III.

Kíli knows something strange is going on.

He isn't stupid, no matter what some of the people back home seem to think. He's been trained as a warrior, a blacksmith, a diplomat; life in Ered Luin was not the typical childhood of a dwarven prince, but he is glad for it. He has had experience with other races as a common dwarf, rather than a prince of Erebor...and here, it has come in useful.

He knows, after a few hours of watching the others warily, that the elf and the two men mean them no harm...but he also knows that something has greatly unsettled all of them.

Gimli—it is Gimli, which was mind-numbingly bizarre until Gandalf explained their situation—has been unnaturally pale all evening, has pulled Gandalf to the other side of the clearing and is speaking to him in a harsh undertone that even Kíli's keen ears cannot make out. (He hasn't yet said a proper word to either of them, which Kíli finds odd. Despite their age difference, in Ered Luin, they have always been good friends...)

Aragorn, Boromir, and the elf are seated near Gimli and Gandalf, but the dark-haired man's gaze has been focused almost exclusively on Kíli and his brother. It's strange, because he's sure they've never met—knows that the lifespan of men is much shorter than that of dwarves, and that he was not even born when they started their quest. Nevertheless, his eyes are piercing, and Kíli does his best to ignore it for the time being.

(Fíli's hand, however, has not left the throwing axe tucked discreetly into his boot.)

Frodo looks strangely old and weary, a demeanor Kíli has only ever seen in those scarred by war. The other three hobbits are clearly younger and more cheerful, unburdened by whatever haunts Bilbo's relative... All five of them do their best to distract him from whatever is happening inside his head, but it almost seems like something is physically weighing him down. He often sits hunched over, staring into the darkness as the rest of them discuss this or that...and their conversation wanders as the minutes pass them by.

It's easy to talk with the hobbits, though, and these ones seem much less inclined to propriety than Bilbo. Sam is more reticent than the others, but he appears comfortable enough with their presence, and once Fíli compliments him again on his cooking (which, Kíli must admit, was excellent), he seems much more inclined to talk.

(The others' hushed discussions, too far away for him to hear, still linger on the edges of Kíli's senses; he wants so desperately to know what they are saying...)

The hobbits don't seem aware of anything strange, though—Pippin is talking cheerfully about Gandalf's fireworks, about how at Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party, he and Merry filched some of them, setting them off rather spectacularly and scaring the wits out of half the Shire. Kíli wants to laugh, and he thinks that at any other time he would, but the idea of Bilbo being far past one hundred and eleven years old—which, he knows, is extraordinarily ancient for a hobbit—is mind-boggling, and absurdly, he wants to be sick.

Eighty years...he wants to know, how has reconstruction of the mountain come along? Erebor's relations with the elves and men? Is Thorin still well?—because he'd be well into his two hundreds by this point—and what has happened to him and Fíli over the years; have they married, had any children? Is their mother still present, exasperating Thorin (like any younger sibling would) but providing a strong support for all of them when they need it? Did Bilbo ever visit, when he was younger, come to see the friends he made so many years ago?

What has happened after so much time has passed; how has the world changed? And what has brought about this strange company, composed of so many people from different races and creeds, who would normally refuse even to speak with each other?

The conversation has waned between the six of them, and though there is still a deep crease in Fíli's brow, in Frodo's, the other hobbits seem strangely relaxed. In addition, the conversations on the other side of the clearing seem to have wound down as well; as Kíli looks up, he sees Gimli seat himself heavily next to Aragorn, only nodding briefly at the man before staring away into the darkness, a harsh frown marring his features. Gandalf, on the other hand, makes his way toward Kíli and Fíli, and he looks every bit the old man he appears to be as he seats himself next to Frodo.

"I'm sure you two have many questions," he says at length, nodding to both of them and making Fíli snort softly. "I do not think I am the right person to answer them; however, should you ask Gimli, I'm sure he would be willing to fill you in. Much has happened since your journey east...however, the current state of Middle Earth is something you should know about immediately."

He pauses, chewing on his pipe for a moment and staring levelly at them both. Fíli is almost vibrating with anticipation, and Kíli is just about ready to blurt out a demand for information before the wizard continues—"I'm assuming you know of Sauron?"

