The Raven's Blade I: A distant Light (rewritten)

by Valandhir

Kili survived the battle of the five armies, thought he lost his home again. Decades later a grim dwarven warrior comes across a man searching for Imladris. Thus begins a journey across the lone lands that will lead into war. This version is a complete rewrite and expansion from the original. Mix of movie/book canon. Rated M for violence, just to be safe.

1. Prologue: A Prince in Exile

Author's Preface:

Over one year ago the wonderful Scribe of Red offered to help me edit "A distant Light" and let me say, she did tremendous work on it. With her digging into it the story grew, in detail and expression, it almost doubled in length. (Do not be fooled by less chapters, I tried to smooth the chapter structure a bit). Unfortunately her job and mine left us less and less time to work together, and thus I finally decided to finish the edit of the first part alone. The result of which you will find here.

While I will try and dig into the second part on my own I am not sure if I can manage the same results. What Scribe of Red did was not beta-reading, she dug into my storytelling, my descriptions, my characterizations, the details and prodded me to add, expand and deepen what was already there. I will try and do the same on my own for the other parts… though no promises how long it is going to take.

On the same note: I am looking for someone to seriously and patiently beta-read the German versions of Part I and II of the saga.

I hope you'll enjoy the expanded version of the tale.

Valandhir

Disclaimer:

This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.

Prologue: Prince in Exile

The grave was not deep beneath the Mountain, as stories later would tell – it was outside on the height under the pines that long ago had blazed in Smaug's terrible fire. The Dwarves had built a mighty stone cairn to lay their fallen King to rest. The deep grey stone was carved with the raven on either side, but no other adornment had been placed on it yet except for the runic inscriptions.

Thorin Son of Thrain

King under the Mountain

No words mentioned that his eldest nephew was resting beside him, having sacrificed his life shielding Thorin as they broke through the ranks of the Orc host. Bard the Bowman and Thranduil of Mirkwood stood a few paces away from the tomb, having placed the Arkenstone and Orcrist with Thorin before the heavy stones had closed over his resting place. They could have left with most of those who had been assembled here hours ago, and yet, there was still a decision to be made in this place, and both were determined to know which it was to be.

Several Dwarves stood at the heights, some keeping a respectful distance to one standing separate. Kíli stood still in front of the dark grave, head bowed, dark hair torn by the wind, not holding back the tears in his eyes. He was hardly able to stand on his own feet; the healers had been loath to allow him to get up at all. He had insisted on coming here, not caring if it endangered his healing, or if the healers liked it. The pain he felt standing, was nothing he truly registered, the pain inside his chest was too fierce to allow him to notice the wounds marring his body.

The tears burning in his eyes Kíli did not even try to hold them back, he had no strength left to fight them, or to pretend at a façade. Fíli, his Fíli rested inside the cairn, beside their Uncle Thorin… and the hole in Kíli's heart was raw with the pain of loss. He wished he could have been buried beside them, just placed in the grave beside them, to die in the dark. Their presence would have been all the comfort he could ask for, even if it was to starve to death under the dark stones, only to be with them again. He wanted to reach out, like he still could touch their cold hands through the heavy lid of the cairn, like he still could reach them and beg them to allow him to follow them into the long darkness from whence there was no return. Why had he lived, when they had fallen? Fíli… smashed by Azog's mace… Thorin dying in that last fight, cold in the lethal embrace with his archenemy, his final words… his heartbreaking plea for forgiveness that was heard by none other than Kíli. If Thorin had at least known that there was nothing to forgive, nothing to ask forgiveness for, if he had only felt that none of them would turn away from him.

But he had died alone, with only Kíli to comfort him, before the Orcs stormed again. Oh why had they not done their work right? Why had they not hacked him to pieces like they had tried to? Why had they to fail the one time they should have done the work properly? Kíli gasped, trying to not sob loudly, but failing at it. A cold gust of wind tore his hair and send cold ghosting fingers tracing over the mars the tears left on his cheeks, like he could feel Fíli's fingers still, wiping them away. Only… Fíli was gone, cold and dead under the stones and Kíli was alone, his soul torn asunder and left behind in a world that he did only wish to leave.

Steps approached, two familiar sets of steps on the hard stone ground behind him. He recognized them as Balin and Dwalin, giving him support while allowing for the space he needed to grieve. They meant well, they truly cared, but their presence made him only feel more keenly that he was alone now. He would never hear Fíli's laughter again, nor hear Thorin admonish him – all that remained was the hollow emptiness spreading in his chest that hurt worse than all the wounds on his body.

