I don't own anything.
Over the howling of the wind, Fíli hears a terrible voice roar in triumph. He recognises only one word, but it makes his blood run cold. Die.
In reply, something thuds onto the ground before him, something dark haired and bloodied and horribly familiar.
Instinctively, he claps his hands over his face; if he keeps his eyes covered, he can buy himself a few more moments of blissful denial. Tears stream from under his hands, burning trails down his frozen face. He makes no attempt to wipe them away; he simply stands, still as a statue, clinging desperately to these final moments of calm.
He remembers the way he had always listened with awe to tales of their ancestors, full of battles and great warriors, had always dreamed that one day he would take his place among them. Just a few hours past, he had been looking forward to fighting. He cringed in disgust. This horror was the reality of war, not the glorious legends of old.
"Kíli needs you," he tells himself, and it is this thought that gives him the strength to finally face the nightmare that is now a reality.
One side of Kíli's face is horribly swollen, his eye reduced to a narrow slit, his cheek stained purple by a large fist-shaped bruise. His hair is a mess, hanging in matted clumps across his face; a large chunk is missing over his left ear, and the raw wound oozes a slow trickle of blood. His arms are covered by an area of cuts and bruises, and worst of all, there is a great yawning mouth of a wound in his side, the blood already beginning to congeal in the cold air. He lies unnaturally still; the last time Fíli has seen him this still he was a tiny newborn that everyone believed to be dead.
Kíli. Dead. The words swirl around and around in Fíli's head, so different to each other, refusing to fit together. He collapses to his knees, curling up in a ball on the snowy ground.
"Fee." It is scarcely more than a breath, but it is the most precious sound Fíli has ever heard. He scrambles to his feet. "Don't go," Kíli whispers again. Fíli hesitates for the briefest of moments. A part of him wants to find the orc, to rip him into a bloody mess with his bare hands, to make him pay for this most heinous of crimes. But he knows revenge will not fix Kíli.
"I'm not going anywhere," he assures, kneeling beside his brother and pulling his head onto his lap. All that matters now is that his last moments are filled with love.
"Coward." Kíli can only manage one word, but the question behind it is clear. Fíli knows instantly that his brother is worried what their uncle will think, that he will be ashamed that his nephew was executed, by the pale orc of all creatures. He can feel his rage at Thorin building; it is his uncle's fault that Kíli is broken and scared and dying. But he pushes it from his mind, for he knows such thoughts will not help his baby brother now.
"Never," Fíli whispers, shaking his head as he gently brushes Kíli's hair from his face, untangling it with his fingers. Slowly, reverently, he twists the blood-crusted strands into braids. He removes the braids from his own hair, using the clasps to secure Kíli's hair.
"You deserve them," he whispers, watching Kíli's face glow with pride; he knows only too well how much this means to his brother. And as he watches Kíli's smile, he realises that the mark of a warrior is an honour that he no longer cares for.
Kíli grimaces, his hands twitching towards the jagged wound in his side.
"Hurts." The plaintive whisper reminds Fíli of a tiny dark-haired dwarfling seeking comfort from his elder brother. But this time, he knows he cannot banish the nightmare.
"It's just a bad dream Kee, it'll be over soon," he murmurs, gently cradling Kíli against his chest, as he used to whenever the younger complained of nightmares. Kíli hisses quietly in pain, but his mouth is smiling.
"Go to sleep," Fíli whispers, one last time. Obediently, Kíli leans against his chest, good eye fluttering shut. His heart constricts painfully in his chest, as he begins to hum the tune of Kíli's favourite lullaby, the notes cracking and sticking in his throat.
"Night, Fee."
Fíli continues to hum, until he can no longer feel the breath on his neck, until the pulse slows and dies. Then he sobs, his face pressed into the dark hair, until all his feelings are bled out of him.
And at long last, Fíli closes his eyes and dreams, curled up under a blanket of snow, with the call of an eagle echoing in his ears.
They are dwarflings again, and he can still chase Kíli's nightmares away.