Kíli can only blink back at him for a moment, completely thrown by the seeming non sequitur. "He was...the Dark Lord of Mordor, right?" he offers tentatively, trying to remember back to the history lessons Balin insisted they sit through as children. "Wasn't he destroyed in the Second Age?"

"Weakened. Not destroyed." Gandalf says, and his face grows dark and pensive; he glances at a suddenly tense Frodo before returning his attention to the dwarves. "He has returned, seeking the Ring of Power that was lost to him. This Fellowship has set out to destroy it, because if the Ring returns to its master...Middle Earth as we know it will be destroyed."

Kíli nods slowly, not entirely sure why Gandalf is telling them this (surely, an imminent war is important, but why—?)...but Fíli suddenly pulls in a great whoosh of air, his eyes widening as he stares up at Gandalf. "That's—that's the ring you said Bilbo found? It's Sauron's?"

Gandalf nods heavily, and Kíli feels his own eyes widen as the wizard says, "You must tell me immediately when you return to your proper time. If it is possible to destroy it then, when Sauron is not as strong..."

"You were going to leave this morning, though," Fíli says suddenly, his brows rising. "You and Radagast had something you had to attend to, you said. If you don't send us back to the time before you leave, it may be a while before we see you again."

Gandalf seems to be struck dumb by this; his grip tightens on his staff, and his face goes slack for a moment as he only stares at both of them. Eventually, he collects himself, shaking his head sharply and saying, "You must tell me before I leave, do you understand? If you do not..." He shakes his head, reaching up to rub at his face before continuing, "Do you have any idea what might have caused this? If I am to send you back to your proper time, I must know how you got here in the first place."

Kíli feels his face color even as he sends a cheeky grin to an exasperated Fíli; Gandalf raises an eyebrow as the blond pulls the near-empty vial from his coat, holding it out to the wizard. "Radagast may have left it on a log last night," Fíli says, letting the wizard snatch the vial out of his hand. "It was entirely Kíli's idea. I didn't think it would actually do anything."

Despite the annoyance he's clearly attempting to convey, Fíli can't seem to help the smirk spreading across his face. Gandalf huffs impatiently at both of them and mutters something about idiot dwarves, I'll knock your heads together for your stupidity, no wonder your uncle went grey young...

Kíli can't find it himself to regret it, though; he grins widely at his brother—and at the hobbits, for Merry and Pippin are snickering, off to Kíli's right. Even Frodo and Sam look amused as Gandalf whacks Kíli on the back of the head and swirls what little is left in the flask. "I will look into this," he says at length, sending them both a harsh glance that Kíli is not at all offended by. "In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable. You will travel with us until I can correct this, and we start early; these lands are not safe."

He stands with a swish of his robes, and then he is gone.

.

.

Eventually, Kíli can't take it anymore; the utterly dejected look on Gimli's face, across the fire, is too much for him to bear. The image of the over-energetic sixty-two year old from their own time does not at all match up with this battle-hardened, full-bearded warrior...but surely, he's still Gimli. And Gimli is his friend.

He stands, yanking on Fíli's coat to pull him along as he makes his way over to the other group. Gandalf has disappeared into the trees, grasping the vial tightly and muttering to himself. The elf has positioned himself on the side of the clearing not backed by a rock wall, clearly fancying himself as their watch... Kíli still doesn't think he trusts him—even if Gimli and the hobbits obviously do—but that isn't what he needs to worry about right now.

The two men look up at their approach, nodding politely, and the blond stands without a word, retreating to sit with the hobbits instead. Kíli finds he is grateful for this; after all, they could have this discussion in Khuzdul or Iglishmêk (because it's one he thinks he doesn't want others listening to), but he knows Thorin would have their hides for using either in plain view of Men.

The darker one—Aragorn—hesitates, looking to Gimli as if wondering whether he should stay or go. Gimli has barely looked up from his pipe this whole time, but eventually, he waves a hand in Aragorn's direction, glancing up at Fíli and Kíli as they sit down. The man sighs and stands up, staring at them all with a strange look in his eye before going to join the elf.

