Fíli relished the darkness.

The darkness embraced him and made him feel free. He was lying in the darkness and he knew that once he opened his eyes there was no going back. He would have to face reality and it would be difficult. He did not feel ready to face it. He wanted to withdraw within himself and never have to think about where or who he was again.

Somebody grabbed his arm and talked to him. A sudden cacophony of noises made its way to his ears. He was waking, whether he wanted to or not. There were more voices, some hushed, some shouting. There was a groaning and then somebody screamed. His eyes snapped open at that and he saw Balin's face hovering in front of him, dimly illuminated by the flickering light of torches, a pale canvass in the background. A tent. He was in a tent. He did not remember coming here. He did not remember much at all. He wanted to go back to sleep. The darkness was waiting for him.

"Stay with me, laddie," Balin said, but Fíli paid him no heed. The darkness was kind.

"Stay awake, Fíli," Balin said, flicking his check sharply, making Fíli flinch and open his eyes again. "That's it. Open your eyes. Focus on me. Can you see me?"

Fíli could, even though Balin's outline seemed to be somewhat fuzzy. He tried to focus. His eyes, something was wrong with his eyes. He made to raise his left hand to wipe away whatever was clouding his vision, but stopped halfway through the motion as pain shot through his shoulder. He groaned.

"Easy, lad. You've got yourself a nasty wound there. The healers managed to remove the spear and there seems to be no lasting damage done, but you will have to be careful with that arm for a while.

A Wound. The spear. The battle. Wounded in battle.

"Kíli," he rasped and sat up despite the pain. He had to see his brother. He had to. If he still had a brother. The thought came suddenly and unbidden. The large goblin with the morningstar. He had been helpless, himself forced onto his knees by his wound. He had not been there to help his brother.

His head swam and the darkness was there again to embrace him. It was not welcome now. We wanted to get up, to find his brother, but Balin's hand on his uninjured shoulder held him back.

"Slowly now, Fíli. He lives. He is right here."

"Is he…? The morningstar…"

"He is injured, yes, but the healers are confident that he will make it. They have given him some drugs for now to help him sleep through the pain. He is comfortable now."

Fíli savoured that information, but as his head started to clear, the urgency only increased.

"I need to see him."

Balin sighed wearily and gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

"You need to see Thorin."

Thorin. Fíli remembered his uncle falling on the battlefield. He remembered Beorn carrying his lifeless body to safety.

"Is he…?"

Balin sighed again. "He lives, but for how much longer I dare not say."

Fíli took in that information and knew he had to act. He looked Balin in the eye and nodded slowly. "I shall see him immediately."

Balin steadied him as he rose, and Fíli leaned on him heavily for a moment before he found his feet and managed to stop his head from spinning. Balin gave him a sling and gently helped him rest his left arm in it. Fíli looked around him then and saw that they were surrounded by Dwarves. He had lain on a low cot at one end of a large tent. Across a narrow corridor, Ori was crouching next to another cot, looking at him with wide eyes. He was dirty, with blood splattered across his face, but seemed to have escaped serious harm. And then he saw whom Ori was sitting with.

"Kíli!" In an instant Fíli was at his brother's side. Kíli was asleep on his stomach, a blanket drawn up to his shoulders. There was neither blood nor grime on his face. Somebody must have cleaned him up. He looked relaxed and peaceful. Fíli gently stroked his brother's hair.

"I'm sorry, Kíli," he whispered. "It should have been me lying here like that. I'm so, so sorry."

"Fíli, we need to hurry," Balin said impatiently, though not unkindly, and Fíli knew he was right. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Kíli's hair.

"Sleep tight, little one… I'll be with you when you wake…"

He turned to Ori to ask him to stay with his brother until he returned, but at that moment there was a commotion at the entrance to the tent and all heads turned towards it. Dori had appeared there, drenched in blood and carrying the lifeless form of another dwarf whose auburn hair was dripping blood onto the ground. Nori. With a shout, Ori was next to his brothers. Dori was weeping. Óin was with them now, frantically feeling for a pulse at Nori's neck. Silence fell in the tent.

"He lives," Óin declared and the former hubbub of activity resumed, "Bring him over here. Make way!"

He ushered Dori and his brothers towards an empty cot. Balin, Kíli, Ori, Nori, Dori, Óin. That left five more of his company that were unaccounted for. Fíli scanned the room and spotted Glóin walking towards him, just as grimy as the rest of them, but sporting white bandages around his head and wrist.

"I'll keep an eye on him. Don't you worry none," he said gruffly, pointing towards Kíli. "He won't be going anywhere."