Dwalin held Balin back from joining the lad. This was not the time to try and comfort Kíli, not with the pain wrecking through him like a fiery lash, not when he hardly was able to stand and when he was crying openly. The warrior silently focused on the stone cairn – how often had Thorin said that this quest might lead them to an early unmarked grave? It had come sadly true and Dwalin's heart was heavy with the loss of a friend, of his King. From his earliest childhood on Dwalin had been trained to one day serve the Prince, before he had even known what it would mean to follow Durin's House, and before he had found a friend in the dwarrow he was sworn to serve. A part of him whispered that he was the only one surviving of Thorin's personal guard and that a Captain of the Guard should follow his King into the fire, like Daroin would have, had he lived long enough to see Thrór fall in Azanulbizar.

No, Dwalin knew he could not do that. He did not fear death, not even the searing flame that should burn him to ashes, but one thought kept him from doing what tradition would demand. The thought of the young dwarrow standing before the cairn. Kíli was left alone now, with none of his family left to protect him – it was enough to break any soul. Dwalin well remembered how Thorin had grieved for Frérin, losing his brother had nearly killed Thorin. And it was worse with Kíli who had never been separated from his brother in his life. Forgive me, my friend, but you will have to wait for me a while, Dwalin thought, in his mind seeing Thorin's face, your boy will need me, if he is to survive this.

Heavy steps resounded on the hill grounds and Dwalin frowned deeply when he saw Dáin approach. The King of the Iron Mountains had chosen an ill time to come here. The broad-shouldered Dwarf stepped away to cut off Dáin. Not a man of many words, Dwalin stared down the short, compact Dwarf with the extensive grey braids.. "Leave him be."

Dáin frowned impatiently at Dawlin. "What must be spoken of is not yours to decide," he said coolly, his eyes going past the warrior to the young one standing at the grave. He seemed too lost in his personally wailing, he would have to made talk sensibly, whether he liked it or not.

Before things could escalate, Kíli woke from his trance and turned around. With a swift motion he swiped his hand over his eyes, to hide the worst tears, though there were still some glistening in the long eyelashes. "Dawlin," he said softly, his gaze meeting the warrior's eyes directly and Dwalin felt a shiver run down his spine, the black eyes were pained, raw, shining like diamonds of the deep, yet there was a measure of strength still in them."let him come here. If he wishes to speak to me, this time is as good as any."

Dáin walked past Dwalin. Dáin was a short dwarf, shorter than the rough warrior, and even shorter than young Kíli. And he hated that of all the family he had inherited the shortish stature, while some others got a near un-dwarven height. "They said you had a stout heart, lad," he said to Kíli. "It will be easier to speak in the shadow of these stones than down in the halls with their prying ears."

Kíli acquiesced, and they walked a few steps along the tomb to the ridge where it overlooked the surrounding land. Dáin walked in a speedy step, not waiting if Kíli could keep up. He could see Kíli wince as he walked, favoring his right leg slightly. Had no one taught him to keep his posture? "Thorin was most distressed to learn of your brother's death," Dáin began without preamble. "It pained him to know Fíli had been killed defending him. He was glad you had at least survived… He must have loved you both dearly."

The breath caught in Kíli's throat. "He was dead… he died on the hill, I was there," he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

"He merely passed out, not that it mattered, he was as good as dead when you saw him last." Dáin remained standing at the ridge, being the elder of them, it would force Kíli also to stand and as long as he did not pass out from exhaustion that was fine by Dáin. "He woke only once before he finally died." He cast a glance at the silent young Dwarf Prince beside him. "But… he never named either of you his heir. You were the sons of his sister and maybe, in his mind, you were meant to take up his mantle. Yet he never named you, not even in the hour of his death. That puts you – his nephew – and me – his cousin – on even footing when it comes to succession."

"I see." Kíli's eyes followed the flight path of a single eagle streaking across the valley. "And as you already have your army here and have a claim on the throne…"

Dáin stretched his shoulders, assessing the younger Dwarf anew. He seemed to see things more realistic than Dáin had expected and realism was not something that he had come to associate with Thorin and his family. Maybe a set of reasonable arguments would work better than a continued battering of his flailing emotions? It was worth a try. "You are barely of age, Kíli. In fact, in the Iron Mountains you'd still be a youth."

