"Wait!" Fíli called out, knocking the pack to the ground as he stood. Though he was still unsteady on his feet, he managed to get to Sigrid's side before she could make it to the tent flap; then he stepped in front of her and held up his hand pleadingly. "Not yet!"

The young Woman covered her face with her palms and shook her head. "I can't do this," she said, peeking at him through her fingers. "I have to get… someone. Anyone. I can't—"

"Sigrid, please…"

She lowered her hands, then curled her fingers into fists at her sides. "You said your wounds were slight!"

"They are," said Fíli, pressing his arm so hard into the sling that the knot dug into his already-sore neck. "It isn't as bad as it looks."

"You don't know how bad it looks!"

She was very nearly yelling now, and Fíli feared that her raised voice might bring others to the tent; so he turned to the flap and pushed it aside, then blinked uncomfortably in the brightness as he glanced around. The only people outside were a Woman and an Elf, who spoke quietly to one another as they made their way through the camp. They stopped outside a tent, and the Elf motioned for the Woman to enter before him; and after they had both stepped out of sight, there was no one else to be seen.

Fíli let out a relieved breath and shut the flap as he turned towards Sigrid; but when he saw the intensity in her eyes, he faltered back.

"I can't mend something like that," she said firmly. "It's deeper than the wound on your arm, and in a far worse place."

"I'm not asking you to mend it," Fíli told her. He grew suddenly dizzy; and though he tried not to let it show on his face, he still stumbled slightly to the side. "Just, please, wait for a while before you tell anyone I'm here."

"What good will that do?" she snapped.

Fíli slid his shaking right hand behind himself, then the unsteadiness overcame him and his knees weakened; but he felt Sigrid ease a supportive arm around his back, and he did not fall.

"I know you want to help me," he said between shaky breaths. "But if you leave… you will not find me here when you get back." He cringed, realizing how much that had sounded like a threat.

"Why will you not let me get someone?" she asked, guiding him back to the cot. She helped him to sit, then rested her hand on his shoulder. "Would you really rather die?"

He turned his eyes to the ground. "I'm not dying," he said, well aware of the uncertainty in his own voice. "I have no fever, my bleeding has stopped, I'm walking and talking—"

"Plenty of people were walking and talking after the Battle," said Sigrid. "And still they died."

Fíli felt a visceral shock, remembering the old Man who had collapsed by the fire and the look on the young girl's face as she clawed helplessly at his chest. He wondered now how many others had died so suddenly over the evening—he wondered how many of those deaths Sigrid had seen, and whether she now knew the signs that such a death was coming.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. "I'm sorry I lied," he said. "I'm sorry I told you that it wasn't my blood. I didn't…"

Sigrid kneeled in front of him and placed her hand on his slung arm. "Let me go get help," she said. "An Elf, a Dwarf… someone. A while ago, you asked me to seek out Balin and Óin and Tauriel. Why would you not want them here now?"

Fíli shook his head. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to sit down with Balin and Dáin and the rest of his kin; he would have to speak with them about what should be done from here on, and the conversation was sure to be unpleasant. Balin had, after all, sounded so confident about Dáin's ability to rule the people of Erebor—though he had spoken with more fear and uncertainty about Fíli, himself.

Of course, at the time, he had believed Fíli to be dead. What now would his words be, when he learned that Fíli still lived? Would the old Dwarf still fear that he would fall, as Thorin had? Would he fear it more when he saw the wound that Azog had left behind? Would he be right in that fear?

"When you came in here earlier, I couldn't remember most of the Battle," he admitted, to his own surprise; then he turned to look at the girl. "I couldn't remember you."

Her eyes narrowed. "But you do now?"

"Yes," he replied, turning away again. "But I don't know what else I may have forgotten, or what I may yet forget. And I do not know what other effects my wounding may have had." A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed against it; then he pressed his fingertips to the blood on the back of his neck. "I cannot let my kin see me like this. They might think…"

The words failed on his lips, and he lowered his hand to his lap; and Sigrid's own voice grew more gentle when next she spoke.

"That you survived?" she asked. "That you lived through something that would likely have killed a Man outright?"

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut, and a silence fell; and at length, Sigrid brushed the hairs off of his brow.

"If I helped you to get cleaned up a bit, would you then allow me to bring a healer?" she asked. "If you did not look so wounded, would you then allow those wounds to be treated?"

"I might," he said, turning to her once more. "But I cannot say now how I will feel later."

Sigrid smiled softly, then she stood and walked to the table. He looked away from her, listening as she rustled through the crates; and all the while, he stared towards the tent flap, almost expecting someone to step in at any moment. But no one came, and when he heard a scraping sound, he turned to watch Sigrid as she drew the ewer off the table. She then went to the fire and poured the cold water into the steaming pot, presumably to cool it off.

"I would not have been able to stop you," he said.

Sigrid set the now-empty ewer down on the dirt, then she used her apron to protect her hand as she lifted the pot off the fire. "What do you mean?" she asked; and when she turned towards him he saw that she had a bundle of white rags in her other hand.

