"Far over the Misty Mountains rise,

Leave us standing upon the height."

"Song of the Lonely Mountain"

Neil Finn

Ibriznurt 'Afdush 8th, 2941 T.A.

(Sunday, November 10th)

Erebor

Kíli stood in the middle of the wall-walk and gazed solemnly out beyond the parapets above Erebor's vast entrance. He was tempted to lean against the ancient stones and shift some of the pressure of standing so tall off of his "compromised" leg. That was a term Balin had coined - Kíli had given the older dwarf a scowl at the suggestion, but it did sound better than "bad", or "eternally damaged", or "near-useless". The excitement and movement from Lake Town, through Erebor, and through the Battle of the Five Armies had left little time for the leg that had been wounded escaping from the Greenwood to heal properly. The poison had surely been removed from his blood and body, but even Tauriel's Elvish healing couldn't completely replace the need for skin and bone to knit back together on their own.

He would have a "compromised leg" for the rest of his life, Òin had told him reluctantly. During his youth, the leg would probably give him little trouble, although stress of battle and strenuous exertion would cause him to limp. So, it was not an immediate deterrent - a weakness that few ever needed to know about, Dwalin had insisted. The last thirty-one days of rest and mourning had helped what of his leg could be healed, but even so, standing straight with the heavy weight of a king's robe made Kíli's knee tremble ever-so slightly in the beginning stages of protest.

Or, perhaps, the weakness in his knee was just an illusion, conjured by his weary mind. Kíli stared forlornly out across the great, flat plain that stretched between Erebor's gates and Dale. The earth was still torn from battle, the bottom edges of the mountain still singed, the sparse remaining trees still broken beneath the soft mantle of winter's first snow. He refused to lift his eyes toward the frozen waterfall in the distance, or to the towering rock formations known as Ravenhill, where he had watched the three beings he loved the most fall forever beneath the cruel swords of Azog and Bolg.

I should be dead, too, he thought, his hands curling into fists of anger against the deep blue wool of his finely-woven robe.

He could have sworn that he been dead, too. His mind racing, Kíli reached up with one broad hand and rubbed that still-tender wound on his chest, beneath the weight of his royal finery. Only the joint efforts of Radagast and Gandalf had brought him back to the living; Radagast had said that the severity of the wound had indeed all but killed him by the time he was found, broken and bleeding, on the icy stones of Ravenhill.

Òin could handle what was left in the wake of the wizards' healing; the jagged hole that Bolg's orc-forged weapon had left just above his heart was all but scarred over now. Kíli didn't think, though, that he would ever forget the cold that Bolg's wicked steel had pierced into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed, too, that grief reawakened that fiery, blue-cold pain; every time he turned with a joke on the tip of his tongue, only to see that it was now Dwalin who stood beside him and not Fíli, Kíli could feel ice move beneath his scar tissue and freeze the blood straight into his heart.

It was no better if he thought of Thorin. It was painful, too, to think of Tauriel, but her loss paled in comparison to that of his brother and uncle. The reality of Thorin's and Fíli's deaths cut far past flesh and muscle, and straight into Kíli's once-untarnished soul. It seemed - especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his uncle's kingdom on his shoulders - that Bolg's steel was still killing him slowly from the inside.

"Oh, there you are," a familiar tenor voice jolted Kíli from his dark reverie and he dropped his hand back to his side as he turned slowly around to watch Bilbo huff-and-puff up the last of the stairs. "Balin and Dwalin are beside themselves…"

The little fellow stopped and rested his hands on his knees, so that he could take a moment to catch his breath. Kíli raised a thick black eyebrow - once a smile would have accompanied such a movement, but now his lips stayed firmly drawn in a neutral line. It was the best that he could manage these days - not quite his uncle's infamous scowl, but not the easy, roguish grin of before. It was something in-between and nothing at all. Kíli - who, as any archer – had learned to observe dispassionately from the background, now relied heavily on that to help him tamper down the grief and harrowing pain that felt like they would ravage his soul straight to the grave.

