For extra heartbreaking effect listen to "Goodbye Brother" by Ramin Djawadi. I'm so sorry.

Bilbo stared numbly at the carved stone. It's beautifully done, he thought hollowly. Very nice handiwork, considering how little time they had. The inscriptions stared back up at him, broad strokes engraved into the rock with an unwavering hand, the sharp angles of the Dwarvish runes all but incomprehensible to him. And yet, he knew what they said – Ori had translated for him, whispering the words with a voice hoarse from crying. Now he stood there alone in the echoing silence of the stone chamber, trying to commit the runes to memory lest he should forget their shape as soon as he turned away.

HERE LIES THORIN, CALLED OAKENSHIELD, SON OF THRAIN, SON OF THROR, WHO RECLAIMED EREBOR FROM THE DRAGON SMAUG AND GAVE HIS LIFE IN ITS DEFENCE

Bilbo hadn't understood what was going on, at first. Hadn't understood why the healers were simply standing there while Thorin's breath rattled in his throat, why Balin was weeping as if his king was already gone.

He hadn't understood that Thorin was dying until the dwarf told him himself.

"No, you're not," Bilbo had insisted.

Thorin laughed a slow, gravelly laugh, blood staining his teeth. It was the first real laugh that Bilbo had heard from him in a long time. "Master Baggins, denying death," he said hoarsely. "With stubbornness like that we'll make a dwarf of you yet."

"You're not going to die," Bilbo said again, getting agitated now. He studiously ignored the shredded mess of Thorin's chest, looking instead over his shoulder at Gandalf. "There's something we can do, isn't there? We can fix this. You can fix this, can't you Gandalf?"

But the wizard just shook his head sadly, an old grief clouding his eyes. "I have done everything that I can."

Bilbo had felt his throat closing and his eyes brimming with tears. He tried to say something, to offer some kind of comfort to the dying king, but he could only choke out a strangled "No".

"I'm so sorry, Bilbo," Thorin murmured, shame and grief and tiredness mingling on his face. "I'm so sorry for everything. I don't deserve your forgiveness, so I won't ask for it, but I-" He broke off with a sharp intake of breath. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. "I-"

"Shh," Bilbo croaked, patting him on the hand and giving him a wobbly smile. "It's alright, Thorin. There's nothing left to forgive. Water under the bridge, as they say. I just wish- I wish that this could have ended differently." Tears leaked out over onto his cheeks. "But I'm glad I met you. I'm glad you got your home back. I'm glad I could help. That is more than any Baggins deserves."

"Oh, Master Baggins, you are so very wrong," Thorin had rumbled, clasping the hobbit's hand with what little strength he had left. "You deserve so much more…than that. There is more in you of good than you know, Bilbo, and if more of us…valued a warm hearth and good food above hoarded gold it would be a… a merrier world. You'll always be welcome…in Erebor's halls. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin…bâhel." Then he'd taken a great shuddering breath, and closed his eyes, and his hand had fallen away from Bilbo's.

"Thorin?" Bilbo had whispered, his voice breaking. "Thorin?"

A gentle hand rested itself on his head, and Bilbo looked up with tear-blurred vision to see Gandalf standing over him. "I am sorry, my dear hobbit," the wizard said gently. "He is at peace now."

Bilbo did not know for how long he sat there, tears flowing silently as he grieved. At last he had turned away and made for the exit, but had only just set foot outside the tent when a chilling thought occurred to him. He almost fell over himself getting back inside, and grasped hold of Gandalf's sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The wizard's brow creased in worry. "Bilbo, what-"

"The lads," Bilbo breathed. "Do Fili and Kili know?"

Gandalf had lowered his eyes, and not said anything, and a cold, hard horror had gripped Bilbo's heart.

HERE LIES FILI AND KILI, SONS OF DÍS THE DAUGHTER OF THRAIN, SISTER SONS OF THORIN OAKENSHIELD, WHO FELL DEFENDING HIM WITH SHIELD AND BODY

He'd stumbled out of the tent, not believing it, not believing that so much had been lost in so few hours. He all but collided with Bofur, leaning heavily on a crutch and gripping his hat (torn, bloody, utterly shapeless) tightly in one hand.

"Tell me it isn't true" Bilbo had begged of him. "It's not true, it's not true! It can't be true! Not all of them. Not all three of them, Bofur. Tell me it isn't true!"

The dwarf's eyes were already red from crying, and seeing the desperation on Bilbo's face fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "They were so young," he'd said brokenly, looking lost. "They were just children." Bilbo had not been able to hold back a sob, and Bofur had pulled him close, and they'd stood in the middle of the camp for what seemed like years as they wept for their lost friends.

MAY THEY SLEEP NOW TO BE AWOKEN AT THE REFORGING OF THE WORLD

He looked like he was sleeping.

With the blood washed from his hair and his wounds hidden by splendid new armour (burial armour, a small, sad voice whispered in the back of his head), Bilbo could almost imagine that Thorin had simply lain down for a quick nap. The king had never slept much, but when he did he lay quite still, just as still as death, just as still as he was now. It pleased Bilbo to think of him sleeping, finally, of him getting some well-earned rest. Maybe when Thorin awoke he could give Bilbo a tour of Erebor? It was an enormous place, and nobody had the time to show a little hobbit around while there were halls to be cleared and passages excavated and wounds tended to and corpses buried–

The illusion was broken as soon as the marble slab was slid shut over Thorin's pale face.

