/THE HEART OF EREBOR\

ACT I

-The Empty Throne-

Chapter 10

The Duties of a Crownless King

Kíli awoke that night with his brother's name on his lips and tears streaming down his face. The blanket covering him was a tangled mess, he was drenched with sweat, and his shoulder was pounding away to a rhythm of its very own. None of these things registered as more than a passing thought, however, his mind still wracked with the terrible images that had stalked his sleep with cruel persistence until his own screams woke him. He couldn't breathe properly, an invisible weight on his chest, so that the cries he could not bite back cut themselves short for want of air. He was reduced instead to a keening wail, to tears he could not stop as the loss hit him anew, and in the dark watches of the night his frail candle of misplaced faith could not stay alight.

"Kíli?" Someone else had entered the tent, someone he could not see, for his face was firmly buried in his knees as he rocked back and forth, utterly distraught. "Kíli!"

The voice became a demand, and then there were hands upon him, tugging and pulling until he was no longer hunched over himself, his face buried instead in a shoulder that smelt of worn leather and fur as a pair of strong arms held him firmly in place. He did not return the gesture, simply collapsing against the newcomer, his cries half-muffled by the cloth against which his face was pressed.

He did not know how long he lay there, gripped by hysterics, but eventually mind and body both ceased their grieving, and he was left lying limply against his stoic companion, throat aching, cheeks damp, and chest still heaving as he fought to regain his breath.

"You alright now, lad?"

It was Dwalin, he realized. Dwalin holding him together as he threatened to shatter, providing an anchor in the storm.

"I-I'm f-fine," he stammered out an answer, breath still hitching in his chest. "It was just..." He closed his eyes, clenched them shut, and wished the image conjured by his imagination would disintegrate. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."

A dream that had been no less terrifying for the fact it was a dream. Vivid and savage and petrifying. Full of battle and death and Azog's great mace crashing down upon him as Thorin looked on and shook his head. A dream where he ran with all the speed he could muster, but still could not cross the distance as Bolg's warg pack tore his family to shreds and his brother screamed his name as his arrows fell short of their mark. As the tale of death Balin believed turned to reality, and his life was destroyed with the complete decimation of two others. The very thought of what he had witnessed in his slumber was nausea inducing, and he shivered, jumping slightly when Dwalin's callused palm landed on his brow.

"You've taken to fever again," the bald dwarf rumbled in discontent, his next words not directed at Kíli at all. "What in Durin's name is taking Oin so long?"

"Oin is right here," the healer responded sharply as he bustled into the tent, looking harried and tired and casting Dwalin a wholly disapproving glare that vanished as his eyes honed in on Kíli.

"Now then," he grumbled, seizing the young dwarf's chin in his hand and turning his head hither and thither. "What have you done to yourself?"

He didn't give Kíli a chance to respond, muttering to himself as he unwrapped bandages and poked and prodded at areas that were far too damaged to appreciate such treatment. Kíli endured his ministrations in silence, still half-leaning on Dwalin, fighting the persistent tug of sleep that was threatening to haul him back down into the gruesome world of nightmares his slumber had become. At length Oin stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction, every dressing back in place, and every injury aching that much more for having been disturbed.

"There's no sign of infection," he spoke over Kíli's head, addressing Dwalin. "It's simply a matter of too much, too fast. Rest is all he needs. Proper rest," he added sternly, his eyes now fixed on Kíli. "I'll mix up some tea before I go to help you sleep."

"No!" Kíli jerked upright in a second, fear and panic clouding his voice, "I don't want to sleep. Please, Oin, I'll be fine. I don't want to sleep."

"You and almost everyone else in this whole camp but me," the old healer grumbled, removing a vial from his satchel. "But you needn't worry." Adding a few drops of the contents to a mug of warm tea, he turned and offered it to his ward. Kíli didn't even bother raising his hand to take it, and with a frown Oin pressed it upon him. "This is an elvish brew," he assured the archer. "You won't dream."

Accepting the tea Kíli eyed it distrustfully, his hand still shaky enough he could see ripples on the drink's surface. Seeing this Oin spoke again, "That's a tried and tested remedy, lad, have a little faith."

It wasn't assurance enough for the young dwarf, not after what he had seen, and he made to place the tea down without touching a drop only to have Dwalin's hand close around his own and push the mug back towards him.

"Drink, Kíli," he ordered. "You need your rest. I'll be here."