"But I am not from the Iron Hills." Their change of ways had been a departure from long-established Dwarven tradition to do so, but the great number of orphans left among the Erebor Dwarves after Azanulbizar had forced change upon them. "A Dwarf in the Ered Luin will be named adult once he passes seventy and proves he can kill a Warg, an Orc, and forge a decent axe or sword." Kíli's voice became softer at the last part, in his mind he saw his brother – brave, honorable Fíli, return from fighting his first Warg-rider, his eyes shining with pride and the scar he had retained from that fight something he had bragged about for years to come. His example had spurned Kíli to train hard to also finish his trials as early – only that someone had thought it funny to bring him up against an entire Warg-pack. How Fíli had hugged him when he came home… the happy laughter, a fresh set of tears threatened to fall from his eyes and he had to force them back.

"Now, there, lad, that may hold true for that exile home you founded back in the Ered Luin, but no one from the proper Dwarven lands will take your claim seriously," Dáin pointed out. "And my share in reclaiming Erebor is not a small one either—your brother, brave though his death may have been, and your uncle did far less. Even the dragon was killed by another."

A hollow pain rose inside Kíli's chest and he pressed his hands against where he could feel the heavy bandages under the thin green tunic he wore. After all they had went through, after surviving Orcs and giants, spiders and the dungeons of Mirkwood… to hear Thorin disparaged so was nearly too much for him. "At least we've tried," he quoted what he had heard was carved into the markstone by Mirrormere's cold shore, commemorating all those who had fallen in another terrible battle. "contrary to you, who sat in his Halls and held speeches."

Dáin's eyes widened at the sudden retaliation, so there was a spark of Thorin in the boy after all – it would need to be crushed thoroughly, or he would remain dangerous for all his life. Some people needed to be broken, they would even be happier in the end. "Whatever wild adventures you had – they are certainly nothing to qualify you for the throne. And with your father's low birth and Thorin being childless…"

He was suddenly and violently spun around, brought face to face with the thunderously angry face of Dwalin. "How dare you, Dáin?" Dwalin growled, his voice deepening in anger. How did this maggot dare to question the succession? Thorin may have long hesitated to truly adopt them, feeling he was betraying their father Dari by doing so, but he had eventually gone through with it, and Dwalin had been witness. "Kíli is Thorin's heir and you know it – he adopted both boys the day Dís died. I should toss you down that ridge – that would end your claim nicely." He shook Dáin a little, to make sure he understood Dwalin was serious.

"Try," Dáin croaked, trying to break the vicious grip. Anger rose inside him, like Thorin too, Kíli had the support of brutes and lowborn followers and it was time to see to realities here. "You are barely a dozen; your people are on the other side of the world still. My army will make short work of you." He did not yet call for his guards who were waiting within sight, if out of earshot. Once they came, there would be no survivors up here, only a few more bodies to burry.

"Dwalin." Again it was Kíli's voice that brought the warrior to a halt. He did not even speak loud, but his words cut through Dwalin's rage effortlessly. "Set him down. He has us checkmate and he knows it." How could the low voice reach him with more force of command than even some of Thorin's shouts? Dwalin wondered, but in this moment Kíli was more of a Prince than he had ever been before, and in spite of hardly being able to stand and of the pain he was in, he was still in control of the situation.

Angrily, Dwalin set the flustered King down again, making it so hard the Dwarf had a tough time staying on his feet. He would have liked to see Dáin land on his fat arse. "Kíli, we will stand with you – none of us will stand for such treachery," he said fiercely, maybe he should wring Dáin's neck until the Lord of the Iron Hills considered going home and surviving this day.

Gently, Kíli put a hand on Dwalin's arm. "I know. You are one of the truest, most loyal souls that my House was ever fortunate enough to meet, Dwalin."

Dáin straightened up, his gaze surveying them shrewdly. So the wounded pup was still able to command the battle lion, amazing- He would not have believed Dwalin to tolerate such weak leadership. "I'd put that to a test – how many of your kind would prefer their home back over another bloody war?" he pointed out, his entire focus on Kíli, the other two were of little significance. "And a war it will be, one to put this little battle here to shame, with thousands and thousands more dying. As useless a death as your lowborn father found in Azanulbizar."