Fíli thought he heard a gasp from Balin, but he nodded and then his eyes fell on the gaggle of Dwarves towards the far end of the tent. Bombur sat on the ground, clutching his right hand that seemed to be bleeding freely, eyes fixed on those surrounding the cot next to him. This is where the screams came from and now Fíli recognised Bofur's voice. Bifur seemed unharmed, but was bent low, putting all his weight on his cousin's shoulders in an attempt to keep him down. Balin's hand was on his healthy arm again and he noticed for the first time that he had been stripped of his armour and was only wearing his boots, leggings and tunic. Balin directed him urgently towards the exit.

Outside there was chaos. They were in the ruins of Dale. There were corpses strewn across the road, Dwarves, Elves and Men, as well as goblins. The wounded staggered towards tents of various sizes and designs, supporting each other. Other warriors rested around small fires they had kindled among the crumbling walls of long-forgotten buildings. It was nighttime and the moon bathed everything in its cold light.

Before he could ask Balin about Dwalin, they had reached a small tent, and he saw him with his own eyes, leaning on his war hammer, guarding the entrance. His armour was rent and shattered, and he seemed to have bathed in blood though Fíli could not discern the colour of it. But he was standing tall, watchful as ever, and Fíli understood that he had resumed his post by Thorin's side, was preparing to do one last deed for his old friend.

Gandalf stood as they entered the tent, his arm in a sling similar to the one Fíli sported. Even the wizard had not escaped without a wound. It seemed there were few unharmed in all the host. He bowed his head and exited without a word, giving Fíli a clear view of the only other occupant of the tent. Thorin lay amidst a pile of furs, his rent armour and notched axe cast upon the floor at his sides.

His eyes found Fíli and he smiled. Fíli approached his uncle hesitantly. They had not parted on good terms before the battle and that had been before he had encouraged the entire company to fight for freedom instead of gold, to follow him instead of Thorin. It had been treason and he was not sure how his uncle would react to his presence.

Thorin smiled and when he spoke, his voice was low but firm.

"Fíli, sister-son, thank you for coming to see me."

They talked. They spoke words of forgiveness and kindness. In the early morning, Dáin came, and then Bard and even Thranduil; and Thorin spoke of peace and prosperity with their new allies. The gold sickness had vanished, but his life was also fading. Though he said no word of it, Fíli could tell that his uncle was in great pain. He had not allowed him to look beneath the furs, but from what had been said and what he had seen, Fíli knew that his uncle had been pierced by many weapons. Óin came in from time to time to see to Thorin's comfort, but whenever he offered remedies for the pain, Thorin declined, politely but firmly. He wanted to be conscious for what he knew to be his last hours on this earth. And he wanted to see Bilbo again, to apologise to the Hobbit in person. Dáin and Bard sent out soldiers that had remained unscathed to search for him.

It was mid-morning by the time a man carried the Hobbit to Dale, and Fíli knew it was high time, as Thorin's breathing had become laboured and his skin had turned pale and clammy. But his eyes shone brightly as Bilbo entered the tent and Fíli excused himself quickly

Outside the sky was of a clear blue, the air cold enough to billow from his mouth in white clouds as he took a few deep breaths. Dwalin still stood guard in front of the tent that held his king and best friend. He acknowledged Fíli's presence with a nod, and then continued to glance out over the bustling camp towards the mountain, where several Dwarves were now demolishing the remnants of the wall. Fíli looked up at his childhood hero who had by now become a dear friend to him as well. Dwalin looked pale and his jaw was clenched. He had clearly been in the thick of the fighting. His hammer and the axes on his back were coated in layer upon layer of black blood and upon his clothes there was a mixture of black and red, particularly below his knees. Fíli shuddered as he remembered how he himself had been wading through bodies, both friend and foe, for hours on end. A particularly large patch of red covered Dwalin's right side. Fíli stared at it, suddenly worried, but Dwalin had caught his glance and said quietly, in his usual low grumble:

"I carried you back last night. Nasty wound you've got there; bled a lot. Though Óin said the bleeding is good, it cleanses the wound. You… and Kíli. I brought him back as well. I was too late; I could not reach him in time. I should have been there…"

"No, Dwalin," Fíli said. No, he completed in his head, not you… I should have been there, but what he said out loud was. "Do not blame yourself. You have fought valiantly. I saw Kíli in the night, and I'm sure he will make a full recovery soon."

Dwalin looked at him sadly, but then returned to watching their surroundings without uttering another word.

When Bilbo reappeared, he seemed dazed and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Fíli felt it was odd that he himself had not cried at all. He probably should. Bilbo attempted to speak, but could not find the words, so he settled for simply waving Fíli towards the tent. Fíli knew he had to go back in, but he could not leave the Hobbit without any comfort, so he briefly squeezed his shoulders with his uninjured arm. He would talk to him later when… when he had time.