But what good would even Dwalin be fighting against night terrors? This was no tangible enemy he could drive away, no monster of shadows that could be cut down by ax and sword. This was Kíli's own mind, and the terrible array of possibilities that still remained possibilities until he could prove otherwise.

"Gandalf believes me," he blurted, earning the full attention of both Dwalin and Oin, though it was only to the former he turned. "Why won't you?"

Dwalin's face was a closed book, and Kíli feared he had made the warmaster angry again until Dwalin reached across to take the tea from his hand and set it to one side.

"I have seen the damage false hope can do," he said at last. "I do not know what cause the wizard has for encouraging you, but I prefer not to entertain folly when I see it."

Using his good arm to push himself away from Dwalin Kíli balanced himself against the pillows instead so he could look the older dwarf in the eye. "How do you know it is a false hope?"

Dwalin turned away from Kíli's earnest gaze, his voice heavy as he answered with more words than he was apt to speak in a day, let alone a single conversation. "At Azanulbizar many prisoners were taken before the tide was turned, dragged within our own halls as slaves and sport. Frerin, Thorin's brother and your uncle, was counted amongst the missing. We held out hope for days that those who were taken would find a way to escape. Moria is a dwarf realm, after all. They knew those tunnels better than any Orc." The warrior paused, his gaze now fixed to Kíli's own stare. "You know how that story ends, lad. The mutilated bodies that were returned to us, signed like some light forsaken craftsman's work. Frerin was recognizable only by the clasp they left upon his body, proof Azog's oath still stood, another of Durin's line dead at the hands of his ilk. Thorin... Well, Thorin had chosen to believe as you do. That there was still a hope, no matter how slim, that Frerin might be returned to us alive. I have never seen your uncle so close to breaking as he was in that moment when we found the bodies."

With a shake of his head, Dwalin ended his tale with the most devastating words he could have possibly chosen.

"There is no hope, lad, not even if they were taken alive. Better to think of them as dead upon the battlefield than dead at the hands of that dreadful beast."

Retrieving the mug of tea he seized Kíli's hand and wrapped the archer's numb fingers about the handle, deliberately not looking the young dwarf in the eye.

"Drink," he ordered, and this time Kíli did exactly as he was told.

~The Heart of Erebor~

Dwalin had meant his shared recollections to act as a lesson, Kíli knew. A cautionary tale to show him the dangers wrought by believing in possibilities where no others saw even the slimmest chance. He knew what Dwalin had been trying to make sure he understood, but it didn't matter, because Kíli did not believe Thorin and Fíli were dead, and no one could make him believe otherwise. Dwalin was there the next morning, along with most of the rest of the company, coaxing, cajoling, and outright threatening, but Kíli was a dwarf of his word, and he absolutely refused to have any part in the act of burying family he did not believe to be dead. If Dwalin turned away and Balin stared at him in stark disapproval whilst the rest of the company shook their heads in sorrow over his inability to accept the truth then so be it. It was not the first time he had earned the ire of them all. If he carried on as he was, it would probably not be the last.

He waited in the tent allotted to him for most of the morning, counting the minutes and trying to judge how long the funeral rites might take. The hour was nearing noon when he finally slipped from the shelter, picking a winding path through the camp until he came to the stream he and Bilbo had followed whilst carrying out their ultimately fruitless betrayal. The entrance to the mountain had been opened since then, rubble cleared away, and the path beneath his feet was blessedly smooth as he slipped through the unguarded entrance into the great hall below. He was almost caught there in the flood of returning mourners and those who could not care less but thought it wise to pay their respects regardless, but managed to duck into an alcove before any eyes fell upon him. He waited in the shadows until all had passed, then followed the paths they had walked deeper into the mountain. Balin had told him there was still an incredible amount of work left to do before Erebor was restored to a state capable of supporting those of its people who would be spending the winter inside the mountain, but the paths to the burial chambers showed no evidence of this, readied as they had been to receive their King and Prince.

The tombs were not difficult to find, set centrefold in the large room, each bearing their own inscription, a life reduced to a few sentences carved on cold stone. He hesitated in the entranceway, second-guessing his desire to be here, but at length his feet moved of their own accord, and he strode across the empty space, every footstep echoing in the darkness. He paused briefly alongside his brother's tomb, fingers tracing a name he had pronounced almost every day of his life, then tore himself away, taking the four steps that brought him to the side of his uncle's empty grave.

"Thorin."

The name felt heavy on his tongue, the echoes of his own voice an eerie whisper around him, and he paused uncertainly, trapped between the desire to speak and the knowledge there would be no answer. The words needed to be said, however, and if he could not say them here then he would never utter them aloud.