"You look as if you've run the whole way from the mines," Kíli pointed out with just the faintest note of alarm - the last thing he wanted was the dearly beloved hobbit to fall over from a failure of his heart.

"Oh, gracious, no," Bilbo still leaned a hand against his right knee, but lifted his left and flapped it at Kíli in a gesture of dismissal. "Just from the kitchens, y'know? I ran into Nori while running an errand for Bombur and he said Dwalin was looking for you, but didn't want to tell him that he'd seen you head this way. We both thought it best if I find you first."

"Why didn't Nori come and find me, then?" Kíli huffed in something remotely related to a laugh.

"Oh, well…" Bilbo finally seemed to have caught his breath and he stood up to his full height - which was about chest-high to the dwarf in front of him. "I think he was trying to chase a-erm," the hobbit coughed uncomfortably, eyed Kíli warily, and then blurted out - "Well, one of the new dwarf-maids."

Kíli just snorted and rolled his dark-brown eyes. The first wave of families from the Iron Hills had arrived just the other day and already half of his uncle's company was chasing after skirts. Kíli was quite certain that he'd never be able to find himself attracted to a dwarf-maiden. Not after such longing for smooth, creamy skin, long, silky red hair, and slender limbs…

Unfortunately, the crown that was waiting for him in the throne room down below dictated by dwarven law that he at least find a dwarf-maiden attractive long enough to create an heir for Durin's people. The thought made Kíli a little ill. Dwarven law also dictated quite a lot of other things about such a union, including that Kíli wed said dwarven-maid before creating said Durin's heir.

Just what I've always wanted: a loveless marriage, he thought bitterly, as Bilbo (oblivious to the dwarf prince's thoughts) pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead.

In all actuality, the entirety of the long existence ahead of him was filled with a veritable catalog of all the things he never wanted - the least of which, really, was producing an heir. That was probably one of the few, potentially titillating expectations on the agenda.

"I suppose I should go and get on with it then," Kíli spoke as if to himself as he turned his head back toward the battlements and squinted resentfully at the wan, but cheerful winter midday sun.

"Hm, not quite yet. King Thranduil wishes to speak to you," Bilbo twisted his waist around and peered behind him toward the long flight of stairs below them.

Kíli leaned a bit to the side as well and raised another eyebrow as he watched the the King of the Greenwood lifted the edge of his long, silvery robes and started the steep ascent to where the soon-to-be dwarven king stood. His lips threatened to turn down into a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of his uncle's.

"What in Mahal's name does he want to speak to me about?" he glanced over at Bilbo, as if the hobbit was expected to know.

The smaller, tousle-headed man just shrugged his shoulders.

"Who's to say?"

"Well...best you go find Balin and tell him I'll be on my way. If he grumbles about me being late, blame it on the Elf."

Bilbo smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Kíli had never been, in his experience, a secretive or evasive dwarf. Rather, the youngest prince of Erebor had been quite well known for his reckless youth and fervent passions; he wore his heart on his sleeve as apparently as his brother had worn the dignity of his royal fate. But, things had now changed...the heir and the heir apparent to the Lonely Mountain were now buried in its depths, both slain by Azog. The youngest prince of Durin - the one who had never expected to rule the dwarrow of Middle Earth - would bear the crown of the King Under the Mountain within the hour. And when he had come to that realization within moments of seeing his felled brother and uncle, Kíli had drawn deep within himself.

Bilbo wasn't the only one who feared that such a change was ultimately irrevocable.

"Certainly," the hobbit bowed his head slightly and scampered off past Kíli toward the flight of stairs on the opposite side of the wall-walk.

Kíli watched until the hobbit's sandy-blond head had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the keep. Only then did he turn his eyes forward, to see the tall spires of Thranduil's crown arise majestically one step at a time. Within moments, the elf stepped onto the wall-walk, his movements as straight-backed, elegant, and carefully calculated as always.

