Disclaimer: Middle Earth and everything in it belongs to JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: This is a one-shot I wrote for my 100th reviewer of When Comes the Dawn, KungFuSchildi! Consider yourself warned: the Durin feels are strong with this one. The chosen prompt by KungFuSchildi was "You won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise."

Thanks, everyone, for all your support!

Thorin turned in a slow circle where he stood, surveying the battlefield with a sinking heart. There was so much death, everywhere, dwarrow and orc alike. A little ways off, Dwalin and Balin sought comfort in one another, their foreheads pressed together to hide a restrained display of intense grief at the loss of so many of their elders and peers.

We're all far too young for this.

Except was he? In years, perhaps, but given everything that had happened since the dragon had taken Erebor and made his people into refugees; he felt more his grandfather's age than his own.

Grandfather.

Father.

They were both gone now, lost on this very field, lost in a hopeless, pointless battle that had accomplished nothing in the end. Unless you count the defeat of that monster Azog; and frankly, un-princely though it may be, Thorin hardly thought the death of one Orc was worth the family and friends he'd lost today.

But Thrain had insisted on retaking Moria; it had been his duty to obey.

Now he just wanted to go home to Frerin and Dis, and grieve with them, perhaps learn to be a better brother than he'd been in the past.

Distance, they always told him, those etiquette and philosophy blowhards his grandfather hired to tutor him in Erebor; distance must be maintained between an Heir (or King) and everyone. Even his closest family must not be allowed past a certain point, in both his home and his heart. Thorin had gotten quite good at it, actually, holding Frerin and Dis and Father and Mother all at arm's length.

His father didn't mind; he'd learned under those same tutors, but it had been hard with his siblings. They were close when they were young; wild games in the halls of Erebor—he and Frerin trying to 'save' Dis, although she never was a lassie to sit around and wait to be rescued—nights of storytelling and quiet songs in their bedroom, trying not to giggle loud enough that mother and father came knocking, eventually falling asleep in a heap on one bed.

They were his spring and his autumn, his siblings. Frerin was all golden hair and brown eyes; mischief and impatience and snarkiness all rolled into one unquenchable fireball; while Dis was sunshine and pastels, all beauty and sweetness and fierce love.

"My prince, my prince!" a young dwarf lad ran up to him, interrupting his reverie. "You must come quickly, please!"

Thorin ran after the lad, a weight settling in his gut. Perhaps they had found his wandering Father? Perhaps another of his friends was injured? The lad led him to a small tent in the medical area and pulled open the flap. Thorin walked in, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. A small figure lay on the cot, covered in blankets and a mess of blonde hair spread over the pillow.

He knew that head of hair.

Frerin?

The chief healer had held his arm as he told the prince of his brother's condition, and then left them alone. Thorin fell onto the short stool beside the cot. Frerin's eyes fluttered open and he let out a small, wheezing moan.

"Thorin," he murmured, seeing his older brother beside him.

"Frerin," the prince replied, roughly. "What were you doing here? You're supposed to be at home with Dis! You're far too young for battle!"

"As are you," Frerin shot back weakly. "You're fifty-three years old, Thorin, you're not even full grown yourself."

Thorin groaned. "And so you came along because you thought you'd win some glory in some mighty battle, did you?"

Frerin coughed weakly, and Thorin stopped short. Oh, nadadith.

"I came because I belong with my brother," Frerin whispered.

Thorin bit back a wail of grief. Distance. Mustn't show your pain.

And what had distance done for him and Frerin? A whole lot of nothing, that's what. Now his little brother was dying, and there were too many things Thorin hadn't said, too many embraces he hadn't given, too many laughs and secret jokes they hadn't shared.

So he closed the distance. He lay down beside his brother on the cot and stroked his dirty, sweaty hair. Frerin seemed surprised, but did not complain—quite the contrary, he shifted into Thorin's larger chest with a small smile.

"Nadad?"

"Yes, Frerin. I am here."

"Brother, the healers kept telling me I'll be fine. Right as rain in no time at all, they said. But it doesn't feel like it. Please, Thorin, honor me with the truth: how bad are my wounds?"

Thorin wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to chuckle and reassure his young, golden-haired lion that he would indeed be up and about soon enough. He wanted to scream and fight and rage against the unfairness of it all. But he did none of these things. Instead, he looked his brother in the eye and gave him the truth, gently but firmly:

"You won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise, nadadith."

Frerin thought for a moment, then nodded his acceptance with nary a tear in his eye. "Thank you, Thorin."

They spent all that night together, sometimes talking, sometimes just being together, often chuckling quietly. It became harder and harder for Frerin to breathe through the night, as his body succumbed to the poison from the blade that had pierced him. Thorin held him close, told him of the distance the tutors had made him believe was necessary for a monarch of Erebor, told him how sorry he was for all the wasted time he didn't spend with the ones he loved best.

Frerin smiled and forgave him instantly.

And when he died just before sunrise, Thorin was there with him.

So many years later, when he and Dis stood in the darkened doorway of Fíli's room, smiling at the sight of her two boys—one golden and one dark—sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs on Fíli's bed, she looked at him and wondered aloud, "When will we need to start encouraging them to distance themselves from one another, Thorin? They're so close…"

Thorin gripped her arms firmly. "Never. We'll not teach them any such thing. Fíli and Kíli will remain close, and it will be their greatest strength."

And when he saw them, eighty years later, standing over him against Azog the Defiler, together; he knew he had been right. They were night and day, his nephews—light and darkness and fury and calm, and whether they lived or died this day; together they were unstoppable.