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It's Bofur who finds him, a shocked yelp, a choked sob, scrambling over himself and the bodies of their friends and foes alike, falling to his knees before the body of their halfling.
Thorin had said not ten minutes before, in an angered scoff, that the hobbit had probably scurried back to his hole in the ground the moment he heard the tramp of their enemy armies. The others in the company, wading through a sea of corpses, had said nothing, none remembering having seen the burglar once the battle started, too frightened for their own lives to look for his.
And then Bofur is crying out, is stumbling across the battlefield, and Thorin is choking on his words. They stand, a circle of thirteen who moments before had thought themselves lucky that their entire company had survived the battle, and stare down at their fourteenth, their lucky number, with a spear as thick as an arm through his stomach.
Bofur reaches out a tender hand to tuck a copper curl behind his ear, to close his eyes, before Bifur pulls him back, gets an arms around his chest as his cousin trembles and weeps, forgetting himself in his grief, but his eyes find Thorin's and they blaze, wet and bright and unforgiving, and Thorin finds he cannot breath.
Stepping forward, Thorin kneels and hefts their burglar into his arms and makes the slow trek back to the mountain, each step feeling heavier than the last, and listens to the muffled sniffs and sobs from the company trailing behind him. He closes his eyes and does not let himself think of what he has done, what he has sad, and the cruel thoughts he had cast toward the hobbit even as the halfling lay dying, that Bilbo passed thinking the worst of Thorin and that he was right to do so.
They bury him among the dwarven kings of old. Kili and Fili haven't spoken since they found him, clinging to one another's hands and sleeves, each one taking a moment to be strong for the other when a sob breaks through. Bofur speaks at the funeral, sings quietly of their brave little burglar, who saved them so many times in so many ways, and Thorin has to close his eyes against the hot rush building there when Bofur's voice breaks because he knows that Bofur harbored feelings for Bilbo and kept them quiet. Bombur lays a heavy hand on the casket and murmurs that he hopes Bilbo is back home with good food and smoke, surrounded by his books and his gardens and everything that he missed on their journey. They all look to Thorin, and he opens his mouth. He is the king under the moutain, the leader of their group, and he owes it to Bilbo to speak a few word, but he is standing there and his mouth is open, and nothing is coming out. There are so many things he wants to say to Bilbo, so many apologies he has to make, but he must wait too long to find his voice, because Balin and Dwalin start shoveling earth over the hobbit's tomb and soon Bofur and Gloin are joining in and Thorin is still standing there with mouth open and saying nothing.
It hits him so hard then, the young prince-king, that he will never see sunlight on those copper curls, will never hear that timid chuckle or smell his long-bottom leaf, that their hobbit will never stand up to him, small and trembling and defiant, and a sound catches in chest and suddenly he needs to get out of there. He cannot breath in this place, and he turns and flees, ignoring the sounds of shock from his companions, the clang of their shovels as they drop them to call after their king.
Thorin hides, finds a corner in the grand palace of Erebor where he cannot be found and makes himself as small as he feels, as small as he was when Smaug attacked to long ago, with his arms around his shins and his head tucked to his knees, and he does not weep, but trembles and hates himself because he is standing and breathing after everything he has done and Bilbo is underground and unmoving when the most awful thing he's ever done is follow Thorin outside his door to his death.
Thorin stays hidden, a coward of a king, until the halls fall silent. He slips outside, and when his eyes fall upon the freshly moved earth covering Bilbo's tomb, his legs give out and he sinks to the ground, collapses there and the first sob rips from his chest where it has been fighting since he laid eyes on the unmoving halfling amongst the bodies of orcs and elves and dwarves. A litany of apologies, breathless and heaving and drawn from him like poison from a wound, spills from his mouth to the ground below, and his hands fist in the earth, grasping for anything, anything to hold him together when he has his kingdom, his treasure back but lost his hobbit, and thinks he would trade it all again to hear the nervous laugh bubble up from beneath him.
Thorin weeps and apologizes until his voice breaks and fades away and his mouth moves noiselessly against the earth in endless apologies and regrets and they kind their king in the morning, wet and dirty and broken above his hobbit's grave.