Thorin stands solemnly by the thrown of his once great grandfather, a dwarf who had been swallowed up by his love of gold. He remembers standing beside this throne many a time, speaking to his king. From when he was a wee dwarrow to the young dwarf he'd been when Smaug ransacked his home.

He doesn't even hear Bilbo come up to him until he speaks, hand resting on the arm of the chair, leaning against it a little. He turns to look back at him, brows knit.

"He took everything." Thorin mutters, quiet, defeated sounding. Even though he's back in Erebor, seeing it like this, it's painful. He wants to crumble, to weep, to let everything out, but he can't. He can't do that.

He is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. He must be strong, no matter what.