When it came to Fili and Kili he could not delude himself. Looking at them, lying next to each other with their hands crossed over their chests, there was no way they could be mistaken for sleeping. The lads had never slept so still. Bilbo remembered fondly the sight of them sprawled together in a heap, constantly shifting and stretching, constantly elbowing each other in the face. They'd been so full of life – life and energy enough for the entire Company, and good humour that had lifted everyone's spirits in the darkest of times.

Their faces were as pale as chalk as they were lowered into their tombs.

Bilbo could barely remember what their smiles had looked like.

The mourning hymns of the dwarves sounded like a lullaby. Standing between Bofur and Bombur, racked with sobs he could scarcely stifle, Bilbo found a strange sort of comfort in the haunting melodies. The deep, resonant voices of hundreds of dwarves lifted and wove together in a chorus of grief and remembrance, echoing around the cavernous hall and thrumming through the undersides of Bilbo's feet. They sang in Khuzdul, and Bilbo could not understand the words, but something in their tone spoke to him of sleep, and rest, and dreams.

After a time, one by one, the dwarves drifted away, and the hymn grew softer and softer, till only a few dozen voices were left to carry on the song. Then, slowly, these too departed, till only the Company stood watch over the tombs of their friends, and the hymn finally stopped, because none of them had the heart to continue it.

Then, "Gaubdûkhimâ gagin," whispered Oín, and turned away, for there were still many wounded to be cared for.

And, "Gaubdûkhimâ gagin," murmured Dori, whose strength was needed in clearing the upper floors.

They all followed, in their own time, first Bifur and Bombur, then Nori and Gloín, then Bofur and Ori. Finally Balin and Dwalin left together, their grief too raw and private to look upon. They all returned to where they were needed, to the clean-up effort, or the infirmary, or Dain's temporary council chamber.

But Bilbo, who was not needed anywhere, and who only got in the way when he tried to help, found that his feet refused to carry him from the crypt. So there he stayed, and there he was still, staring down at the inscriptions.

"Well, you're together, at least," he said after an age, swiping quickly at his traitorously damp eyes and trying for a sunny smile. "I dare say the afterlife is in for a treat once you three arrive there. Mahal will have his hands full trying to keep you entertained!" His smile faltered, tears welling once more and hanging heavy on his lashes, but he rallied and continued talking. "I wonder if you get to watch what's going on down here? Do you all sit around with tankards of ale and laugh at us when we trip over?" He narrowed his eyes at Fili and Kili's tombs respectively, picturing them innocently avoiding his gaze. "I imagine you'll all be keen spectators during the re-building of Erebor. Thorin will have a thing or two to say about Dain's plans, no doubt!"

He could practically see Thorin snort and imperiously fold his arms.

Bilbo chuckled, ducking his head. "Sorry," he said. He ran a toe absently along the gap between two flagstones, thinking about the hundreds of feet that had passed over them since they were first lain. He was so insignificant in the whole grand scheme of things. So were they, murmured the rational part of his mind. So is everything. But it didn't feel like it. They had been warriors, and princes, and would have been kings, and Bilbo still could not quite believe that he had known them.

"I don't know where to go from here," he said quietly.

The echoing silence threw his words back at him, whispering his admission again and again.

"I suppose I should return home," he continued, looking away from the tombs. "I want to, you know. I miss Bag-End, and I miss my garden. I miss green things. I just-" He swallowed hard, not wanting to cry again. "I just don't know where to go from here."

As clear as if he were standing before him, Bilbo heard Kili laugh. "To bed, Mister Baggins, I should think! You look terrible!"

"The rest would do you good," came Fili's voice, and Bilbo could hear the smile in it.

Bilbo felt it abruptly, the bone-deep weariness that he'd been ignoring so successfully up till now. His eyelids drooped, and he barely stifled a yawn. "I suppose…" he murmured.

"Go get some sleep, Master Baggins," Thorin rumbled. "We'll still be here when you wake. We'll be here when you need us."

"Alright, alright," Bilbo said, waving a tired hand in the direction of the tombs. "I'm going. You were always…" (now he did yawn) "…so pushy."

As he turned away and trudged towards the stairs, he thought he heard a deep, familiar voice humming a strain of the mourning hymn. But the tone was changed, and the tune not so sorrowful, and Bilbo was reminded of home, and hearth, and friends. He tripped up the stairs and through the old halls, making his way towards the front gate, mumbling nonsensically along to the song. By the time he reached the camp he was almost asleep on his feet, and as he fell into bed the voice seemed to continue humming even after he'd succumbed to his dreams.

(The tune stayed with him long after the funeral, and he took it home, and wrote his own words to it, and turned it into a travelling song. Safe travels, my friends, he thought as he wrote. Safe travels on your last adventure. It felt right, and it pleased him to hear his little cousins singing it. And when he was told, in his old age, that young Pippin had performed it for a Steward of Men, he could not help but feel that Thorin would have laughed.)

For those of you who've been reading since the first chapter (originally meant to be a one-shot), I'm sorry! This fic took on a life of its own, and the happiness just…disappeared? I accidentally made the connection between sleep and death – the eternal rest – and then before I knew it I was writing about a funeral. As for the song – if you slow down "All Shall Fade" and lower the pitch, and imagine that it originally had different lyrics and was sung in Khuzdul by hundreds of dwarves, I reckon it would make a beautiful Dwarvish hymn
Thank you all for reading. As always, any and all comments/critiques are hugely appreciated!
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Khuzdul Translations (I hope)

bâhel – friend of all friends

gaubdûkhimâ gagin – may we meet again