Warnings: Totally angsty. Mentions of suicide. Mentions of Durincest. Major character death.

Rest does not come easy for me. Not anymore. Not since the Battle of Five Armies, weeks ago, where we won it all and still lost everything. I can no longer close my eyes without hearing the cries of the living or seeing the ground caked with blood. We are surrounded by the dead and dying, but I do not stay to help. How can I bind the wounds of another when my own grief is too much to be borne?

Erebor is ours, or rather, mine. Kíli. King Under the Mountain. I chafe at the title I was never supposed to bear. Thorin was to be king, but instead lead us to our end with his greed. He forfeited our lives for a useless stone and his own foolish pride. It was Thorin's folly that ripped my brother from me.

I don't sleep, because I see him die. Every night he dies a different way, none of them right, because I am not with him. I was not with him.

Maybe it was my fault. I was reckless, always reckless. I thought us invincible and reveled in the fight. I didn't guard his back. I was too busy keeping score, too busy playing the hero. I was not afraid.

I am afraid now.

This mountain palace, which I once found to be beautiful, has become my prison. The burdens of a king are crushing; policies and choices and responsibility- things I never trained for. Things I never wanted.

I am lost. I am weary. I am mute with grief. I will wander these halls alone until time claims my life... or I do.

The poison vial is a friendly presence in my hand; its weight a comforting promise of escape. I hope it is potent enough to bring me release. I have nothing else left. This war has claimed the life of my brother, but it was not kind enough to also claim mine.

With blistered fingers I open the vial and raise it to my lips; the liquid is warm, a bitter taste against the back of my throat. I quickly choke it down, fighting the urge to vomit, and then sink to the stone to wait for peace. The pain comes swiftly, searing through my veins and torturing every nerve raw. Then it is gone as quickly as it came.

I roll my head to the side, expecting to see the stone halls I've grown accustom to despising. Instead, I see you.

"Fíli." Even as the word escapes from my lips, I know it can't be true. "You're dead. I saw your body."

You smile at me, that same dimpled grin I have seen every day of my life.

"You followed the road to the Halls and you left me far behind." I don't mean to sound as accusing as I do. It wasn't your fault.

You smile again, and this time I see the sadness in your eyes.

"I'm sorry, brother." I'm not sure if the apology is for my being alive or your being dead. "I'm so sorry."

You raise a hand to your lips, kissing your fingertips in a sign I'd know anywhere. Love you.

This time I'm the one who smiles, though it feels strange on my face. It was not so long ago that I was carefree and happy. Not so long since I gave all my smiles to you. I remember the night before the battle; the whispered promises of a future and the thinly veiled fear that it might be taken from us. I remember the headiness of skin on skin, the baited breathes, the sound of my name on your lips. My pulse skill carves your name beneath my skin, slow and steady and true.

You kneel on the floor beside me, affording me the chance to look closely at the face I've missed these long weeks. You're cleaner then I've seen in ages, skin lighter without the endless dust from the road. The scars that once crisscrossed your arms are nothing but a distant memory, erased by whatever force brought you back to my side. You are perfect. You always were; even with the scars and dirt and gore which peppered our lives. Always perfect, and always mine.

The beads in your mustache taunt me to grab at them, to pull you in for a kiss, but I'm afraid touching you will break the spell. I'm afraid you will vanish.

You chew on your lower lip, something I know all to well means you're contemplating an important thought. Looking down at your hands, you twist the small silver ring which matches my own.

I look down at the band on my own finger, remembering the moment you gave it to me. The rings were a pledge- that we belonged together, consequences be damned. There was never a chance for us; it was always Kíli-and-Fíli, two bodies sharing a single soul. You took me to your bed that night, devouring my breath, and whispering your promises across my skin. What Mahal forges cannot be unmade.

We're unmade now, brother.

There are voices down the hallway- I had almost forgotten we are not alone in this mountain. I am weary of this kingdom, of this world, of this life. The footsteps grow louder and the voices call for their king. I am no king.

You look at me and smile, the same secret smile I know to mean mischief. You kiss your fingertips again and wink, extending your hand to me.

The voices are getting closer now and I realize the choice you are asking me to make. There is no choice. Your name is a prayer on my lips as I feel the fire burning within my veins. With one last smile I reach out and take your hand.

...

A/N: First off, Durincest isn't really my thing- that was sort of an accident. Secondly, I never write first person PoV. This was supposed to be some random free-writing; most of which gets shuffled into other fics, or deleted. I re-read it and pretty much said 'Shit. This is the most depressing thing I've written in a LONG time. I should share it!". So, here we are. I'm not sure how I feel about this piece- opinions?