IX.

Thorin is in a haze, after the battle is over.

Dwalin's supporting him as they walk back to camp, for his knee is ruined, and he narrowly missed getting his leg ripped off entirely by Azog's warg. (That godforsaken monster is finally, finally dead—Thorin stabbed him through the chest, and when that did not prove enough to fell him, Beorn charged out of the masses, ripping the monster's head from his shoulders. Thorin is caked in black blood, but he is alive, and Azog is dead, and truly, what else could he possibly ask for?) He is alive—is in no danger of dying—and he sees the heartened, relieved smiles of the rest of his Company as the two of them finally make their way into the camps.

All thanks to his nephews. And where are they, his ridiculous, foolhardy boys? He only saw them an hour or so ago, fighting like madmen in battle, determined to keep each other alive. He asks Dwalin whether he has seen them more recently, but his friend only shrugs. Which, Thorin must admit, he should have expected. Dwalin was practically glued to his side the whole time, desperate to do anything to keep his kin from falling in battle.

And he succeeded. The battle is over, and while the casualties are heavy, they are certainly not so terrible as they could have been, should Fíli and Kíli not have warned them. He feels his lips tugging down into a frown at the thought, even as an uneven step jars his shattered knee. Where are they? He's sure the two of them want to know that he is all right, want to know that the rest of them are alive and well—

(Through the adrenaline still coursing through his system, through the delirious, all-consuming relief that the battle went better than it did before, a darker alternative does not even cross his mind.)

They turn a corner, Dwalin calling out for a healer though Thorin insists that he is fine, that his leg can wait for later, because surely others' lives are much more fragile than his at the—

Every thought he has on the matter is halted abruptly when he sees half the Company—most of those he has not seen already—gathered around one tent. A bloody Fíli is being held in place by Dori, who is glancing between the prince and the tent as Fíli attempts furiously to break free.

"Let me in—damn you, Dori, he's—"

The words wash over Thorin like a geyser, as he realizes who exactly is absent from the group. Fíli continues to spit curses at Dori—and Glóin and Bifur, who move to help when his struggles become more violent. What Thorin can see of his face is chalk-white—paler even than when the two of them reappeared on the outskirts of Mirkwood, and—

"What happened?" he asks harshly, nearly dragging Dwalin along as he rushes forward. "Fíli, what's going on?"

Fíli turns, then, and though the boy's face is caked in black gore and red blood, Thorin sees the grief there clearly, and it almost physically strikes him. "He—there was an orc, behind me, I didn't see it until too late but Kíli—"

"Óin and Gandalf and are in there," Glóin attempts to soothe him, though Fíli doesn't seem to even hear him at all. "He's still breathing, he'll—"

"Let me in, or so help me I'll—!"

But the others' grips on his arms and middle are firm and unyielding, despite his every attempt to break free, and eventually Fíli collapses against Dori with a sob. The old dwarf sits him down carefully (keeping a tight grip on his arm nonetheless, clearly not trusting him not to run off toward his brother), and Bifur hurries forward ahead of Thorin, inspecting the nasty wound on Fíli's head. Even with the knowledge that superficial head wounds are disproportionately bloody, Thorin worries, stepping forward with Dwalin as quickly as he is able and waiting anxiously for the verdict.

Bifur turns around after several long moments, nodding reassuringly to Thorin. All right, he signs in Iglishmêk, smiling tightly. It will scar, but he's all right.

Thorin nods his thanks and nearly collapses next to his nephew, opposite Dori, only preventing himself from jarring his knee further by Dwalin's quick reflexes. He puts a tentative arm around Fíli's shoulders, unsure of how he will respond—and the boy stiffens for a moment before relaxing bonelessly into his grip, eyes staring blankly at the tent flap, beyond which Thorin can see several figures moving busily.

"Your brother will be all right," he says at length, tightening his grip on Fíli's shoulders for a moment. "He's too stubborn to die on you now."

He's hoping Fíli will smile, or at least feel reassured, but Fíli does not even look up as he says—"That's what he did last time, isn't it?"