Thorin looked content and at peace now. Fíli knelt next to him and for a long time they remained silent, Thorin struggling to remain conscious. He repeatedly forced his eyes wide open, clearly hesitant to miss a moment with his nephew. It must have been near mid-day judging by the brightness all around them when he spoke again.

"Fíli, I wish it had not come to this so quickly… I wish I had been able to give you more time… to leave you a home rather than a desolate mountain."

"Shhh," Fíli said. He truly did not want to talk or even think about all that. "Do not overexert yourself, uncle."

"I do not need to preserve my strength now, Fíli. It is your strength our people will rely on. Your wise judgement and your skill in trade and battle."

Fíli hung his head and did not reply.

"Give your mother my love… she knew, she knew I would not return. How I wish now that I could have seen her again, that I could have held her one last time. Tell her that I love her, that I have always loved her, even when I was too blind to see that at times… And your brother… tell Kíli that he was my sunshine, that he gave me back some belief in the good of the world, that he made me laugh even when times were hard, that he should remain cheerful after all this… Keep them safe, Fíli, keep them safe…"

His eyes slipped shut and he was now breathing rapidly, clearly exhausted from his long speech. Fíli knew he had to do it now. He had to ask. It would be his last chance. Have I been, his tongue wanted to form, but he held himself back as if using that tense, uttering these words, would make the inevitable come true, would in whatever twisted way cause Thorin's death.

"Uncle," he said instead. "Am I a good heir?"

Thorin opened his eyes once more and looked at him with such fondness that Fíli felt tears appear in his eyes. He blinked them away hastily as Thorin spoke.

"The very best and most wonderful heir anybody could wish for. I am so proud of you."

Fíli looked into those sparkling blue eyes, still startling even though they had now sunken deep into the pale face. He bore that glance for what he knew was the last time. He did not look away as Thorin's breathing became more and more shallow. He held his uncle's hand until his breathing had stopped and something in those blue eyes had broken.

Balin was there. He felt for a pulse, then shook his head. No.

Thorin was dead.

Balin closed his eyes, the eyes of his king. Then his hand was on Fíli's shoulder again.

"I'll give you a moment, Fíli. Come out as soon as you are ready."

With that he left and Fíli was alone, alone with Thorin, with Thorin's body.

Fíli tried to say something, to think something even, but there was nothing. What did one say in this situation? What was appropriate? How could anything he said ever be grave and grand enough? He just stared at Thorin, tried to remember him as he had been. Had been before the gold sickness took hold of him. His beloved uncle.

He did not want to leave, but he knew he had to at some point. He just kept looking at Thorin. He did not look like himself. He certainly did not look like he was sleeping. He looked dead. Still. Fíli tried to burn this image into his mind, to remember forever the last time he had laid eyes upon his uncle. He could not bring himself to touch his uncle's hands now. Balin had folded them on his chest. There was a cut on one finger. For some reason it upset Fíli to see that small, insignificant wound. His uncle had not deserved to suffer like this.

Fíli finally got up from the ground and stood at his uncle's feet. He knew he should go, but he could not. There would be so much to do, so many people to talk to, but the only one he really wanted to talk to was his uncle. He should have said more, should have done more. But it was no use now. I am so proud of you had been his uncle's last words. He was not giving him any reason to be proud. He just stood there. He should go. He should leave the tent. Instead he took a step forward and bent over his uncle's body. He very lightly brushed his hands with his fingers, carefully, kindly. It felt strange. The hands were cold and oddly solid almost like the wax of a candle. It was the final confirmation that Thorin was gone, that he was no longer there. Even his hands felt differently now.

Feeling strangely empty, Fíli straightened up again. He still had not shed a single tear, and at any moment he expected his emotions to catch up with him. For now, they did not. He could not really afford for them to do so. The people relied on his strength now. He had to be strong.

He took a step towards the entrance of the tent, then turned and looked at his uncle once more. Just one more time. He gave him a small wave like he had when leaving home as a little dwarfling. It was silly. He wanted to be that dwarfling once more, to have that time with Thorin.

"See you later, Uncle Thorin," he whispered, knowing it would be the last time he would use that name. Then he took a deep breath and stepped outside.

Bright sunlight greeted him. It was ironic that this should be such a beautiful day, a day that had seen so much death and destruction. Fíli did not like the light. He wanted darkness. And he wanted to be alone, but he was not. Dwarves had assembled, what felt like hundreds of them, among the rubble of Dale and in front of the tents that had been erected. Even Men and Elves had come together. They all looked at him, a silent crowd. Dwalin was still standing guard. Then Balin and Dáin were at his sides.

"The King is dead," cried Balin. "Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" the assembled masses repeated.

Then Dáin raised his voice, echoing like a great horn.

"Fíli, son of Dís, heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!"

"King Fíli," cried the crowd.