Miles surrounded him and yet he was trapped there, enclosed in a damp cell that echoed his every thought with a shivering breath. From a ledge built of scavenged boulders he could see the land spread out around the mountain, rolling fields of dusty green and, further on, a land of murky waters with a wooden city rising, water-logged and weary, from its depths. He'd rather be there instead of the stone fortress that held him aloft with its winding stone steps and pillars. Hadn't this once been the home to great feasts and blue flames, mineral sweat and miners damp with their own glory? Ruin, ruin, ruin – that's all that had been left by the desolation of Smaug so that, even in his own homeland, he felt his rejoice at returning dwindling into a prisoner's rot.
A cold breeze drifted into the Lonely Mountain from the outside world and he treasured the feel of it on his face, through his hair, as a thirsting man may treasure the last drop of cold water on earth. He closed his eyes and began to sing songs in his own tongue: gentle songs of ancient splendor and battle glory. As he sung he imagined himself as a dwarf warrior of old, cleaving heads in battle with the thought of earthly love fueling the fire in his heart. His voice climbed the wet pillars and slid down their surface, rubbing amorously against the stone until he had found a vocal rhythm so potent, so engulfing that he quickly became lost in the reverberations in his ears.
A rock fell clattering behind him and, unconcerned, he let his voice fade in one final, quivering note that filled him with a soothing bliss. He turned around with the intent of starting his search again when suddenly his eyes met those of Thorin Oakensheild who stood bathed in the shadows, his arms held stiff against his sides. Kili's breath caught cold in his throat and he stuttered out an unintelligible proclamation of surprise. Thorin's grey eyes held his for a moment and in them Kili did not see the recognition of a kinsman but the hot and calculating fury of…what?
A dragon.
Without a word Thorin turned away from his sister's son and walked away, the clumping of his heavy boots steady and measured against the cold stones. He hadn't said a word – he didn't have to for, as was his nature, Thorin had made his disgust clear without even parting his lips.
#
That night the Company gathered around a table in the main hall. Sweaty, grimy, and fatigued they picked silently at the provisions left over from Laketown. Thorin sat at the head of the table, robed in the deep blue velvet of ancient kings, the crown on his head a harsh reminder that he was, in fact, a King and for the time being the charred oak table and the dwarves that surrounded it were his court.
Hesitantly, observing their king from the corner of their eyes, the dwarves began to tell Bilbo hushed stories of Erebor from a time before the coming of the dragon. Any other time it would have been considered an invigorating sport but they all knew that their words were simply meant to stave off the moment when Thorin would rouse himself and order them to keep on looking for the Arkenstone.
"Kili." Thorin said and the company quickly fell silent. Kili slowly raised his head and looked past the eyes turned his way to his king. Thorin was staring at him with an unreadable gaze, his fingers spread out upon the armrest of his chair. "Sing."
Kili stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Sorry?"
"Don't be." He growled. He raised a golden goblet to his lips and drunk from it slowly, his eyes never leaving Kili's. It clattered loudly against the table when he set it back down again. "For it seems as if you see more value in singing to yourself than looking for the Arkenstone."
The young dwarf lowered his eyes as hollow laughter filled the room. When he raised them again he found that Thorin was still staring at him, this time with a slight smirk as if he were enjoying his humiliation.
"I swear, I meant no offence by it…."
"No? Show us what you meant by it."
"Thorin?"
"SING!"
Kili jumped and sought out his brother who was gazing at Thorin with something akin to dismay. When he turned back to his brother his eyes were wide and bright as if he had seen something in Thorin that Kili had not. Do it, he mouthed urgently. Kili cleared his throat once, twice and opened his mouth to sing but Thorin cut him off with a voice like thunder.
"Stand!"
` Kili was so quick to obey him that the upset the table, spilling precious water and sending platters of bread and cheese rolling across the floor. Heart pounding, he righted what he could and then steadied himself. The mountain had never seemed so silent as when he took that first breath in and forced a low, hateful note from his throat. His voice cracked with the effort and sounded unfamiliar even to him. He was so focused on trying to set it right that he did not see or hear Thorin rear up from his chair and move towards him. A red-hot pain stung his scalp and his head was yanked back. The company gasped and rose from their seats around him but all he could see was Thorin's face close to his, his breath hot and sour against his lips.
"Thorin!" Bilbo squeaked as the dwarves clambered in dismay for their young kinsman. Thorin roared and demanded that they be silent, all of them, less they all desired to brand themselves as enemies against his name. He looked back at Kili again, his face so close this time that his beard scratched Kili's cheek.
"Sing. I will not ask you again."
Kili, his head still held back against his shoulders, opened his mouth but no sound rode with his exhalation. Thorin's fingers tightened in his hair and tears sprung to Kili's eyes. They ran down his face in hot rivulets and splattered on his collar as a cold rain.
"Thorin, please." That was Fili and Kili realized that he was close to him, his hand pressed firmly against Thorin's arm. Suddenly Thorin's grip lessened and it wasn't until his king had moved away did Kili realize that he could stand straight again. Fili came towards him and put an arm around his shoulder.
"Just get it over with," he whispered in his ear. Conscious of the man standing behind him and the company's eyes turned towards him with pity, Kili closed his eyes and began to sing again. This time he summoned the pride within him and let it flow forth with his words, bubbling beneath them like a river beneath rocks. He filled his song with spite and gave a warrior's life to the lyrics sung low and in the dark. If Thorin was going to make him sing then, by the beards of his forefathers, he would do it with his chin held high.
Slowly, Thorin circled him with his hands held behind his back and his eyes lowered. But Kili did not care for him: on the contrary he reveled in his ability to feel words of the music that lent him a certain power that his king did not have.
"The years will lend to hearts of old
The wealth of wisdom, for the bold
The pride of war shall be retold
And warm the hearths that once were cold
My forefathers will rise from the dead
And place crowns of hope beneath my bed
The dust will ride from parchment's stead
To paint my moon-grave gold and red
But for the son whose breath is sold
Death shall with white hand unfold
A parchment sick with rot and mold
His pride reflects in faded gold."
The silence that followed was so thick that it seemed to muffle the sound of gold clattering in the distance. Kili did not dare to look at Thorin, indeed he did not dare to look at anyone for he knew that their thoughts would be written plainly across their faces. You shouldn't have done that, lad.
"Clever."
The voice that rang out within the hall was unfamiliar, deep and venomous, inhuman in its resonance. Kili twisted in his chair but all he could see of Thorin was two flashing eyes in the shadow, lips parted in a serpentine sneer. And then, another word spoken in the same voice, "come."
Kili rose as if in a trance. He felt his brother grab his arm but shook it off irritably. "Don't," Fili pleaded but Kili ignored him.
"I must," he said in a strange voice as he drifted towards the shadow in the wake of his mother's brother. "Do not follow me. I will be fine on my own."
Or so he hoped.