(Thorin realizes he doesn't have an answer for this, and so he stays silent.)

The slices across Fíli's face are indeed deep and impressive; one swipes across his brow and down toward his jaw. The others—they look like they were made by warg claws, and Thorin shudders at the thought that he so easily could have been killed by such a strike—have nearly flayed one cheek open fully, and narrowly miss his eyes as they go across his face in three diagonal, angry lines of bloody scarlet. He thinks Bifur is right in his assessment—though they're not life-threatening (and he thanks Mahal that the blade stopped before it reached his neck), they should get them cleaned and bandaged, if only to prevent infection and unnecessary blood loss.

Ori appears from nowhere, one arm hanging uselessly at his side but a bowl of fresh water and a cloth clutched in the other hand. Bilbo is close behind, holding a wad of gauze and tape, and both nod to Thorin before offering Dori the supplies, stepping away and glancing furtively at the tent before Ori asks, "How is he?"

Fíli does not respond at all as Dori begins cleaning his face, only blinking when the cloth gets too close to his eyes. "We have no more news," Glóin says shortly, unable to give platitudes that may not be true, and Ori slumps even as Bilbo sighs.

"He'll be all right, lad," Dori murmurs to Fíli, who says nothing in reply, a frown appearing on his features instead as the old dwarf carefully tapes gauze to his face. "This'll have to do until Óin can stitch you up—does anything else hurt?"

"No."

It's nearly inaudible, but it's better than nothing—and Dori nods before standing up, shifting to look at Thorin's knee instead. "Now what did you do to yourself?"

"Warg used his leg as a chewtoy," Dwalin rumbles, his face livid. "Haven't had a chance to look at it properly yet."

Fíli's blank eyes drift away from the tent for a moment, focusing on Thorin's leg as Dori impatiently wrangles the ruined greaves and trousers away. The others hiss in sympathy as the damage is revealed, and Dori swears under his breath before turning to Ori—"Find a healer, tell them it's for the king—this is beyond my ability to help."

Thorin scowls even as the young dwarf scurries off, and Fíli's eyes follow Ori strangely as he disappears between the throngs of bloody, exhausted soldiers. It's the same look he gives Balin and Óin, when he thinks nobody else is watching, and Thorin wonders with growing trepidation whether there is more about that future that they never told him—

But suddenly Fíli is standing up like a shot, and Thorin, with his mauled leg and exhausted mind, is not able to catch him—Dwalin's arm shoots out and grabs him, preventing him from going anywhere, but he doesn't even try—he only opens his mouth, his eyes impossibly wide, and calls, "Legolas! Legolas!"

Thorin blinks at him before scanning the crowds. He's sure he's heard the name before—somewhere—but it is certainly not dwarven, and he has no idea who he could possibly—

He's astonished to see an elf step out of the crowds, looking vaguely confused but mostly impatient as he looks down at Fíli with one eyebrow raised. "What is it, dwarf? You know my name, but I don't believe we have met."

"Please—my brother, he's badly injured—I think he's poisoned—" Here, Thorin shoots a sharp, wide-eyed look at Dori, who has the grace to look ashamed of himself for keeping this information from him—"but elven healers have better medicine than we do, right? Can you—"

"Why would I help a dwarf?" Legolas very nearly spits the word at Fíli's feet, and the young dwarf flinches but does not back down.

"Please—he's—he's—"

"He is my nephew and my heir," Thorin says loudly, levering himself up on Dori's shoulder even as several of his companions give squawks of protest. "You do not know Fíli, but you know me, do you not, Son of Thranduil?"

For who else could this creature be, with his pale hair and piercing eyes and regal stance? Even though he does not recall ever being formally introduced to him, he can tell that the elf—Legolas—recognizes him, from the way his other eyebrow shoots up to match the first. After several seconds of silence, Legolas eventually inclines his head slightly, turning away as he says, "I will see if there are any unoccupied healers. If there are, I will send them here."