Then, the three of them are alone.

Gimli's face is strangely pale beneath his thick red hair, and he's clenching his pipe so tightly between his teeth that Kíli knows the older dwarf will not be the one to start the conversation. He casts around for something to say (this shouldn't be hard—they grew up together in Ered Luin, after all), floundering for a moment before Fíli finally says, a hint of amusement in his voice—"This is stranger than I thought it would be."

Gimli snorts, still not meeting their eyes as he nods his agreement. "Aye, I don't think I've ever seen anything stranger."

"Is...is something wrong?" Kíli blurts out, scooting a few inches closer but freezing when Gimli flinches. "I mean. I know you're older now, but did something happen? Are we not friends anymore...?"

"No!" Gimli says loudly, his voice surprised as he looks Kíli fully in the face for the first time tonight. "No, it's not that. This is just...much stranger for me than it is for you. Seeing you how you were before you left on that quest..."

He spits the word like a curse (which Kíli doesn't understand but decides to ignore for the moment) before shaking his head. "It has been a very long time."

"Well, yes, I'm sure Kíli has a proper beard by now," Fíli says lightly, grinning and punching his brother on the shoulder. "I'm surprised you even recognized him with this peach fuzz."

Kíli growls but allows it to be said without rebuke, because it's easy to see that he's attempting to lighten the mood. But instead of laughing, Gimli only lets out a shuddering breath and does not meet their eyes. "Does my beard not come in?" Kíli nearly shrieks, his hands flying to his jawline in horror. Wild images of his 160-year-old self with facial hair like this—he'd be an utter disgrace. Even dwarf women have more than—

Instead of immediately alleviating his fears as Kíli hoped he would, Gimli only seems to take several deep, steadying breaths, and his hands shake terribly as he sets his pipe down on the ground. "It's...rather complicated. I don't know where to start."

Kíli falters, looking to his brother for help, because the desolate look on Gimli's face is so far beyond anything he's ever seen before. He's always known Gimli as impulsive and rambunctious; seeing him like this is easily the most frightening thing that's happened since he awoke in this place.

Fíli looks just as lost, his eyes wide with worry as he stares at their friend. Finally—"What's...wrong? I mean, what's so terrible about seeing us now?"

Gimli only shakes his head, though, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. Neither of them dares to interrupt his thoughts until he finally says, "Sauron's Ring...the Ring Bilbo has...it's a master of manipulation."

Kíli nods slowly, not willing to interrupt even if he doesn't understand the relevance. "It bends those around it to its will. Causes violence and madness. Smaug was killed, but the moment Thorin entered the mountain was when your real trouble began."

Kíli doesn't quite know how to reply (how could there be anything worse than the dragon, for Mahal's sake?), but he continues soon enough, "The gold...I'm sure it wouldn't have happened without the Ring—he was always so much stronger than that—but his grandfather's sickness took hold of him. And—"

"No!" Fíli's face is turning red, and his shout is loud enough to cause Boromir and the hobbits to jump and look over with wide eyes. "He wouldn't! Thorin would never—"

"He did," Gimli says loudly, and even as Kíli feels his heart in his throat he can't deny that there is nothing on his friend's face but the truth. "But you can stop it, if you tell Gandalf of the Ring. You have to, because..."

He chokes and does not continue, his eyes downcast again even as Kíli and Fíli lean closer, horrified. "What happened, Gimli?" Fíli says, his voice harsh and desperate.

"You—Thorin was too busy arguing with the men and elves over gold," he says, and his voice is horribly gruff as he stares at his hands. "Nobody noticed the goblin army until it was nearly too late."

Silence.

"There was a battle." Kíli can barely believe what he's hearing, feels his hands clench until his knuckles whiten, feels his heart pounding in his chest...but he knows Gimli cannot possibly be lying. He would never lie about something like this. "My father said it was terrible, nearly as gruesome as Azanulbizar..."