"Balin said you forgave me," he continued, staring not at the tomb before him, but rather into the darkness that lay beyond. "I almost wish you had not."

Had he still been disgraced, cut off from his house and banished from this home and all others he would have had no reason to stay. He could have seized that solitary strand of chance and pursued it to its death or his. But Thorin had forgiven him, perhaps for no more reason than guilt over the fact Kíli had tread perilously close to death defending his life, and now he was chained here, trapped by the same bonds he had been so horrified to lose.

"Nobody else will believe me." He hesitated, thinking that statement over. "Well, Gandalf does, but none of the others will believe him. Not unless he says for certain you are still alive, and he won't do that. Can't, I suppose."

It was cold down here in the deeps, and he shivered slightly, wishing he had been left a coat. Apparently his adventure the day before had lent wisdom to his wardens, however, and the layers of clothes he had been offered that morning were wholly conditional on his presence at the burial. As soon as they were assured he was not coming, anything that might have provided warmth in the encroaching winter air had been withdrawn.

"I don't know what to do." That much was obvious, he thought. He was asking for answers from the dead who were not dead, but the living had already refused him that much, so what choice did he have? "I just need proof. A sign. Anything…"

"You will not find any of those things down here, I fear."

Kíli whirled at the interjection, wondering how he had missed the glow of torchlight behind him even as he met the stern gaze of the grey-bearded dwarf holding the flambeau aloft. Recognition took him a few moments, for this was a dwarf who had rarely graced Ered Luin with his presence, but it came at length.

"Lord Dain." He did not know what else to say, but it appeared the name and title were sufficient, for his distant cousin was already striding forward.

"If you wish to kill yourself there are easier ways than freezing to death," the Lord of the Iron Hills chided, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around Kíli's instead. "Come, leave the dead to their silence. This is not a place for the living to linger."

Reluctantly, Kíli allowed himself to be tugged away, Dain leading him out of the burial chambers and back through the maze of corridors. Instead of making for the main gate, however, the Lord of the Iron Hills chose to mount one of the side staircases, bringing them both out to stand upon the very same wall where Thorin had first denounced his youngest nephew. The memory was still fresh in Kíli's mind, overlaid now by the more terrible events that had followed, and he jumped slightly when Dain spoke, torn from his recollections.

"You have not helped your cause," his cousin said, and Kíli wondered to which cause he was referring until the older dwarf continued. "There were doubters enough already without you giving them a firm reason to doubt. They will use this against you in council, as they well should. Such childish behaviour is ill-befitting of an heir of Durin."

He frowned, instantly defensive, "I am not a child."

"Then stop acting like one," was the sharp response he received in turn. "There have been many loved ones laid to rest over the past few days, many families torn asunder, but none have resorted to such extreme and selfish tactics as you have employed. You are a King now, crowned or not, and you owe your people the level of maturity such a title asks of you. Thorin raised you better than this, I am sure, and yet you do him no credit by your actions."

It was a harsh rebuke, all the more so for Kíli knew it was not wholly undeserved, and he struggled for a moment to come up with a fit response. What left his lips in the end was both a plea and denial, the same defence he had thrust at Balin when the old dwarf first told him what they now asked of him.

"I am not a King."

And that was no childish lie to escape his duty, but the truth, for he wasn't. Indeed, the blood that ran in his veins had never been more than an afterthought to him, a tie binding him to his brother and uncle, but not bearing the same importance it had for Thorin and Fíli. They had both been destined to rule, as Kings in Erebor or in exile, but he… he was the second born, the prince, and the throne was not a responsibility he had ever had to consider. Until now. Until this moment where his old life died along with those who had carried him through it, stranding him in this new world of new expectations, with no reprieve granted in which to catch his breath.

"Not yet," Dain agreed mildly, in a tone that belied his former severity. "But the laws of our people dictate that you could be."

But he shouldn't have been. Should not be. This could not be real. This could not be the tale his life had become. He could not have lost almost the whole of his family only to be told it was now his duty to stand in their place, to wear the crown his uncle should have worn, to rule the people that would one day have been his brother's to rule. To turn his back on the chance of saving them because a responsibility that was not even his demanded he stay here and look to the people Thorin had dedicated his life to returning to their home. His uncle would not have wanted him to abandon that duty, he knew, and Kíli found himself suddenly torn between what he knew Thorin would have asked of him and what his heart demanded be done.