"Thank you," Fíli says, his voice breathless and choked with relief, but Legolas does not turn before walking back into the crowds.

"What were you thinking?" Dwalin very nearly roars in Fíli's face as he collapses back to the ground. "Thranduil's son—"

"He was there, in that other time," Fíli cuts him off, his gaze again shifting to watch the tent that houses his brother. "I thought—"

"You remember that time, but he certainly does not," Dwalin continues on, his face so harsh it's almost a snarl.

"He was almost kind to us, after…" he trails off, glancing up with wide eyes as Ori reappears, an unfamiliar dwarrowdam in tow. She tuts over the state of Thorin's leg before unceremoniously beginning to prod at it, causing him to hiss through his teeth and turn his head to distract himself.

"After what, Fíli?"

But he only shakes his head sharply, tearing his gaze with difficulty from Ori, before glancing to Thorin and then at the ground. "He was very nearly compassionate with us, and certainly cared at least some for the hobbits and men. I thought maybe…"

"A lot of things can happen in eighty years, lad," Glóin says, patting him on the shoulder bracingly. "But he said he'd try and find Kíli a healer—you may be right about him yet."

Fíli's gaze, though, drifts back to the tent (Thorin can see that the activity has not lessened, and he cannot figure out if this is a good thing or not), and he says no more on the matter.

.

.

Kíli wakes with a sharp gasp and a stabbing pain in his head and in his shoulder.

Someone is above him instantly; hands are grasping his good arm, and a voice is talking to him though he can't quite make out the words. He blinks vaguely, attempting to focus on the face above him, and it's several seconds later that he finally sees Fíli—his eyes bloodshot, and an alarming amount of nasty stitches obscuring most of his face. There is activity all around them, but all Kíli can see is his brother sitting at his bedside—he saved him, then—he was in time to stop the orc's killing blow, he was able to—

"Don't you ever do that again," Fíli chokes out, and his hands clench and unclench, as if he's stopping himself from hitting Kíli upside the head. "We—I thought you were dead, brother—"

"Don' be stupid," he says, and his voice slurs more than he expects it to. He makes an attempt at clearing his throat before continuing, "Wasn't going to die. Couldn't let you get hurt."

"You—" But Fíli seems to have lost all capacity for speech, only bowing his head over Kíli's cot and drawing in deep, shaky breaths. Kíli looks at him in concern—he's fine, after all. He doesn't really remember what happened past the sword slicing through a gap in his armor and the blinding pain that came with it, but he knocked his head, apparently, which would explain his loss of consciousness. But all in all, nothing hurts that badly—

But then he sees the elf hovering at the corner of the clearly dwarven tent, looking distinctly out of place and watching him closely; he sees Gandalf in another corner, looking intensely relieved as he smiles at him; he sees Thorin on a cot nearby, his entire right leg bandaged and splinted, though he sleeps peacefully (and Kíli rejoices at this, because all three of them are alive)—

But clearly there is something wrong, because even Fíli—his worrywart of a big brother—would not be so hysterical over a simple knock to the head. "How—how long has it been, since the battle?" he asks with some trepidation, and he realizes that maybe there is a reason that his voice is so hoarse, after all.

"Nearly two days, Master Kíli," Gandalf says after a moment, when Fíli does not seem ready to answer him. "You were struck with a poisoned blade, and knocked badly over the head—for a while, we weren't sure that you were going to wake. Were it not for Prince Legolas' intercession, you may not have. As it stands, however, you should make a full recovery, as should your uncle."

Legolas. He's sure Fíli had something to do with that, because memories of the stern elf they met in the future flutter to the front of his mind. Stern, but not wholly uncaring—and, as Thranduil's son, he supposes he must have no small amount of sway amongst his father's subjects.

He turns to the elven healer, still observing him closely from several feet away. "You have my thanks," he says, inclining his head as well as he is able without setting off either of his injuries too terribly. The creature (male, Kili thinks, but he's never really been able to tell) looks rather surprised at the admission but bows his head slightly in return; with a few muttered words from Gandalf, he soon exits the tent, not looking back as he disappears into the bright sunlight outside.