"But you said the mountain was reclaimed!" The words are out of his mouth before Kíli can stop them, and Fíli's head snaps toward him as he continues, "You said we're all living in Erebor! How—"

"The goblins were completely destroyed," Gimli says, still staring at his hands as they twist around each other. "You won the battle. But there was no celebration, because the cost..."

Kíli can hardly breathe; somehow, his hand has found his brother's and latched on tight. Absurdly, he hopes that this simple physical contact will protect them from whatever Gimli is about to say...

(It doesn't.)

"Thorin was—badly injured." Gimli glances up at them, but eye contact seems to be too painful; he looks down again at his hands before he continues haltingly, "He—you two were protecting him. But there were too many goblins, and..."

He trails off, but even if he had continued, Kíli doesn't think he'd be able to hear it; the blood rushing through his ears drowns out everything else, forces him to replay those last lines in his mind. He can't—he doesn't mean—

But Fíli's grip on his hand has become painful; he knows there is no other reasonable answer—

And there are tears on Gimli's face, something he hasn't seen since they were children—

And then the final blow, crashing like a hammer into Kíli's gut—"By the time anyone found you, there was no help to be given."

Billowing silence. Even the other conversations, around the clearing, seem to have muted themselves. Kíli's entire world has focused in on his friend's face, twisted in grief; the numbing pressure of his brother's hand twined with his; his own racing (finite) heart pumping blood through his tense (fragile) body—

"Thorin?" Fíli is finally able to choke out, his face chalk-white.

Gimli only shakes his head.

Something like a sob (or a scream) wrenches itself from Kíli's throat, and he grasps desperately for his brother with his second hand even as his gaze never leaves Gimli. "How could this—" he feels his voice choke off, his throat closing in dangerously as the true weight of what Gimli is telling them sets in. They will die—they will die protecting Thorin, and it will be in vain—their line will be broken, and though, surely, the mountain prospers under another king, he and his brother and his uncle will not live to see it—

(Mahal, what about Mother?)

"You can change it," Gimli says, his voice hoarse, and his eyes finally meet theirs as he continues, "Don't let Bilbo take the Ring into the mountain. Tell Thorin of the army, send for more warriors—it doesn't have to end like this."

Kíli realizes the relevance of what Gimli is telling them, realizes that it is perhaps the most important thing he will ever hear in his life (whatever's left of it)...but he can't bring himself to understand the words. His ears are ringing and his hands are shaking, and he thinks he feels tears brimming in his eyes even as he blinks desperately to hold them back.

Thorin would be disappointed in him if he cried. But would their uncle not weep as well, after hearing such terrible news?

Fíli's arms tremble as he yanks on Kíli's hands, pulling him into a rough, impossibly tight hug and burying his face into his shoulder with a sob. Kíli strokes his brother's hair even as his own tears finally spill over, holding onto Fíli with a grip that's probably painful. He feels a large, rough (shaking) hand settle on his back and stay there, Gimli offering his own grief and support...

There are more important things to worry about than his own death—even more important than Fíli's and Thorin's, if Gandalf's tales of Sauron's return are to be believed. He needs to pull himself out of his misery; he needs to listen and learn so he can fix this; he needs to do right by this situation that he has so carelessly thrown both of them into...

But here he wants, if only for a moment, to be selfish. Every time he blinks, he envisions his brother cold and still and dead; every time, his wounds are different but equally gruesome. Spears or arrows or swords or maces or even wargs' teeth—it's a never-ending litany of horror that only brings fresh tears to his eyes as time drags on. He buries his face into Fíli's shoulder, only ever gripping him tighter, reveling in the tremors and the short, harsh breaths that mean his brother is still, undoubtedly, alive.

All he wants right now is to seek comfort in Fíli and Gimli; he wants to mourn the future that would have been (and could still be); he prays desperately to the gods to spare his family's lives...

The two of them will deal with their new responsibilities later. They will see it done; they will bring news back to Gandalf and to Thorin, will change the course of the battle and save countless lives; they will live—he will make sure of it—and face whatever problems that new world will bring.

But not right now...right now, his whole existence is his brother and his friend, is their heaving lungs and their pounding hearts, and he knows the rest of the world will simply have to wait.