A/N: Hey guys! Can I just say a massive thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favourited – I'm absolutely thrilled with the response to the first chapter, which, considering its content, makes me considerably evil, I know. So, this chapter comes with a complimentary packet of tissues, and should you wish to make your reading experience even more tearful, you should listen to 'Hope There's Someone' by Antony and the Johnsons.

"Over here!"

The shout was accompanied by a strangled howl, but Balin already knew what they had found. He had felt it, deep in his bones, long before their company had reached the Lonely Mountain; a black sense of foreboding had plagued his thoughts for months. Dwalin had chided him for being the eternal pessimist, and Thorin had remained as stubborn as ever. But now… Balin looked up from the fetid pile of orc corpses he had been turning over with the tip of his sword and found Glóin studying him, his expression unreadable. His eyes flitted to the right as he waited for Balin's reaction.

Balin followed his gaze to the brow of a furrow, which dropped into a sort of crater… And he heard his brother's enraged cries rising up from the trench, getting snagged on a chill wind which only made them sound all the more demented. Balin closed his eyes as they began to sting, and nodded to Glóin. The two of them approached the ditch and paused at the dried, brown grass spiking out at its edge. Thorin and Fíli were lying side by side in the dust, their blood staining the ground beneath them like a shadow. Thorin's eyes were still open, the blue faded and glassy, staring vacantly at the sky. Fíli's eyes were closed in a grimace and, most curiously, he was clutching Thorin's oak shield. The colossal, white corpse of Azog the Defiler lay to the left of them, black blood still seeping from the orc's slashed stomach. Dwalin was kneeling at Thorin's side, his head in his hands. Nori, who had raised the alarm, stood behind him, unsure of what to do.

Balin took in this grim tableau without a word, his heart beating painfully fast inside his chest. And grief crept in slowly, but surely, descending over him like a shroud. Suddenly, Dwalin was on his feet. With a roar, he raised his axe, and lunged towards Azog's corpse. He delivered a blow to the Pale Orc's back, the axe head getting stuck in his spine. Dwalin wrenched it out and struck again, and again, and again. Each blow was harder than the last and accompanied by a wounded snarl.

"Dwalin…" Balin said weakly, but he could say no more.

He knew he had no right to deny his brother his grief, or how he chose to vent it. Dwalin and Thorin had been close for well over a century, ever since they had trained together as bairns. He was well aware that Thorin told Dwalin things he would never breathe a word of to anyone else, and equally, Balin sensed Thorin knew more about his brother than he did.

Having exhausted himself, Dwalin stayed his axe, his chest heaving. He spat on Azog's bloodied back for good measure and let loose a string of Khuzdul curses, unable to turn around and face the sight of Thorin and Fíli again. Balin began to struggle down into the ditch, aided by Glóin, with Nori coming to meet them. No word passed between them, only solemn looks and nods. Thorin's face was white beneath the blood, but Fíli's remained pink and flushed, almost as if… Balin froze. He was sure he had just seen Fíli's chest twitch. Balin moved faster than he had done for some years and in an instant he was kneeling at Fíli's side. Placing a gentle hand on Fíli's forehead he felt the skin burning beneath his palm. Quickly putting two fingers to Fíli's wrist he felt a pulse, very weak but still there.

"By Aulë," he breathed, his heart wanting to burst right out of his ribs. "He's alive! Fíli is still with us!"

Dwalin spun around, and then they were all crowding Fíli. The shroud of grief that had wrapped itself around all of them loosened, if only slightly, with this glimmer of hope. They had been too late to save Thorin, but maybe they were not too late to save Fíli.

Every time the doors of the main tent flapped open, Kíli's heart leapt. But every time he was greeted with a host of unfamiliar faces and his heart sank into his stomach. He was sitting on one of the beds closest to the tent's entrance, his right hand tightly bandaged and held in a sling. His fingers had been cleaned and stitched by a dwarf named Grefur, Dáin's head-healer. Grefur, who was referred to as 'Grefur the Grouch' by the other healers, was terrifying. He generally treated his patients as an inconvenience to his job of healing, and when he was examining Kíli's fingers, Kíli was convinced he was going to pull them off. A tall dwarf, with a bald head, bushy eyebrows, and piercing black eyes, Grefur looked like Dwalin's evil twin. It was a thought Kíli was desperate to share with Fíli, but it had been hours since Fíli had gone in search of Thorin, and there had been no news of him since.

Occasionally an elf or a man of Lake-town would be brought into the tent, but he was soon collected by his own kin before Kíli had chance to question him about Fíli or Thorin. He had tried to sneak out more than once, but each time he had been caught by a healer and dragged back to his own bed, a bowl of meat broth thrust into his uninjured hand to keep him occupied. But Kíli could hardly stomach anything… Bofur and Bifur had been thrown out by Grefur, and the only other member of the company he had seen since was Óin, who was helping Dáin's healers mix medicines and ointments. He was therefore too busy to talk to Kíli, and in a tent full of people, Kíli had never felt more alone. The sun was setting now, and he couldn't get the look Fíli had given him before he left out of his mind. It was as if he was hiding something, like he knew something Kíli didn't.

