A WARNING: this story will have some dark underlying themes in it. That's why I'm writing it. I work with, know and love people with stories like this one, and the nature of the stories means that for their protection I cannot talk about any of it. And so that I can try and understand it, and others can try too, I have written this. So if you don't want to read about unhappy childhoods, don't, especially if it will trigger something. I really don't want to be responsible for that.
For all my kids – may you ever be loved.
Prologue
From outside the door Thorin can hear the cries echoing, and for a moment he hesitates as to whether to go in. But really he has no choice. He is their uncle, after all.
Kíli is curled up in the corner of the bed, wrapped tight in the sheets and shaking. Thorin sits down beside him carefully, but does not reach out to comfort him, as he wants to.
"Kíli? Kíli? Shush, it's just a dream, just a dream…"
Fíli has been sick for two days now, and it's wearing down all of them. Dís is with him now, as he sleeps, and Thorin has been left in charge of Kíli, both barred access to the sick room.
"Kíli?" He brushes his hand over the top of the tousled head, just sticking out of the blankets. It withdraws at once as Kíli curls up further, whimpering.
It's been hard, the last few months. Thorin has endured many things, but this is a new one. But he has a duty to do, as king, as uncle, and, now that their father is gone, more than an uncle.
He wouldn't say father. His sister-sons would accept no replacement for that role.
"Kíli?" He asks softly again. "Are you awake?"
The child snuffles, buried even further under the covers. Thorin thinks he is awake now. Kíli worries him. Fíli worries him too, but Kíli worries him more. Dwarf children are rare and precious, ones of his line even more so, but Kíli is… behind. Thorin struggles to remember his sister son's precise age at that moment, but he knows the lad is well past the stage when he should be speaking. The first word – it was an important ceremony in a young dwarf's life. And it hadn't happened yet. Fíli's, he remembered, had been 'king', though he had to admit that that had not been without some prompting from him. But he had certainly been far younger then than his brother was now. But times have been hard of late – he's sure the child will catch up in the end.
The mess of blankets is shaking. Thorin doesn't try addressing it again, instead shifting closer and starting to sing a lullaby in a low voice.
The shaking subsides slowly as Kíli, still unwilling to show his face, gives in and sinks slowly into the arms of sleep. Thorin keeps on singing, soft voice echoing around the chamber as he watches over the youngest of his line.
"Far over the Misty Mountains cold…"
They'll get there in the end.