Balin, had watched with his beard bristling with barely suppressed anger. Kíli was already so close to the edge of breaking, and with any moment that passed, he got paler, having visible difficulties to stand up straight and Dáin chose to play political games here? Had the Lord of the Iron Hills no decency at all? Did he not care that every new blow might be enough to break what little remained of Kíli's spirit? Or was that what he wanted, what he intended from the beinning? Stepping forward, he took position beside Kíli, his entire demeanor showing where he stood.. "What are you thinking, Dáin?"

"He thinks that he is the laughing winner." Kíli exhaled slowly and now spoke more evenly. The deep hollow gap in his chest was still there, the pain numbing all other pain that he felt and he doubted he would ever not feel the hole Fíli had left in his soul, but Thorin had taught him that duty came before grief and that the care for the living must always take priority for the mourning of the dead. Duty first, grief later. He repeated the line in his head again and again, like a prayer that could give him some strength, some way to face this. He had to – Thorin would expect him to, he would demand that he do his duty and maybe he could still feel his presence here, so close to the place where he rested. Facing Dáin Kíli made himself meet the other dwarf's eyes. "He would not give us an army when we needed it, and now, with Thorin dead, he can take Erebor for his own."

"An army against a monster…" Dáin tried to interrupt the words that were all too calm, all too strong for his taste.

Kíli raised his hand, forestalling Dáin's words, not allowing him to speak. "Do not protest or claim noble motives here, Dáin. There is no one but us to hear. What was your plan for me, then? Would I have died within a few days also if I did not support your claim?" His hand did not go to the sword by his side, nor was there anger in his voice. Kíli asked calmly, he could easily speak about his death now, if it were only himself and no one else, he could have discussed his own execution with Dáin and would have cared less. If only he could rest beside his brother, he would be happier again.

"I would rather you vanished entirely." Dáin was surprised that it was the young Prince who seemed to have the clear eye for politics. Though he did not say it out loud, he would have made sure the Prince was executed privately and the Legend about his vanishing put into circulation. Had anyone but Dwalin brought the young one off the battlefield, Dáin might have arranged for another tragic death, but unfortunately Dwalin had stayed beside Kíli most of the time, having too keen an eye on the healers. "Even with your support, there'd be those who'd whisper that you are the true King of the Mountain. No matter where you went among Dwarves… you are too much like your uncle; you would always be the uncrowned King. And we had enough of that with Thrór's line already."

Kíli could sense Balin's shock and Dwalin's fierce anger – they both would fight if it came down to a choice, and that was why he could not make that call. Kíli's eyes went to both of them, Balin, the sage old Dwarf, mentor and friend, whose wise council had so often been a guide to them; and Dwalin… powerful, steadfast Dwalin. He only needed to meet their eyes and know they would fight, even if they stood no chance against Dáin's amassed army. His throat became tight, and he bowed his head. He did not fear death for himself any more – if it was only him, he'd gladly rush into one last fight, one last battle to become as cold and still as his brother who rested under these dark stones. But imagining Balin and Dwalin both fallen, dead and pale on a field of blood like Thorin… like Fíli… the very idea threatened to drive tears to Kíli's eyes. He could not think of them, of his friends slaughtered, he would not… no, he would not do that to them. They deserved so much better. Thorin had valued each and every one of his loyal followers highly; he had placed their wellbeing before his own, and he'd expect as much from his remaining heir. And Kíli would not sacrifice them – it was unthinkable, even if it meant stepping back from the legacy he had been raised to. He could almost see his Uncle's angry glare, Thorin would be disappointed that Kíli caved in before Dáin, that he betrayed the legacy he had passed on to him, but… no, buts. No legacy, no crown, no title, was worth the death of his friends, had been worth the death of his brother. And Kíli would gladly give up his claim if it spared his last friends the cruel fate of Fíli. "On one condition, Dáin," he said, looking slowly up, his voice far more steady than his heart.

"Name it."

Kíli had to clear his throat to be able to speak at all. "You will allow all of the Erebor Dwarves to return should they wish, and their ancestral homes and possessions restored to them. If you want to be King of the Mountain, you have to do right by the Mountain's people." The words burned in his throat, they felt like the worst betrayal of Thorin's dream and even as Kíli spoke them, he felt in his heart that they were right. No good leader, no Prince should ever bring a civil war to his people, no good leader sacrificed his people for personal gain. He'd rather be nobody, than to disappoint his friends in such a way.