Another cry sounded from the dwarf lying on the bed to Kíli's right. The dwarf had been groaning constantly ever since he was placed there, but now the groans sounded more laboured and more desperate. Kíli looked to the other end of the tent where the healers were gathered around a table of bandages and medicines, but none of them seemed to have noticed the dwarf's moans. The dwarf's long, grey beard was matted with blood and his chest and head were heavily bandaged. He let out another long whine, and so, unable to endure the dwarf's suffering silently, Kíli stood up and tentatively approached his side.

"Erm… Excuse me?" Kíli said, over the dwarf's groans. "Are… Are you alright?"

It was a ridiculous question; Kíli realised this as soon as it left his mouth, but he wasn't sure what else to say. The dwarf quietened and his eyes darted to Kíli – or rather his eye did. One eye was milky white and pupil-less, the other, a dark brown, scrutinised the young dwarf leaning over him.

"Thorin?" the dwarf said, his voice a low growl.

Kíli's heart jolted. "No… I-I'm his nephew, Kíli… Son of Dís."

The dwarf continued to stare at him, his uneven breaths crackling in his throat. "Well… You look like him… And your brother… sounds like him…"

Kíli wasn't quite sure how he managed to stay upright as his heart seemed to fail him. "You… You know my brother?" Kíli gasped, moving even closer to the dwarf. "You've seen Fíli?"

"Aye…" the dwarf replied, with the grotesque cough of corrupted lungs. "He asked me… about your uncle… before he went limping… across the river…"

"Limping?" Kíli gulped, his stomach manically knotting and unknotting itself.

He was about to ask again, when suddenly the dwarf let out cry and his hand shot out, grabbing Kíli's collar, clutching it fiercely. His brown eye was wide with terror, its gaze burning into Kíli, and then the light was lost from it, like snuffing out a candle. His fingers loosened their grip on Kíli's coat, but the hand didn't fall from his chest until Kíli staggered back, shaking. The brown eye stayed open, its dull, empty stare fixed on Kíli, who was frozen in horror.

Kíli wasn't sure how long he had been standing there when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him back to his bed.

"It's alright, lad… There was nothing we could do," a healer murmured, as another carefully drew down the old dwarf's eyelids and pulled the white sheet over his face.

Kíli had killed orcs, and goblins, and wargs… and he was sure dwarves had been struck down around him on the battlefield that day, but he had never actually watched any of his kin die before. In the storybooks and the epic songs, when the hero or his friends died, their eyes always closed first, with a smile or a sigh… They never told you that, in reality, you die with your eyes open, so that everyone can literally see life leaving you… And with this dwarf there was neither smile, nor sigh… Only a look of pure fear before the end.

"Who… Who was he?" Kíli whispered, as the healers turned to leave.

"Varnin, son of Vestri," one replied. "He grew up in Erebor… Fought with Thorin at the Battle of Azanulbizar."

Kíli didn't reply. He stayed sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at the white sheet which covered the face of Varnin, who had come home to die.

It was growing dark and the healers had begun to light candles at their patients' bedsides. The body of Varnin had been collected by his distraught younger brother and cousin. Kíli hadn't been able to say a word, only wondering if the cries of Varnin's kin were what awaited him... The waiting had reduced his fear to a dull ache, settling like silt at the bottom of his stomach, and he had stopped looking up whenever anyone entered the tent… That was until one of Dáin's councillors marched in, and gave Kíli an unnerving look as he passed. As soon as their eyes met, he looked away, and quickened his pace to reach the healers gathered at the other end. Kíli found himself standing up, straining his ears to catch what was being said…

"…You might want to move the lad to his own tent… He's just become second in line to the throne."

Kíli thought his cry must have been heard by the whole camp, but instead no sound came from his gaping mouth, and the screaming was only inside his head… Second in line… That meant either Thorin or Fíli had fallen… But he didn't know which… Suddenly he was moving towards the councillor, his hands outstretched, as if he were drowning… Because he was, really. The councillor, not wanting to be confronted and unable to handle Kíli's grief, moved past him and headed back towards the tent's entrance.

"Wait!" Kíli called, stumbling after him.

He felt a healer's hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off fiercely, his eyes beginning to blur with tears. The councillor had just disappeared through the tent doors when Balin appeared in his place, his face grey and tired.

"Balin…" Kíli said, his voice no more than a whisper. "What… What's happened…?"

Balin sighed and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Kíli didn't shrug it away, though he felt like he was sinking beneath it. "I am so sorry, Kíli… Thorin… Your uncle is dead."

The cry got stuck in Kíli's throat. "And Fíli?" he asked desperately, the words struggling through his wretched need to scream.

"He's alive," Balin replied carefully, and from his tone Kíli knew this meant: 'But only just'.