"Is everyone else all right?" Kili asks the top of Fíli's head, reaching with his good arm to stroke his hair gently. Fíli will be fine; he'll always be fine. Even something as terrifying as this (and he can't even imagine what his brother has gone through these past two days, broken images of a future they thought long gone churning through his mind, thinking with growing horror that he will have to figure out how to live the rest of his life without his brother) cannot bring him down for long. Fíli is strong; Fíli will not allow this to break him.

Fíli will be all right.

And sure enough, he is lifting his head, wincing slightly as his frown pulls at the stitches that line his face. "And how did you get that?" Kíli asks, rather put-off, poking gently at just outside the gauze and momentarily forgetting his earlier question. "I don't remember your face being quite that ugly last I saw it."

Fíli barks out a choked laugh and seems to think better of punching him playfully. "Defending your sorry hide, of course. Too many damn orcs—one of them and its warg got too close, and I wasn't going to move—"

(There were tears in his eyes, clouding his vision—Kíli reads this in his brother's face easily, and feels a sharp jab of guilt for causing his brother such pain.)

(He'd do it again, though, because a distressed Fíli is infinitely better than a dead one.)

"Your brother will have some impressive scarring to show for it," Gandalf says, "but he was never in any danger."

Kíli feels himself rolling his eyes at his brother, trying not to smile—"You'll have even more suitors than you already do—they all like the wild ones, you know, and with that great thing across your face—"

Fíli laughs, then, and the sound is a bit more relaxed than it was before. Kíli still feels jabs of residual pain in his immobilized shoulder, and his head is pounding like a second heart, but he knows it is worth it to hide such pain when his brother needs comfort more than anything else.

They're all right. They're all right.

They survived the battle.

Thorin is King.

"To answer your question, Master Kíli, the rest of your Company is fine, more or less," Gandalf says, and Kíli is sure Óin would have a fit, should he see the way Gandalf is pulling out his pipe in a tent of healing. "A few broken bones and superficial wounds, but none so dangerous as your own. Everyone has been waiting for you to wake up, and I daresay they will be quite glad to see you have done so. The cleaning of the battlefield has already begun, and soon, Dáin's soldiers hope to begin moving the wounded into the mountain."

"So it's finally over," Kíli says, relief washing over him as he smiles tentatively at his brother, "this is all over—"

"Yes," Fíli says, but his face has suddenly grown tight with discomfort, "except for the matter of Bilbo's Ring."

.

.

Kíli is allowed out of bed relatively soon—sooner than Thorin, certainly, who is apparently lucky they didn't have to end up amputating his leg. He and Fíli take to wandering the camps, helping where they can (though Fíli isn't inclined to talking much, as his healing stitches make it painful, and Kíli can't do much physical labor with only one healthy arm) and just basking in the knowledge that the battle is over, and that they are still alive.

They pass Bard and his elder children, who are helping the healers busily; Bain and Sigrid only give them quick nods before running off into another tent, but Bard stares at them for a moment before his face breaks into a smile, and Kíli can see that he's genuinely pleased to see them still alive. Before he's able to say anything, though, Bain yells for his assistance, and he is gone, hurrying away toward his son. Thranduil, on the other hand, does not appear to even consider speaking, when they happen to run into him. But he nods slightly, his perpetual frown perhaps lessening a bit, as he hurries by with his captain.

This—all of this—is finally over, and the armies are working together with hardly a trace of enmity, and Thorin—they—are finally home again.

A letter arrived from Ered Luin, written in their mother's hand, not long after the battle—she is on her way with the first caravan of dwarves, and if all goes well (and it should, because there are scarcely any goblins left in the Misty Mountains, and Thorin has wrangled a treaty from Thranduil of safe passage through Mirkwood) they should be here in a couple of months.

The wounds on Fíli's face are healing well enough, but Kíli is equal parts anticipatory and terrified of their mother's reaction when she sees them. Gimli—and now it is odd to think of him as young again, though they spent less than a week in the future—will surely be jealous of their escapades, and everything will be as it should.