"If you had left to get help, I couldn't have stopped you," he clarified.

She tossed the clean rags on the blanket beside him. "I know."

"So, why did you not go?"

"Because you asked me not to," she said, staring hard at him for a moment before walking behind the cot. She grunted as she set the pot down on the dirt, then she ran her fingers over his bloody hair. "When my father asked me to help the healers, the first thing they told me was never to do anything to the wounded that they did not want done."

"Even if it meant that they would die?"

"As long as they knew that's what might happen."

She tried to force her fingers through his hair and he grimaced as it pulled on the skin around his wound.

"And did many…" he began, but he could not bring himself to finish asking if many had died, for refusing treatment.

"Some did," said Sigrid, apparently understanding his question. "There was one Man last night… I knew him from when we lived on the Lake. His leg was…" She stopped combing her fingers through Fíli's hair and placed her hand on his shoulder. "It was broken in the Battle. It was snapped… and the bone was… you could see it…" She drew in a sharp breath. "The healers said the only way to save him would have been to give up his leg, but he wouldn't let them. They begged him to let them save his life, but he… he said he would rather die as a whole Man."

She let out a little choking noise, and Fíli reached up and placed his hand on hers. She jumped, then squeezed his shoulder gently before pulling her hand away.

"This is going to take some time," she said, again trying to comb her fingers through his hair. "I'm not sure if I can get all of the blood and dirt out."

Fíli looked across the space to where the remains of his mustache lay on the dirt; and after only a few seconds of considering what it meant, he reached to the side and picked up the shears, then held them over his shoulder to the girl.

"Cut it away, then," he said. "If it will make it easier for you."

"Are you sure?" asked Sigrid, taking the shears. "I thought Dwarves were fond of their hair."

Fíli smiled a bit despite himself, but the smile quickly fell. "We are," he said. "But it hardly matters right now, and it will grow back in time."

Sigrid let out a long breath, then ran her hand over the back of his head again. She lifted the hair off of his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut as she closed the shears around a bloodied lock; then she cut away another clump of hair, then another. She worked in silence for several minutes, and his eyes shifted down towards the blanket as the dirty remnants of his hair fell onto it.

He imagined how he would look when she was done, and the thought was disquieting; though he knew that he would have had his hair cut off later, anyway, to honor the fallen. Perhaps, he told himself, he had begun taking off his mustache for just that purpose—perhaps, in some deep part of his mind, he had told himself that it was time to go forward with his mourning.

"You said that you saw my brother and uncle?" he asked abruptly.

Sigrid slowed in her snipping for a moment. "I didn't see them, really," she said. "I went to the largest tent in the Mountain because I thought that maybe I would find Balin or the others there, but the guard said the only ones inside were the dead. When I asked who they were, he told me that it was the Dwarf-King and one of the princes. I had to ask their names… I didn't know…"

"That Thorin was a King?" asked Fíli. His eyes started to burn and the ache in his throat worsened. "He was, yes. For however short a time."

She tapped her finger absently against the side of his neck; and he looked towards her briefly before the pain at the base of his skull forced him to turn back around.

"Were there any others in the tent?" he asked, knowing that if any of the Company had fallen in the Battle, Balin would have made sure that they were laid out with Thorin and Kíli. "Any other dead?"

"The guard didn't say." She snipped a bit more of his hair, then stopped cutting altogether and set the shears down on the cot. "How does that feel?"

Fíli touched the freshly-trimmed hair at the back of his sore neck. "It's fine," he said; then he bit down on his tongue.

"Do you think we can get this off?" asked Sigrid, running her hand down the sleeve of his tunic as she walked around in front of him. "Without hurting you too much?"

"Whatever pain comes from here, I think I can handle it well enough."

The girl helped Fíli to slide his arm out of the sling, then she took hold of the bottom of his shirt and gingerly removed it as he groaned against the pain in both his arm and neck. She threw the tunic to the ground, then he heard her draw in a quick, sharp breath. He looked up at her, but her own eyes were turned towards his right shoulder; and when he glanced over, he realized that she was staring at the angular design of his skin-art.

She cleared her throat before stepping back around the cot and out of his sight, and he heard the swishing of a rag being dipped into the herbed water, followed by the dripping sound of it being wrung out. She cautiously moved the remaining hair away from his wound, and he winced as she cleaned around the broken skin. Then she threw the used rag onto the ground in front of him and grabbed another one from the pile, dipping and wringing it before pressing it to the hole.

"Hold this here," she said. "At least it will keep more dirt from getting into the wound."

He did as she asked, and a moment later Sigrid brought another cloth, still-dripping, up to his head. He felt warmth flow over his scalp and down his neck and bare back as she gently ran it over his hair; then she repeated the same actions again and again, throwing each rag to the ground as it got soiled. Soon there was a pile of bloody cloths at his feet, and when she this time combed her fingers through his hair, they did so with much more ease.