"I… I have to see him!" Kíli cried, and burst from the tent into the cold air of the descending night.

"Kíli!" Balin was at his side again.

Kíli looked frantically up and down the row of smaller tents in front of him – all were glowing with light, but only one, to his right, had the shadows of more than one person moving hastily across its yellow walls. Kíli darted towards it, aware that Balin was at his heels, and practically threw himself through the doors… But he wasn't ready for what he saw.

Fíli was lying on his side on the tent's single bed. His back was drenched in bright red blood, oozing from two enormous gashes that ran down parallel to his spine, and the bed sheets were already soaked scarlet. Grefur was barking orders at the other three healers present and saying something about Fíli's leg, paying no attention to Kíli's intrusion. Kíli followed Grefur's gaze and his stomach turned… One of Fíli's legs was so swollen it was almost black in places… And as a healer moved around the bed, Kíli thought he glimpsed a shard of bone protruding just below Fíli's knee… Kíli lurched to the side and threw up onto the tent's floor. His stomach barely had anything to offer up, and so Kíli was reduced to retching, his shoulders shaking as the tears slid down his nose.

"Get that boy out of here!" Grefur roared, as Balin helped Kíli straighten up.

"No!" Kíli protested, as Balin tried to gently pull him away. But then a healer moved towards him, preparing for a forceful removal. "Fíli!" he cried out, as the healer's hand closed around his arm. "You hang in there, Fíli! Don't you leave me too!"

The camp was quiet when Kíli crept out of his tent. It had only been two hours since he had been dragged from Fíli's tent and lodged in his own at the end of the row, but it felt as if an age had passed. The sky was black now and there were no stars. Balin had stayed with him for an hour, but then he had been called away to help Bifur and Dori restrain Dwalin, who had taken to destroying most things he came into contact with… Kíli wished he could go and help Dwalin with his destruction… But, if the truth be told, he hadn't the energy to even lift a sword. He felt utterly exhausted, but couldn't sleep… He could only sit on his bed and think about Fíli, and Thorin, and the gaping hole that was slowly blossoming in his chest, its dark tendrils creeping into his veins.

No one had come to tell him Fíli had died, but neither had he been allowed back into Fíli's tent. He tried to see his brother once, just after Balin left, but Grefur had threatened to rip out his stitches and make a necklace out of his fingers if he tried to enter the tent without permission again. And Kíli believed him. Grefur wasn't a grouch, he was a homicidal maniac. It was another thought he desperately wished he could share with Fíli… Maybe when he was awake, Kíli could tell him all about these first terrible hours and they would laugh and everything would seem a little brighter… But Kíli was painfully aware that this might never happen… That Fíli might never wake up… And even if he did, Kíli would have to tell him about Thorin before he told him about Grefur…

So Kíli wasn't allowed to see Fíli, but then the thought had struck him that maybe he would be allowed to see Thorin. Moving silently along the row of tents, he reached a tent with Thorin's sigil fluttering from the top of its front pole. From the shadows thrown against the tent's walls, Kíli guessed there was one person moving around inside. On entering the tent, he discovered this person was Óin, and he couldn't deny he was glad to see a familiar face.

"Kili?" Óin murmured, rising slowly from his stool at Thorin's bedside.

Thorin's body was laid out on the bed, his chest bare, and his lower half covered with a white sheet. His rings and ear piercing had been removed, and were lying in a dish on the bedside table. His eyes were closed and he wore the slight frown Kíli was used to seeing as a child, before he and Fíli leapt on him to wake him up in a morning. Thorin could have been asleep, and for a moment, Kíli let himself pretend he was. Óin had been stitching one of the many wounds on Thorin's chest, but now he carefully set down the needle and moved towards Kíli.

"Please don't throw me out!" Kíli said, raising his voice slightly as Óin was without his ear trumpet. "Please, Óin… They won't let me see Fíli… I… I just want to help. Please… I just need to do something."

Óin studied him for a long time, but finally he nodded. "There's a bowl of warm water and a cloth on that table behind you… If you would like to wash away the blood, that would be most helpful."

"Thank you," Kíli whispered. It seemed a bizarre word for the situation, but he meant it.

Óin put a hand on his shoulder, but didn't say a word. His solemn expression said everything. He then returned to his seat at Thorin's side and picked up his needle again. Kíli retrieved the cloth and bowl of water, and pulled up a stool at the opposite side. Óin hadn't commented on Kíli's injured hand, as if he already knew Kíli would take it from the sling and use it as best he could anyway.

Slowly and carefully, Kíli began to wash the blood from his uncle's arm. He got used to the cold touch, although it inwardly made him shiver, and worked steadily down from Thorin's shoulder to his fingers, until the water in the bowl was dark red. Óin never uttered a word, and neither did Kíli, and the night was silent… That was until shouts could be heard coming from a tent to their left. Kíli dropped the cloth just as Fíli started screaming.

A/N: Please do let me know what you think, even if you just want to tell me you hate me!