Gandalf has whisked himself away to Rivendell on important business but promises to be back—and he gave Bilbo a hard look before he left, making him swear not to use the Ring and to keep it out of the way of the dwarves. The hobbit's face had darkened for a moment, but then he clearly came back to himself, agreeing easily to the wizard's terms.

Kíli would be worried for his uncle's mind, now that Bilbo and the Ring are staying in the mountain, but Thorin has so little free time nowadays that he doubts he would have the opportunity to fall under its spell. He has spent weeks grumbling about being immobile, but he hasn't been idle—he, Bofur, and Bifur have been conversing about the salvageable architecture in the mountain, dangerous areas where necessary support no longer exists and mines that are no longer safe. And when physical work on that was finally started, there was Thranduil, with the trade agreements—and Dwalin, with the organization of the official guard—and Dáin, with the number of dwarves planning to move to Erebor from his own kingdom—

Kíli finds it all overwhelming, and he's not even the one being forced into such discussions.

Time passes quickly—quicker than Kíli could have ever expected it to. He supposes, though, that he shouldn't be surprised; after all, he and Fíli and the rest of the Company have been working every waking moment, making the mountain habitable enough for when others finally arrive. Carrying away rubble to clear hallways and open areas—salvaging what can be saved and sending to Thranduil or Dáin for all else—stocking food in great quantities and organizing the treasury if only to send to Bard what rightfully belongs to Dale—

Kili finds himself dreading that work, because the pull he feels from deep in his bones grows stronger the longer he stays in the treasury. The gold—it is beautiful and priceless and important, surely, but he remembers the stories he's heard of Thror and remembers the shadows on Gimli's and Gandalf's faces when they spoke of Thorin's final hours in that other, accursed time—he knows of the gold sickness, and he knows he will never allow himself to succumb to it. He only reluctantly allows himself into the great treasuries of Thror, always surrounded, distracted, by others, and leaves before long, because maybe it's Smaug's lingering magic (though the corpse has long since been disposed of by Gandalf) or maybe it's the tainted blood running through his veins but he can't take that chance

Thorin avoids this work as well, trusts Gloin and Balin and all the others to handle the mountain's wealth, only entering the treasury when absolutely necessary. Fili likely feels it too—after all, he has more weight on his shoulders than even Kili, for as crown prince of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth, he must always have a sense of the gold—but between the three of them, there is an unspoken agreement. That the gold is important, but not overwhelming. That the Arkenstone—found early on, in the depths of the treasury, but not restored to its original place in the throne room—is only a ceremonial stone. That kith and kin are more important than wealth will ever be.

They will not falter. They will not succumb. They will not become the ancestors who brought their line to ruin in the first place.

But other work is just as taxing as that of the treasury, because there are countless bodies—no more than skeletons, now, nearly two hundred years later—still scattered through the mountain. The dwarves unfortunate enough to be too deep in the mines to hear the warning calls, those too far from the front gates to get out in time before Smaug collapsed them… Kíli is sick the first time they come upon some—two small dwarves who clearly had nowhere left to run, huddled around each other in the corner of their room, together until the very end.

(Maybe they remind him too much of himself and Fíli, and he does not even want to try and imagine starving to death with only his big brother and the echoes of a mighty kingdom for company. Maybe these bodies remind him too much of those they found in Moria—of which he still has vivid, terrifying nightmares, that more often than not wake his brother as well.)

(Ori's gaping jaw, his hands clutching his precious journal even in death—)

It's too much too much too damn much, and Fíli ends up leading him out of the room carefully, finding him some water and sitting with him the rest of the afternoon, his face just as pale as Kíli's.

(Kíli knows he's being unreasonable and weak, that he is an heir of the elder line of Durin and he's stronger than this but he can't—he can't—)

.

.

