The lad had not spoken for a year by now.

He was only four years old, barely able to walk by himself; far too young to understand that his father would not come home, and Dwalin had no doubts he did not understand the change going through his mother either. It wasn't unusual, for an infant to give up on speaking after a loss such as this. Especially not in a way such as this; with his father being snatched by orcs during a hunting trip, and him and Thorin only able to bring back what they had left of him; with the lad stumbling into the room on stubby legs in the worst possible moment to catch a glimpse of his father's mutilated corpse; with his mother, strong as rock as she was, barely able to take care of herself, let alone of her bairn, and only to discover she was carrying a second a few weeks after she'd buried its father.

So the lad did not speak. At first, they'd feared the shock had left him numb not just for speech, but for the world as a whole, but then, life had went on like it had before - well, not at all, of course, but he'd continued to follow his uncle and mother around as he had before, he reacted when spoken to - nodding or shaking his head, gesturing with small, chubby fingers, smiling at sweets and jokes - he just did not speak. He didn't want to speak, they'd figured out soon.

He'd also never left the mountain before. The dangerous two first years of his life, that had ended with Thorin as his acting name giver bestowing him with his Westron name, were barely past, the short phase of life many infants did not live through - the lassies even less than the lads - and he was still susceptible to fevers and cold; as much as dwarves did not worry about human diseases, there were enough of their own that could easily prove deadly for a child. The last night, when the King's sister had come down in childbirth, though, Dwalin had been charged with guarding the young prince. Thorin had not left his sister's side - that was no big surprise, seeing as her husband could not be there, and everyone knew how the King's own mother had died in childbed. The night before, a snowstorm had covered the Blue Mountains in leagues of freshly fallen snow, now gleaming under the winter sun, pale and yet risen high in the sky. The little prince grimaced a bit at the sudden light, burrowing himself against Dwalin's chest to shield his eyes. Dwalin gave him a gentle pat on the back, drawing his own cloak a little more around the lad when they passed through the gates, the guards greeting their captain with murmured words or a brief nod, their own fur linned cloaks drawn up to their noses to shield them from the cold, beards or not.

It was November now, the dwarven year still fresh and new, as was the snow that greeted them. It sparked the lad's interest, that was for sure. He glanced out from the fur of Dwalin's coat, tiny lips forming a perfect O at the sight, and it didn't take overly long for him to start squirming and struggling to free himself from Dwalin's grip. Obediently, he allowed the boy to walk on his own, despite the fact that the snow that barely reached up to his waistline almost covered the child head to toe. Fili seemed rather content with that, though; it didn't take long until the short braids he wore were damp and white with snow, the lad dancing eagerly on tiptoe to catch single flakes with his tongue, following through the trace Dwalin left for him, and still reaching into the white mass that towered around him every now and then, eyes wide with amazement and bewilderment at the same time.

They did not venture overly far from the gates. The lad was already tired by the time they reached a small clearing in the pine forest, and Dwalin picked him up once more, helping him to sit on a fallen treetrunk to clean his face a bit, cheeks reddened from the cold already, but the lad grinning from ear to ear. It was hard to make him sit still even for so long, eager to explore as he was; Dwalin kept an eye on him as he went off to explore the clearing at surprising speed, burying his way through the snow. Of course, Dwalin was aware why Thorin had ordered him to take Fili outside. If anything was to happen to his mother, or the bairn she carried… or both…

No, Dwalin reminded himself as he watched the dwarfling frolic through the snow; all would be well. Oin was with them, and several of the other healers, too. Oin had already delivered Dís' first son into the world, and he would not fail in his attempt to deliver her second one either. It was a good thing for a man to have a brother, too. The lassies needed protection, but a brother had your back in battle, always. (Though, now that he thought about it, he was rather sure that while Dís had never seen battle, she had Thorin's back as good as any brother could have done. If not in war, then in politics, he knew as much.) If it hadn't been for Balin… They had been playing on the slopes of another mountain, of course, when they'd been dwarflings. They, and the two princes that had always been with them, and of which now only one was left, and that one was his king. It was a good thing for a man to have a brother, but the worst to lose one, he knew as much, too.

Dusk had settled upon them by the time they made their way back home. The little prince lay limp and exhausted in Dwalin's arms this time, almost asleep, tiny face buried in his cloak once more, light eyes slipped shut, golden hair disheveled and wet. He would need a bath, most likely, and something to eat, too; with a little luck, they would find the latter in the kitchens, at least. The cook's new apprentice, a stout fellow named Bombur, always had something to spare for the hungry, and even more so for the baby prince that was everybody's pride and joy in Thorin's Halls. When they returned, though, one of Dís' court ladies already awaited them. Despite his trust in Oin, Dwalin felt a weight the size of the whole mountain lifted from his shoulders at the smile on her face. "Just in time" she said, "The bairn's well, and so is the mother. Would you like to see her?"

Dís had given birth not in the healing quarters, but in her own bed, as was befit for a princess. She was pale as the linen of her sheets, with beads of sweat still on her forehead, dark curls framing her face damp as well, but not looking overly unhealthy; in fact, when Dwalin stepped through the door, he saw her smile for the first time in the past year. He felt the little prince stiffen in his arms at the sight of his mother, and the bundle in her arms, even smaller than he was. There was not much to be said, him and Thorin – who looked almost as pale as his sister – exchanging only a brief look as he sat the little prince down on the bed. Dís gave a light snort when she ran a hand over his hair. "Did you take him outside?" she asked, her voice only a slight bit weaker than usual, "Durin's beard, kadzunithê*, you'll grow icicles in your beard if we don't get you to bathe soon…" The little prince grinned a little shyly, but only gave a small shrug before he climbed a little closer to peek down at the newborn in his mother's arms. There wasn't much to be seen, of course; only a small tuft of hair – dark, as his mother's and uncle's – and the baby's soft, pink eyelids, closed as the little prince slept after the exhaustions of being born. Fili smiled.