Dáin visibly relaxed at this demand, he had expected something more detailed, an acknowledgment of Kíli's status, maybe negotiations about a marriage into Dáin's family. But it seemed the boy was really willing to give it all up – could his low-born father have brought the bloodline down that much? "You have my word, Kíli. A King doing less would be stupid. Your people have proven their strength time and again." Dáin replied, meeting Kíli's eyes, he rarely gave his word, because no one trusted a word-breaker, so it was wiser to not give one's word instead of having to break it. But in this case – it was the only sensible thing to do either way. The title of King of Durin's folk would mean reuniting the fractured nation, which meant bringing the people of the Mountain back into the fold.

"Kíli… no." Balin stepped beside him, his hand reaching for the archer's arm. "You can't let him get away with this."

"He already has, Balin." Kíli turned to him, finding Balin's gaze. The old dwarf had served three generations of his family, from King Thrór to Thorin, and he so much deserved some kind of reward, some peace after a life of strife and loss. Reaching deep inside his heart, Kíli found the words to say his goodbyes to Balin, to sent him home to the Mountain with at least some warmth, some thanks. "My friend… he could as easily bury us beside Thorin and go on with his schemes. My uncle wanted to give our people back their home. He wanted them to be proud once more, to no longer live in foreign lands, homeless and scorned among Men. You, your brother… you all faced death, danger, and horrors beside him, out of loyalty, out of friendship… You deserve to gain back what was taken from you so long ago."

Awed, Balin looked up at the young Dwarf. Where was the mischievous boy he had mentored in the Ered Luin? The wild, young archer that had fought by his Uncle's side? He had been burned away by fire, by battle, and by grief, leaving a young, solemn warrior – a young Prince. In the middle of loss, in the ashes of the past battle the next Lord of Durin's line had been forged and Balin was honored that Kíli would call him friend."I would rather live out the rest of my life in the Ered Luin than under the rule of one who stole the throne from your family, my Prince."

Dwalin nodded approvingly. "He is right, Kíli. I won't have anything to do with that maggot – and neither will the others."

Deeply touched by their unwavering loyalty,Kíli was lost for words, his throat tightening, nearly choking him. They could not mean that – they could not choose another exile over finally going home. But meeting Balin's eyes, and Dwalin's steady gaze he knew they meant it, they truly meant it, and even the hollow gap inside him could not swallow up the relief about the thought that he would not be entirely alone on the road that lay before him. . "Leave the others their own choice," he insisted.

Dáin weighed what he had just heard. He had hoped that his rule would be uncontested but it seemed Thorin's house still had a stubborn following. It was something to keep an eye on in the years to come. "Most will chose more wisely," he said acidly, he had watched Kíli closely throughout the entire conversation, disgusted by the unveiled emotions and now unable to resist striking a hit or two on that noble façade the young one put up, an aspiration to the noble bearing of his uncle, but Dáin found him lacking. It was those dark eyes that gave Kíli away: they were too pained, to grieved; his heart was still weeping for those buried here. Dáin held a measure of respect for mourning one's brother, but not to such a crippling, weakening extent, and what in the world would make the boy mourn Thorin – the ever haughty and arrogant son of Thrain – was beyond Dáin. If someone did not deserve tears, it was Thorin. The boy was weak: physically and mentally, even when he had awoken from his injuries the first time, he had not turned right to securing his base of power, instead he had wept for his brother, instead of insisting that the funeral be pushed back to another time, he had allowed himself to be seen so weak he was barely able to stand and ultimately he stared at the stone grave with such longing, like he would prefer to rest inside with his family. That was no strength, it was a sickness, worse than the sickness for gold – that at least strove for power, but this boy was nothing but a bleeding heart. Kíli barely held the grief at bay, and Dáin decided now was the time to expose that weakness for others to see. "They will know where their gold and home is and where they will find a true King." He turned, walking off stiffly.

Kíli watched the Dwarven King leave, fresh pain erupting in his chest. It was not the pain for the lost throne – much as it hurt to disappoint his uncle's dream to that extent, he knew Thorin would have made the same decision… or at least the Thorin he had known for most of his life would have. The King fallen to the spell of the gold might have fought. Memories of the events before the battle choked him, and he tried to push them away. He did not want to remember Thorin, his brave and noble uncle, with that mad gleam in his eyes. And Fíli… no, he could not even dare to think his name or he would be choked by the loneliness, the empty hollow gap inside him. Why had he not been allowed to die with them?