The weeks pass much the same as each other, blending together until Kíli isn't quite sure how long they've been here at all. Dáin has left with some of his army, even as many dwarves from the Iron Hills have arrived to help them with the arduous restorations. Thorin is finally able to put weight on his leg again (albeit slowly and with obvious discomfort, stubbornly refusing to use a cane), and the world seems to be finally righting itself again.

And then a sentinel comes running into the throne room one morning, where several of them are laying out plans for the rebuilding of the forges, and says a caravan of dwarves has appeared on the horizon.

Kíli and Fíli are up like a shot, hurrying past the guard with muttered thanks as Thorin follows behind them, quickly as he is able. And sure enough—when they arrive at the makeshift front gates, which open slowly at Thorin's bidding, there is a large mass of dwarves, wagons, ponies—still a good distance away, but closing in fast.

They likely see the gates opening, because the group quickens their pace, covering the ground in less than half an hour (it's cleared of blood and gore and bodies, now, but still Kíli sees flashes of warfare behind his eyelids every time he blinks), and then—

Mahal be praised, their mother is at the head, riding with a straight back and keen eyes as she scans the crowd that has formed at the gates. She is just as lovely—perhaps even more so—than last he saw her, her resemblance to Thorin startling as she swings down from her pony. She is one of many that enters the hall quickly to reunite with family, and she strides quickly toward her brother.

A sharp slap echoes through the entrance hall, and Thorin very nearly loses his precarious balance as his eyes widen and his hand goes up to rub his reddening cheek. "Dís, what in—"

But then she is pulling him into an embrace, her arms reaching up to wrap around Thorin, and her shoulders are shaking suspiciously as she grips him tightly. Thorin returns the gesture gingerly—as always, entirely unsure of how to offer comfort even to his closest family—and Kíli laughs, walking up with Fíli.

"Hey, Ma," he says quietly, entirely ignoring the other reunions going on around him, eyes only for the dwarrowdam he was half-sure he would never see again. "It's good to see you."

She squeezes Thorin tight for a moment longer before turning to Kíli and Fíli, and there are suspicious tears in her eyes as she immediately envelopes Kíli, who is nearer, into a suffocating embrace. Kíli returns it immediately, ignoring the aches in his squashed shoulder and doing his best to soothe her—promises her that they are all right, that they did not die on the journey…no matter what her worries and fears and nightmares told her, and no matter what happened in another time.

"My little warrior, a dragon slayer," Dis mumbles into his neck, and Kíli feels his face redden as Fíli snickers quietly beside him. But honestly, he doesn't have the heart to care, nor to reprimand her for treating him like a child—after all, it has been many, many months since they last saw each other, and right now, he does feel like a dwarfling seeking comfort in his mother's arms. "I'm so glad you're alive, all of you…"

Kíli knows they should tell her—must tell her, in all honesty, because she has a knack for finding things out anyway, and hearing of it from anyone but them would simply be cruel. But not now—not with so many others around, and not so soon after their reunion—and so he only hugs her tighter and murmurs a "me too."

Eventually she pulls away, drinking in the sight of Kíli's face for a moment with a smile before turning to Fíli. Kíli sees the trepidation on his brother's face, feels it building in his own heart as their mother only stares at Fíli for several long moments…

But then she pulls him into a hug as well (if perhaps even tighter than the other two), her breaths shaky and measured as she assures herself that, yes, her eldest is indeed alive. "Did you kill the one who did it?" she asks, only after pulling away several moments later, her gaze locked with Fíli's eyes rather than the scars.

Fíli's face relaxes, and his mouth twitches up into a smirk as he says, "Cut its damned head off."

Their mother laughs, then, and it is more relaxed than before. "You'll have to tell me what happened," she accuses, turning to encompass both her sons in her gaze. "Your uncle's explanations in his letter were lamentably lacking, but I imagine that if you had somehow managed to make yourself more handsome before he sent it, Fíli, he would have mentioned it to me."

