ringing and his mind reeling back at full force when he finally understands that his line has ended and he has destroyed everything he has ever held dear. The peace he had managed to hold on to in his dying moments has been shattered and the pieces that remain are cutting up his heart until there is nothing left.
At the moment of realisation pain seared through him and he was crumbling on his knees, screaming as his wound re-appeared and opened up again in perfect synchrony with the anguish in his mind. But a lung that doesn’t draw in breath cannot be pierced again just as a body which is dead cannot perish once more. The pain is all that stays.
Thorin’s foot leaves bloody prints on the ground for the first months after his death although he doesn’t care. He thinks he deserves it, every second of pain, every bit of agony lancing through him from the wounds on his body, every ounce of blood clotting his clothes and skin. He has failed them all – his family, his friends, even his One. By rights he should be tormented forever.
It is Frerin who finally coaxes him back into some semblance of order. His younger brother, smiles always so radiant and free even in a life that isn’t a life anymore, does not give up, is always there even when Thorin steps away from everyone else and closes himself in. His mother and his nephews, too, even his father do their best to soothe his mind, explaining to him that their form in their Maker’s Halls reflects the state of the mind, begging him to let his mind rest and his wounds heal. But it’s not their forgiveness he needs – it’s his own.
He cannot face Dwalin.
The Maker has granted him the gift to do so one last time, he knows, just as he has granted it to all those who have died an unnatural death before the end of their full lifespan. Fíli and Kíli have done it already, have visited their mother together shortly after they had fallen. Thorin refuses to ask after Dís, for surely his sister must hate him now. He has taken everything from her and left her alone to carry the burden of their line. Just like he did with his One.
Thorin does not even look behind the veil as others of their race do so often to see the living. He did it, once, but the sight of Dwalin roaming the halls of Erebor alone, of his sister stone-faced in the council chamber trying to hide her grief behind a mask of indifference, hurt too much and he selfishly withdrew, staring at the blood on his hands that was still flowing from his chest.
It takes him almost a year to finally take the step and even then he is too cowardly to face Dwalin openly. He comes into his room when his One is sleeping, one of the rare moments that he isn’t walking in the vast halls of stone, hunting the ghosts of the past.
Dwalin’s sleep is uneasy, he is tossing and turning, a deep frown on his face. Thorin stands next to him, looking down at the features so achingly familiar that he could have painted them in his mind a hundred times over. And yet they seemed to have aged a hundred years, a few strands of grey in Dwalin’s hair and beard, the lines on his face hard and deep even in his sleep. Thorin stretches out a hand to wipe away a few stray hairs that have gotten tangled in his beard, but his fingers, after a short moment of resistance, sink through Dwalin’s skin into what feels like nothing more than warm air.
With a shudder he withdraws his hand, wishing he had never come and yet wanting to stay forever, watching his One sleep. Dwalin must have felt his useless motion, however, and with a cry on his lips he wakes up, grasping the dagger next to him with the speed of light and whirling around, the blade coming to rest no more than a hair’s breadth away from Thorin’s throat.
Dwalin’s eyes widen when he sees his face and his hands start trembling.
“No.” he whispers. “No. NO. NO.”
“Dwalin.” Thorin’s voice is cracking when he looks into his One’s eyes. They are frightened, the grey in them bleeding with pain and despair.
“No, you’re not him. YOU ARE NOT HIM. You’re just another phantom of my mind.”
“Dwalin, please-“ Thorin doesn’t even know where he takes the strength from to keep talking. He can feel the wound opening on his chest again, can feel the first drop of blood running down his forehead when he realises that he has managed to forsake his One even in his death.
“You will die. You will disintegrate. You will stare at me with those dead eyes and beg for help that I can never give. Go away. Please.” The last word is more a broken sound than truly a word and Thorin’s knees almost give in at the pain surging through him. But he has to do this, he has to make him see, has to prove strength at least once in this accursed not-life of his.
“Dwalin, it’s me.” His One just keeps shaking his head, his eyes fixed on Thorin’s face.