"Prince Kíli," Thranduil greeted Kíli in his strange, precise, otherworldly way.

"King Thranduil," Kíli rumbled back; the two inclined their heads politely toward one another. "Master Baggins tells me that you wish to speak to me?" the dwarf's sharp brown eyes met the elf's ethereal blues.

"Yes," Thranduil tucked his hands slowly into the voluminous folds of his silver overcoat; Kíli wondered if the woodland king was purposefully looking down at his nose at him, or if it was just a habit so ingrained into Thranduil's being that he didn't even notice it anymore. "As the eldest ruler gathered here today for your coronation, I thought I might offer counsel before taking on the responsibilities of your crown."

My uncle's crown, Kíli stubbornly corrected Thranduil, but didn't dare speak it out loud; his insistence that he should not be given the weight of his forefathers' legacy had been soundly rejected at every turn so far.

He was learning to keep his resentment to himself.

I'm going to turn into Uncle, he added to himself, before realizing that Thranduil's mouth was moving again and maybe it was best if he at least pretended to give a damn.

"...Prince Kíli?"

Kíli focused just soon enough to hear Thranduil prompt him with the full force of his gracious condescension. The young dwarf rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth, but met the elder elf's gaze and nodded tersely.

"Please forgive me, I have been given quite a lot of advice to consider these past few days. My head feels rather...full."

"Indubitably," Thranduil placidly agreed.

Kíli wondered what in Mahal "indubitably" even meant.

"I will wager, however, that the advice from one king to another is quite different from subjects to their ruler," Thranduil moved as fluidly as water, as he took the few steps to stand next to Kíli, who grudgingly turned as well to follow the elf's gaze over the battlements.

There was a delicate pause and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his boots. Was he supposed to say something back? By Durin's beard, this was excruciatingly awkward.

"You have honored my people, Prince Kíli, with the return of our gems," Thranduil paused, as if considering his next words; Kíli continued to fidget. "You also honored us in your devotion to my Captain of the Guard."

Kíli froze and couldn't stop blinking up at the taller, pale-haired elf in sheer amazement. He really didn't know what to say now, but at least he had enough royal comportment drilled into him by Balin by now not to gape like a young dwarfling at Thranduil's startling proclamation.

"I witnessed your mourning on the battlefield," Thranduil did not return the dwarf's gaze; the elf stood as still as the stones around him, his icy gaze fixed firmly at Dale sprawling out before them. "And I pray your forgiveness of my intrusion in such a private moment. But, I speak of it only to tell you that I have witnessed such a scene long before and though I thought it impossible, I must admit that you have moved me to honor what was real."

Only then, did Thranduil turn his head and meet Kíli's stunned gaze. The elven king's face was as dispassionate as ever, as serene and unreadable as always. But, there was an unexpected compassion in his eyes that puzzled Kíli as much as it surprised him.

"I do not deign to know nor understand the ways of dwarves, but the ruling of a kingdom is not so different, I wager, between our kind. The exile of your people will have changed many things, Prince Kíli," Thranduil turned his head gracefully to consider the parapets in front of him and he even reached out a hand to run his slender fingers meaningfully over a jagged crack that ran from the top of one merlon, down to the very floor at their feet. "You will find that more than just these stones may have been broken."

Those cold, strange eyes captured Kíli's gaze for a final time.

"Learn from your history, Prince Kíli. And," the Elf paused delicately, his next words spoken slowly, as if they cost him. "And, also from mine. Do not rule solely from within your lonely halls. If you wish to honor your people and the memory of my Captain, then rebuild more than just what lays inside these ancient stones," Thranduil finally broke his gaze with Kíli and wordlessly invited him to turn and consider the halls and hallows yawning open beneath them. "You must ever be a king, with your vision both behind you and before you."