Fíli laughs, heartily, even as Thorin mumbles something about I'm right here, thank you very much with a scowl on his face. Kíli laughs then, too, and moves to pull his mother into another hug as he sees Bilbo step up beside Thorin, looking rather lost among the throngs of new dwarves. "Who's this, then?" the hobbit asks, peering up at the unfamiliar dwarrowdam and clearly catching the resemblance to Thorin, the thick dark hair and the strong nose and the impressive height, especially for a female.

"Our mother," Fíli says, smiling broadly at Bilbo as the hobbit's eyes widen. "The only person in the world who can make Thorin shut up and listen when she needs to."

Thorin's pout (and Kíli would be clobbered over the head for considering it as such) only deepens, but Bilbo splutters for a moment before attempting a step back, clearly thinking he is intruding on a private moment. But their mother will have none of it—she disentangles herself from Kíli's arms and turns to look at Bilbo with an assessing gaze, which he tries not to twitch under but bravely meets with his own.

"It is a pleasure to meet the halfling who saved my brother's life," she says at length, bowing to an astonished Bilbo; his mouth is half-open, his mind clearly attempting to come up with an appropriate response, but she is not finished—"If it weren't for you, according to Thorin, he never would have made it through the Misty Mountains."

"Well, I—I—simply did what needed to be done!" he splutters, his face turning an impressive shade of red as Dís straightens, her face much kinder. "Had anyone else been in my position, they would have done the same—and done a better job of it, too, I'm sure!"

"The fact remains that you are the reason Thorin is yet the king, and we have much to thank you for," she says, her lips turning up into an honest smile as she steps toward him, offering her hand to shake. "If my brother hasn't already, I would be honored to name you dwarf-friend—no matter where you travel, dwarves will know and honor the great deeds you have done for our line."

"Now hold on one moment—" Bilbo's eyes have grown impossibly wider as Dís smiles, and Kíli very nearly laughs outright at the look on the poor hobbit's face. "I'm just a simple hobbit, not—"

"A simple hobbit who saved us all from three mountain trolls, faced down Azog the Defiler, and riddled with a dragon," Thorin says imperiously, staring Bilbo down and causing Dís' brows to shoot up in surprise. (Clearly, Thorin left nearly everything from his letter.) "That is more than any dwarf warrior could say he has done, Master Baggins. Do not sell yourself short."

His face does not lose any of its color, and his eyes are wide as he stares up at Thorin and then Dís, but he eventually does shake the proffered hand, taking a quick step back as soon as Dís lets go. "Everyone else is all right?" she directs at all four of them, apparently having mercy on Bilbo as she instead casts her gaze around the crowd. Glóin is reuniting loudly with his wife and son, and Bombur with his family, but other than that, it is not clear who else from the Company is in the entrance hall.

"More or less," Fíli says, his voice light, and shoots a smirk at Kíli that tells him he's about to be in trouble. "There was a bit of a fuss with some orcs after Kíli killed Smaug, but we pulled through well enough. Kili got stabbed with a poisoned blade—"

"Kíli what—"

"—because he thought it'd be a good idea to jump between an orc and my back. The elves and Gandalf helped heal him, so he's fine now, but gave us a right scare for a few days."

Fíli's face is suddenly tight with the memory despite the way he's clearly trying to make light of it, and Dís turns accusingly to Kíli, who feels himself shrinking slightly under her gaze. "I couldn't let him get hurt!" he says defensively, his eyes wide as his mother bears down on him. "And it was just my shoulder, not even that terrible, right—?"

The grim faces of the other three betray that lie (and Kíli, truly, has never felt the need to wheedle the whole truth out of them), but it seems to be enough for his mother. Nevertheless, she pulls him into another crushing hug, only loosening her grip a bit when he lets out a squeak of discomfort. "You're such an idiot," she mutters before pulling away, looking him up and down as if making sure he has left out no other injuries. "If I ever hear that you did something so foolhardy again…"

Kíli laughs nervously (because he has done a great number of foolish things in the past several months, most of which will likely get him slapped, if not killed) before deciding to redirect her attention again. "Anyway, Thorin killed Azog as well, but nearly got his leg chewed off in the process, so I think he may want to sit down somewhere soon…"

His mother's squawk of indignation as she whirls on Thorin is frankly hilarious, and Thorin sends Kíli a look of something quite like betrayal as she herds him off to one side of the hall, poking him emphatically in the chest and yelling at him the whole way.