They'd laid the baby to sleep in the nursery. Fili knew the way, of course; he slept there himself, only in a different room. Still, after having been bathed and fed, he found no sleep, despite the soft humming voice of his uncle as he'd tucked him in, despite the many new adventures the day had brought. Maybe because of them. But there was something else, too. He'd seen the smile on his mother's face when they'd entered her bedroom, something that had not been there in… a long time. He did not remember when he'd last seen her smile that way, but it dimly told him the new baby she had (though it didn't look much, really, all pink and soft and no beard yet) was a good thing. A very good thing. It took great effort to wait until the noise in the hallways had ebbed down and he found a way to sneak out to find his new brother.

He was sleeping, again. Fili did not know much of babies, but apparently they tended to sleep a lot; if they did not, they were a lot more noisy, but even with his mother having spent the day in bed someone had always been there to take care of him – of both of them, really, because Master Dwalin had been there, too. The baby was sleeping in what Fili recognized as his own old crib (old in the matter of that he had a bed of his own now, of course), and that made him difficult to see. Of course, it did not have a name yet. Dwarf babies did not get official names until they reached their second birthday (then referred to as name day, which Fili knew because his fifth had been only a few months ago), because… Oh, that was a bad thing. The dwarfling nibbled his lip. What if anything happened? If his newfound brother vanished, like his father had done, and with him all reasons for his mother to ever smile again? Crib or not, he had to make sure the little thing was fine. He was good at climbing (though nobody must know; his uncle had caught him once, and told him a lot of things about climbing things and possibly falling, and that hadn't sounded overly good either), and so it was no great difficulty to sneak into his baby brother's bed. He was indeed asleep, Fili noticed, lying on his back, wrapped in linens and sleeping on a fur to keep him warm. However, when Fili stretched out next to him, the baby moved, rosy eyelids slipping open, and Fili hastily scooted back, in case it did not like his company, heart beating wildly in his chest. It did not cry, though. He frowned a little, carefully coming back a little to keep an eye on him. The baby's eyes were different, dark in the dimly lit room, not as light as his mother's and uncle's were. No, they were dark, like his father's had been… and now he knew why his mother had smiled. If his baby brother had his father's eyes, maybe something of him had returned to them? The dwarfling frowned again, overthinking this. That was interesting. He did not remember much of his father, even though he had only been gone for such a short time; there were some things, though. The torchlight that set golden sparks over his hair, or the way he'd braided his moustache, and his mother teasing him about it. Well, and the eyes, golden brown like molten honey, warm and friendly, sometimes with a mischievous glance about it when he'd brought gifts for Fili, or sweets his mother technically had not allowed…

The dwarfling sniffled a bit, rubbing his eyes. The baby had not started to cry yet, so he would not do that either. Instead, he curled up at his baby brother's side once more. He was small, so small, almost half Fili's size, and he knew Master Dwalin and his uncle towered above him like giants. Small, and fragile. The baby made a small, whining sound, and Fili, not knowing what else to do, reached out to take one of the small hands into his own. They were a little clammy and sticky, but looked just like his own, too, though they neatly fit into his palms. Small, he noticed once more. Also not two years old yet. Something needed to be done about that.

He knew where his uncle's study was, too. There were lots of books and old maps, but they did not allow him to play with them; Thorin needed them, he knew as much, though he did not understand what for. They told of people and places long ago, after all, whose names only lived on in memory. Once he'd gotten up the next morning, though, he made his way over to Thorin's study. He'd managed to sneak out of his brother's nursery after falling asleep next to him, undiscovered; yet, it would only be a matter of time until someone came looking for him, would it? His uncle was there, of course, working. He always did; Fili seldom remembered seeing him anywhere else but in his study, or at the fireplace in the living quarters, where he held him on his knees and told him stories. Maybe he'd do the same for his brother now, too. The desk was too high for him to climb, and so he went over to his uncle's chair instead, reaching up to lightly tug his sleeve. Thorin glanced down, frowning only so much. "Now, where'd you come from? Shouldn't you be with your mother?"

Fili hesitated. They'd asked him many questions, of course, and they needed answering, but the words felt stuck in his throat, as if he'd swallowed too many of them and yet had too few at the same time. There were some that had gathered in his head during the past night, though. Answers could wait. "I want to be a warrior" he said.

Thorin froze in his movements, a piece of parchment still in his hands, blue eyes fixed on the dwarfling. "What?" he asked, his voice sounding strangely hoarse. Maybe he was sick. Fili frowned a little. "I want to be a warrior" he repeated, his voice sounding a little clearer this time, "Like you. I want to protect – the baby. To make Amad** smile." Thorin stared at him as if Fili had turned into a troll and back right in front of him. The boy nibbled his lip again, unsure of what to do. Had he said something wrong? Had he not found the right words after all? "Please" he added pleadingly, and Thorin moved; Fili flinched only so much at the sudden shift, but Thorin scooped him up, cradling him close as he pressed a kiss to his hair. There was a strange noise in his breathing, making it sound forced and choked, and now Fili was very sure that his uncle indeed was sick (maybe he'd been out playing with the cold white stuff Dwalin had showed him for too long), but Thorin still held him tight and so he didn't squirm. "I'll teach you" Thorin finally answered, his voice muffled as he pressed a kiss to Fili's hair, "I'll teach you, little one, I promise."


Khuzdûl used:

*my golden boy (young man)

**Mommy