The night had settled in cold and silence, the wind whispering against the small cottage as Thorin lay in his bed. The darkness in the room was thick, the only light coming from the dull glow of the hearth that had long since died down to embers. He tossed and turned, restlessly trying to shake off the feeling of unease that had settled deep in his bones. His dreams were a chaotic mix of memories—his father’s voice, his brothers’ laughter, his mother’s smile, all drowning beneath a tide of orcs and flames.

He awoke with a start, heart pounding in his chest, drenched in sweat, as though the world had collapsed in on him in those few hours of sleep. His body was tense, the air in the room thick with an unexplainable pressure. The silence that had once been comforting now felt like a weight, as if it were pressing down on him, crushing him from all sides.

Thorin’s breath came in sharp gasps, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to his thoughts. He sat up in bed, his body aching with the tension of the dream, and wiped a trembling hand over his face. His heart still raced, his mind a whirlwind of images and emotions, but the worst of the nightmare had passed. Or so he thought.

It was then that he saw him.

At the foot of his bed, just in front of the dim light of the hearth, stood a figure—a translucent shape that seemed to shimmer in the darkness, as though it were made from the very shadows themselves. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat, his blood turning to ice as he recognized the figure before him.

Alaric.

His father.

Thorin’s pulse thundered in his ears, the room suddenly spinning as the weight of the apparition hit him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck, lodged in his throat like stones. He couldn't form the sounds. He couldn’t move. He could only stare in frozen horror at the man who had helped bring him into this world, the man who had always been the guiding force in his life, now standing before him in spectral form.

“Father?” Thorin’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The word felt foreign on his lips, as if he had forgotten how to speak it properly. The air seemed to thicken as his father's ghost simply stood there, silent and waiting.

Alaric, though dead, was unmistakably real. His features were as familiar as they had been in life—strong, weathered, eyes sharp with wisdom and experience—but now they were softened by a translucent glow that made him seem as if he were floating, suspended between two worlds. His once strong frame was now faint, shimmering like a memory.

Thorin’s breath hitched. His mind fought to process what he was seeing. Am I dreaming again? Is this another dream … a nightmare?

But the sensation of his father’s presence—the warmth that Thorin had longed for since the day the orcs had taken him—felt all too real. It wasn't a trick of the mind. It was his father, standing there, just out of reach.

“I’ve come to help you, Thorin,” Alaric’s voice was deep and steady, like the sound of distant thunder rolling over the hills. “I’ve come to help you work through your pain.”

Thorin stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. “You ... you’re here?” His voice trembled, thick with the disbelief and confusion that flooded his heart. “But you’re gone. You’re all gone. How … how can this be real?”

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Alaric nodded solemnly, stepping closer, his figure shimmering as he did. “I am gone from this world, yes. But I’ve come because you need me, Thorin. You need to understand that you can move on.”

Thorin’s chest tightened, and he struggled to find his voice. “I don’t ... I don’t know how to move forward without you, Father. Without you ... and Mother, and my brothers.” His words came in jagged breaths, as if the weight of the grief had finally shattered the dam inside him. “I can’t ... I can’t go on like this.”

His father’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his form almost fading into the gloom of the room, but his presence undeniable. “I know the pain you feel,” Alaric said, his voice laced with understanding. “I’ve seen the way you’ve carried it all these months, like a weight around your neck. But Thorin, you must let go. If you don’t, this grief will swallow you whole.”

Thorin shook his head, the words that his father spoke striking him with an almost violent force. “I can’t,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of his soul. “I can’t just forget. You were everything to me, Father. You were my guide, my light. You always knew what to do. You always found a way. But now you’re gone ... and I don’t know what to do without you.”

The words spilled out in a torrent, his heart breaking with each one. “How am I supposed to carry on? I feel like I’m drowning, Father. I don’t even know who I am anymore. You were the one who knew what to do when things got tough. You always had the answers, the strength. And now ... now I don’t even know if I can keep going.” His voice cracked, and for a moment, he could barely breathe, the pain overwhelming him.

Alaric’s expression remained calm, but his eyes were full of sorrow and understanding. He stepped forward and placed his hand, light as a breath, on Thorin’s shoulder.

“You have to stop living in the past, Thorin,” Alaric said gently, his voice both firm and compassionate. “The past is gone. What’s left is now. What’s left is you and the life you still have to live. You must not let your grief define you. It will only destroy you, and it will destroy Elysia too.”

Thorin’s chest tightened as his father’s words sank in. The weight of it all was almost too much to bear. He could see Elysia’s face in his mind, her tired eyes, the hollow look she had worn over the past few weeks, the way she had tried so desperately to reach him. She had tried to comfort him, to give him space, but he had shut her out, leaving her to suffer as he had wallowed in his own sorrow.

“Father ... I don’t know if I can,” Thorin whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the man you were. I can’t even seem to get past my grief. I’m failing ... I’m failing everyone. How can I move on from this? How can I live up to your example when I feel like I’ve lost everything?”

Alaric’s figure seemed to shimmer in the dim light, his eyes softening with something like pity, but also with pride. “You are not me, Thorin,” he said, his voice firm but filled with love. “You are your own man. And you will find your own way. It won’t be easy. Grief never is. But you must choose to live. For Elysia. For your future family. For yourself. For the memory of us. And when you do, when you step forward, you will see that the future isn’t a burden. It’s a gift.”

Thorin sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him. There was a part of him—deep inside—that knew his father was right. He couldn’t stay frozen in the past. He couldn’t keep drowning in the shadows of his loss. But the idea of letting go, of truly moving forward, felt like a betrayal. How could he leave behind the memory of his family? How could he stop mourning them?

“Dad … I don’t know if I can do it alone. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Alaric’s ghost smiled softly, his figure beginning to fade, the faint light dimming around him. “You are. You always have been, Thorin. And you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

With those final words, Alaric’s figure dissipated into the air, leaving Thorin alone in the quiet room once more. The silence hung heavy, but it was a little different now. It was no longer suffocating. It was a silence that held the weight of a decision.