Fíli and Kíli, dragging Bilbo along behind them, laugh at the scene and follow.

.

.

Kíli supposes it only makes sense that Gimli would seek them out, but it's still a bit of a shock to see his cousin—his beard barely as long as Fíli's, rather than down to his belt—approach them only minutes later, after Dís has settled an irate Thorin on a stone bench at the edges of the hall.

Fíli is the first to spot Gimli, and he blinks at him for a moment, clearly forcing himself to reconcile the two images, just as Kíli is doing. But their friend doesn't allow them much time to adjust; he pulls Kíli into a crushing hug, pounding him on the back until he chokes before he turns to Fíli.

"What'd you do to that ugly mug, then?" he asks as greeting, though Kíli can see his eyes glistening, strangely bright, in the sunlight streaming in through the gates. "First you leave me out of all the fun, and then you go and get yourself battle scars to boot! Leave some of the ladies for me and Kíli, aye?"

Fíli snorts, pulling Gimli into a hug even as the tears finally fall down their cousin's cheeks. "Ach, my Da says you're lucky to be alive, all three of you," he says, and scrubs furiously at his face as he lets go of Fíli. "It's good you didn't die, or else I would've had to bring you back just to kill you myself. What would I have done without you—suffocate in the library with Ori?"

Their mother chokes a laugh, but Kíli and his brother can only muster strained smiles between them, and Kíli wonders suddenly, horrified, how badly their mother and Gimli must have taken the news, in that other time. (And then he wonders whether that had anything to do with the fact that he joined such a suicidal quest.) "We are all very much alive," Thorin says, and he offers the younger dwarf a small smile as he attempts to stand again. (Dís shoves him back down, rather forcefully, and he acquiesces with only a grunt of irritation and a murderous glare. Kíli nearly laughs at the incredulous look on Bilbo's face.) "Your father fought honorably the entire way—you should be proud of him."

"He's not the one who killed the dragon, though, is he?" Gimli snorts, turning sharply to poke Kíli in the chest. "It was this beardless brat! I'm almost offended—you still look younger than me! Has your beard grown at all, since you left?"

Kíli would be offended if it were anyone else saying such things—but as it stands, he only laughs heartily, punching Gimli on the shoulder. Their mother is giving both him and Fíli strange looks, clearly concerned by the pain they weren't able to mask from Gimli's earlier comment. They can't tell her now, though—not here, in front of so many others, and not so soon after the joy of their reunion. Thorin seems to agree, nodding shortly to both of them, and Bilbo's lips tighten as he, too, understands.

Later, they will have to tell their mother and their cousin exactly what happened. Later, they will have to tell them that their problems are far from over—that even though they managed to save their own lives, so many more still hang in the balance.

But that is for later, because Gimli is slapping Kíli on the back again, and their mother's face is again full of nothing but shining pride and overwhelming relief, and all of them are soon pulled into a vivid (rather exaggerated, Kíli must admit) description of their escapades in the Trollshaws. Fíli is embellishing Bilbo's role in the story mightily—even at the expense of his and Kíli's pride—and Kíli can't help but grin at the way the hobbit's face is growing gradually redder and redder.

By the end, Gimli is laughing heartily, and he claps Bilbo on the shoulder in such a way that Kíli can see his knees nearly buckle. "I suppose you're an all right sort, for a halfling," Gimli says, his cheerful tone belying the harshness of the words. Bilbo splutters helplessly, looking to Kíli and his brother for help, but they only grin at him—after all, if Bilbo is to be here for the next several weeks—or months—he'll have to grow acquainted with the dwarves he'll be seeing on a regular basis.

Though, Kíli supposes as Bilbo reaches up to rub his shoulder with a grimace, he might have to have a word with his cousin about the fragility of hobbits, as well.