He knees buckled and he nearly feel but one moment before his knees could hit the hard stone ground, he felt Dwalin's huge hand closing around his upper arm, Kíli looked up, seeing the worried expression in the scarred warrior's eyes. Wordlessly, he put his hand above Dwalin's, trying to somehow thank him for his silent support. He had wanted to not think, to be empty, maybe to stop feeling for a while, but Dwalin reminded him that he was not alone, that there were others still with him and he was grateful for the huge warrior's presence. Dwalin hugged him close, the warm gesture enough to nearly break Kíli into fresh tears, but he bit them back, when he heard steps approach. He pulled from the hug, but still gravitated closely to the older warrior, finding some comfort in his presence.

Dwalin was nearly relieved to see the pain in Kíli's eyes, for a moment he had feared Kíli would withdraw into himself, to a place where no one could reach him. Pain bad though it might be, had to be lived through to heal. And raw as Dwalin's own emotions were, about Thorin and Fíli fallen, focusing on helping Kíli to survive this nightmare would help him to deal with his own sadness. He felt Kíli startled back and looked around. Thranduil was leaving, uncaring as always, why the Elf King had been here at all, was beyond Dwalin. But Bard the Bowman came walking towards them.

Dwalin shot him a glare; this was really not the time to debate the past events. Kíli was exhausted, physically and mentally, speaking of the dark hours before the battle, of Thorin's slip into madness would only bring more pain, more desperation and they had enough of that already.

"And what would you want?" Dwalin asked more sharply, trying to make the man hear that he could take his issues up with Dáin and good luck with that. While Dwalin had no dislike for the Bowman, he would not see Kíli put through more needless pain.

"I will not intrude upon you long." Bard spoke swiftly; he could see the warrior's patience was already wearing thin. His eyes sought Kíli's gaze, the dark eyes he met were unreadable and empty like the winter skies. Bard had seen such expressions before; they belonged to men who had no reason to life anymore, not the will to put with the world. Those who sought death. "Your family had a long feud with Smaug, and even as I was the one to strike him down, you should have this." With these words he handed Kíli one long, glittering dragon's fang.

Closing his hand over the icy cold fang, Kíli inclined his head. His mind refused to think, or even consider that he held a tooth of the beast that had wrought so much suffering on so many. When he spoke the words came to him by reflex, training providing what his soul could not give any more. His lips moved, he spoke and his heart could hardly hear his own voice. "You have my thanks, Bard of Laketown. And I wish you luck in rebuilding your city."

Bard's eyes grew thoughtful. "It seems we have a new King under the Mountain to watch out for. I fear there will be many a day when even I shall wish your uncle had survived." With this, he bowed slightly and left the gravesite.

With the last stranger gone Kíli's strength gave out, he could not stand any longer, the pain from the countless wounds for a moment even drowning out the hollow emptiness inside him. Dwalin's strong hands caught him again and the warrior helped him to sit down by the dark stones. Kíli closed his eyes, leaning against the grave, he wanted to stay here, to simply sleep and never wake again, to let his soul slowly slip into the Grey, into the dream from whence there was no waking.

"Kíli, lad," Dwalin's deep, rumbling voice called him from the brink of sleep. Looking at the bald warrior, Kíli saw pain and worry closely etched into the older dwarf's features. "I know it hurts, more like you think you can bear," Dwalin's voice was gentle, having lost all his usual gruffness. "you need to hang on, to keep going… it will get better. It will heal, even if you cannot see it yet. Do you think you can try? Please?"

It was that last word that cut right into Kíli again, he remembered how Dwalin had carried him off the bloody hill before the gates, how he had been with him while the healers tried to put him back together, his voice was all Kíli remembered amongst the pain, the deep voice of Dwalin, talking, encouraging him, begging him to hold out, to not die too. And now that he saw the pain in the old warrior he was startled to see how much more pain his own demise would bring to him. "I will hang on, Dwalin, I promise," he clasped the powerful hand, feeling his fingers nearly vanish under the grip. He had chosen to keep his friends alive, to not fight and die… and if that meant he had to go on, to life for them, he'd do it. Duty first. Grief later.

Dwalin leaned closer and their forehead's touched for a moment, a gesture of comfort for both of them. Before they separated and Dwalin sat down beside Kíli.

A cold wind rose from the east, sweeping across the mountain and the valley below. Snow began slowly to fall from heavy grey clouds. Dwalin's eyes went to the far of ridge of mountains to the west. It would be a long way home.