"We are kin, you and I, and we have much in common." Dain folded his arms and leant back against the parapets, his voice softer again, kinder. "I was younger than you are now when Thror tried to retake Moria, and that battle, my first, is one I shall never truly forget. I lost my father to the massacre of Azanulbizar, to Azog, and found myself suddenly saddled with the responsibility of leading an army. Then, when victory was attained, governing a realm. It is no easy thing to rule a kingdom, and it was made all that much harder by my youth. You are now facing a challenge much the same, Kíli."

"But I can't," he protested softly, mind racing, searching for a way out. A means of avoiding this burden he had never expected and most certainly never desired. "I am not what Erebor needs. I… I stole the Arkenstone. Thorin banished me. I cannot rule."

Dain's gaze was calm and steady as he repelled Kíli's argument with a simple statement of his own. "Words I am told he revoked on the battlefield, after you came to his aid, and saved his life."

Except that Kíli had not saved his life, or else it would have been upon Thorin's shoulders that this duty fell, not his own. But there was still that chance… Please, let there still be a chance…

"Nobody believes that," he said, then realized he had spoken aloud.

"Believes what?" Dain asked mildly, but there was a light in his eyes that told Kíli he knew more than his words suggested.

"That I saved Thorin's life," he answered truthfully, for if he was to be thought mad he may as well ensure it was an universal belief, not just one held by his friends. "They will not believe that he could still be alive. That Fíli could be alive."

Dain's expression was unreadable, and Kíli could not begin to guess what he was thinking. "It seems an unlikely chance, does it not?"

"We just reclaimed a mountain from a dragon," he found himself answering with more sharpness than he had intended. "That was a less than unlikely chance, and yet some still dared to risk it."

"A fair point," Dain conceded, inclining his head slightly. "But you stood upon that battlefield yourself, Kíli. You almost lost your life to it. Can you honestly say it is more likely they are alive than dead, when most have already accepted their loss and buried them?"

"I do not care if it is more likely," he maintained stubbornly, setting his chin. "I do not believe it."

"Then why are you still here?"

It was not the question he had been expecting, and he turned to Dain in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Dain elaborated, "If you truly believe there is a chance that Thorin and Fíli survived, why are you not already in pursuit?"

"Nobody will help me." He thought that much obvious, and he was hardly in a fit state to go careening across Middle Earth alone. "And I have duties here."

"Ah." Dain looked pleased. "Then you have not forgotten those entirely."

"Of course I have not forgotten them." He frowned, for remembering those duties was a part of the problem.

"Though they may linger on your mind, it is not so clear to others that your thoughts are upon the responsibilities that have fallen to you," the Lord of the Iron Hills said. "Your actions have raised many questions of late. Enough so that the Seven have called for a Council to decide whether or not you are fit to wear the crown."

He had not expected to hear that, and turned to Dain in a mixture of confusion and alarm. "Can they do that?"

"I do not think we can afford to stop them," answered Dain. "Not with what ruin the last mad king wrought."

Kíli's heart sank. "You think me mad?"

"I think you are too like Thorin for your own good," Dain sighed. "And stubbornness is a trait that may either serve you well or lead you entirely astray. The fact of the matter is, Kíli, that time is against you. This is not easy, I know it is not, but you are of the line of Durin, and you have more lives to consider here than your own. Winter is drawing in, the citizens of Laketown are without their homes, and there are debts yet to be settled. Erebor has stood empty for over sixty years, it will need work to make it liveable again, time to restore and repair what the dragon destroyed, and provisions will need to be made for food and other necessities until the mountain can once more provide for itself. That is just the beginnings of what must be done. Your people have a need of you, so you must put aside your grief for the time being and focus instead upon their needs. You already have the goodwill of Bard of Esgaroth, and, dare I say it, King Thranduil as well. Your influence over any bargain made with either will be far greater than mine."

"I cannot." He shook his head again, denying what was asked of him, raging against this fate. "I cannot do it."

"But you will," Dain predicted. "Because you must."

He gazed up at his cousin, begging, pleading for another answer. But, though Dain's gaze was not without sympathy, it was also immovable, set, as unyielding as the fate now thrust upon him.

"A king has many duties," the older dwarf observed, when Kíli did not speak. "But he also has many powers. You may yet find that the answer to your quandary lies in that which you are trying to avoid." Sliding a hand into the pocket of his coat, the Lord of the Iron Hills removed a wrapped bundle that had been stowed there, pressing the familiar weight of it into Kíli's hands as he said, "After all, no king rules alone, and someone must return west to escort the citizens of Erebor to their home."