"That looks a lot better," she said, taking away the rag that he had been holding to his wound and throwing it onto the pile with the rest. "Better than it did, anyway."

Fíli offered her half a nod. "Feels better."

She came back around the cot and held out another wetted-and-wrung length of fabric. "Clean your face."

Fíli obeyed as she went back to the crates and returned to his side with yet more rags; and he wondered just how much blood he had on him if she needed so many. She stepped behind the cot again and set about cleaning his neck and shoulders—and as he leaned his head forward, his eyes focussed on his trousers, which were stained black from the blood of the goblin that had died atop his legs the night before.

He remembered then the goblin being lifted away, and he saw in his mind the old Woman that had kneeled beside him afterwards. He hoped, at least, that Legolas had managed to keep her safe; then he recalled what the Elf had said about the enemy heading south.

"Did the orcs get to the Lake?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Sigrid's hand froze on his shoulder. "Yes," she answered simply; then she moved the warm cloth across his upper arm—slower now, and repetitively, as if she had her mind on something else.

"I'm sorry the Battle came to you," he told her.

His words seemed to draw her attention back and she slid the rag to his right shoulder and began to rub harder; and he looked over to see that she seemed to be scrubbing at his inked skin.

"It doesn't come off," he told her, smiling crookedly.

Sigrid pulled her hand back. "I know," she said, cleaning the back of his arm. "I just… I was wondering, how is it done?"

"With ink and needles and a steady hand."

She gasped slightly. "Does it hurt?"

"It did when I had it done. But that was a long time ago."

Sigrid ran the cloth across his shoulder blades and down the center of his back, and when she reached the base of his spine, he felt a shock of pain and jumped. She pulled the rag away, and her fingers touched on either side of where the pain was the worst.

"What happened here?" she asked.

"It's just a bruise," he said, balling his right hand into a fist. "It will heal on its own."

"What hit you?"

"I was thrown… into a boulder, I think."

She ran her fingers over the bruise once more; and though she did so more gently this time, he arched his back and grimaced.

"Maybe stop doing that?" he asked as politely as he could manage through clenched teeth.

Sigrid drew her hand away from the bruise; and a moment later the now-cool rag moved over the ribs on his left side. "Is it something all Dwarves have done?"

"What?" asked Fíli; then he realized that she was again speaking of his skin-art. "Not all, but it is fairly common in Ered Luin."

"Where's that?"

"My home," said Fíli; though even as he spoke the word, he felt his heart sink. "My old home, in the far west."

The girl pulled the cloth off of his skin and walked around the cot, then she sat down on his right side, still staring at his arm. "Do they mean anything?"

"Some do. Some Dwarves have the names of kin, or even stories or history inked into their skin."

"What do yours say?"

"They're not words," he said, glancing at the art; then he looked Sigrid in the eye. "They match my father's, though I never learned if they had any meaning."

"You never asked him?"

"I didn't know him long enough."

Sigrid's eyes widened a bit and her cheeks reddened, then she threw the rag to the ground and rested her elbows on her knees and set her chin atop her folded hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

"It's alright," he told her with a small shrug. "All the memories I have of him are faint, and it is hard to miss someone you barely knew."

The girl's shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes. "My mother died when Tilda was born," she said. "My father was away running barrels at the time. He never got over not being there when it happened." She let out a long breath. "She taught me a lot while she was still around, at least. Cooking and sewing and knitting… and how to take care of children." The young Woman opened her eyes and looked over at Fíli. "I think she knew she was going to die. I think she was trying to make sure there would still be someone around who could take care of things without her."

Fíli smiled softly, even as his eyes began to blur with tears. "Our mother taught us how to forge and fight," he said. "Up until Thorin took over our training, anyway."

"Is she still…" Sigrid stopped and pressed her lips together, almost as if she felt she had caught herself saying something she shouldn't have.

"Is she still alive?" Fíli finished for her; then he nodded. "She's waiting for us back home." He swallowed hard. "Waiting for me now, I suppose."

At once, Sigrid's own eyes welled up and tears began coursing down her cheeks; and despite Fíli being half-undressed, she leaned against him and hung her head. Fíli wrapped his uninjured arm over her shoulder, and for a long while they sat there, still and silent except for her heavy breaths and the gentle heaving of her shoulders; until at last she calmed and became so quiet that Fíli thought she may have fallen asleep by his side.

"Sigrid?" he asked, shaking her gently. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," she said; and though she spoke quietly, there was no trace of sleep in her voice.

"You have already helped me more than I could have hoped," he told her, "but there is more that I would ask of you, if you are still willing."

She looked up at him with reddened eyes. "What do you need?"

"Clothes, first of all," he said, glancing down at his bare chest. "If there are any to be found."

"There are. Though you mightn't want those that were taken off the dying or the dead."

"I'll wear whatever will fit me, and hope that the former owners would not object."

"And what will you do then?" asked Sigrid.

Fíli hesitated for a moment. "Seek out Balin and my other kin," he answered at last, reaching over and taking her small hand in his own. "But first, I want to see my uncle and brother."