“One of heart, One of body, One of mind.” Thorin says softly in Khuzdul and Dwalin’s eyes widen at the words of their oath, shaking so badly now that he would have cut Thorin’s throat were he real or could he die again. “Forever, my love. I’m sorry.”
Dwalin’s fingers let go of the dagger and it clatters to the floor before his feet.
“Thorin?” he asks, the word quiet and almost breaking when it goes beyond his lips. Thorin attempts a smile.
“Yes.”
Dwalin reaches out to touch him, to draw him into an embrace, unshed tears shimmering in his eyes and reflecting the light of the candle on his nightstand. Thorin’s heart aches again when he looks at it – Dwalin had never needed light to keep the terrors that the night brings into his mind at bay but apparently he does now. A low sound escapes his One when Dwalin’s fingers glide through him, encountering only marginal resistance.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, âzyungâl.” Thorin’s voice is thick and heavy. How he wishes he could touch him just one last time, smooth out the creases of grief and pain from his One’s forehead, trace the lines of scars and tattoos on his skin, taste the soft iron of his lips again.
“I was waiting for you.” Dwalin says, his voice quivering. “Every night, every day, I was waiting for you to come. Every gust of wind, every flickering of a candle, every shadow on a wall...I always thought it was you. But you never came. You never-“
“I’m sorry.” Thorin whispers again, helplessly. “I couldn’t-“ He bites his tongue and wipes at the blood running down into his right eye. No excuse would truly be accurate.”I’m here now.”
Dwalin sits down on the edge of his bed, as if he legs couldn’t hold him upright anymore. Thorin kneels in front of him, extending his hands as if to clasp Dwalin’s in his fingers, but withdraws them at the last possible moment, reminding himself that he’s not allowed to touch. There is a moment of silence before Dwalin speaks again, Thorin looking up into his face.
“The mountain is so empty without you and the young ones.” Dwalin’s hands are fumbling with the fabric of night clothes, his eyes drifting through the room but always coming back to Thorin’s face. What do you say to the one you will always love when he is dead but sitting right in front of you? Thorin wishes he could still the trembling of his fingers.
“Fíli and Kíli are stirring up the Halls with their presence now. You should see them with my brother...” Somehow it is easier to talk about someone else and not them. The edges of Dwalin’s lips are twitching.
“So they are there then? Frerin, Thráin, Sigvór, Ma, Da...” His voice almost breaks.
“Yes they are.” Thorin tries to smile again. “And they are so proud of you. As am I, kurdel.”
“There’s nothing to be proud of.” Dwalin murmurs. “I couldn’t protect a single one of them. Not my parents. Not your nephews. Not you.”
“Don’t say that.” Thorin has to abort another movement. They had always been so much better at talking with touches and gestures rather than words. “You were- you ARE the most loyal and worthy of sons, of friends, of companions. I could have lived four hundred years and become King Under the Mountain and never deserved you.”
“Shut up.” A little of the old Dwalin is back now in the gentle rebuke of his words and the soft glint of his eyes in the light of the candle.
They keep talking from there on, their conversation weaving back and forth through everything that they shared in life and how much things have changed now. Thorin doesn’t speak about his wounds or the way he died, but he can feel the one in his chest slowly closing up again the longer they talk. He asks about Dís instead, about the other members of their Company and their families. It seems like only seconds when Thorin feels the pull again, sees the tips of his fingers slowly going translucent. They are only given one hour, never more. One hour to say goodbye to the One he has loved for over a hundred years.
Dwalin stands up again when he sees Thorin slowly fading. His eyes are shining wet and there is one tear that he cannot hold back. Thorin wishes he could catch it on his thumb and wipe it away. He doesn’t even notice that the blood from his forehead has stopped flowing and that his own eyes, too, are heavy with tears.
“Don’t go.” Dwalin whispers. Thorin tries to smile at him.
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
In the last moment before he is gone completely, he leans forward, brings all his stubbornness and longing and love into the one movement. He thinks he can feel their lips connect, a faint whiff of Dwalin’s taste and the warmth of sunshine on old wood blossoming in his mouth before the veil is falling once again and Dwalin is left alone.