Dwalin couldn't bring himself to question his cousin. Lad looked tired, pale, afraid and the warrior had a terrible feeling that Óin would kill him if he even sounded like he was about to ask Glóin anything.

Thorin, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

"Do you know the person who grabbed you?"

Balin shook his head as Dwalin raised his eyebrows and shook his head frantically. Óin, predictably, was less than pleased.

"Thorin," Óin growled. "Begin your personal inquisition tomorrow!"

"No. It's best to learn things now. Glóin?"

Their redhead was looking confused, narrowing his dark eyes as though trying to recall what had just been said. Dwalin looked pointedly at Thorin.

"I doubt he'll be alright to answer, Thorin. Ask later."

"The memory will still be fresh.."

"I don't think he'll ever forget!" Óin snapped. "Would you?"

"Well, no, but..."

Thorin was interrupted by a small sigh. "Ye gods," Óin muttered. "You inherited your grandfather's looks and your da's brains."

Thorin looked as though he didn't know whether to be pleased or not. Dwalin rumbled something under his breath and gave Óin a stern look.

"Well, now, there's no need for sass." Balin chided, though he certainly didn't look annoyed about it. "Dwalin, why don't you get Thorin back to the Holding Halls? I'll see you later."

Dwalin nodded, giving his cousins a last searching look as he led the Prince away.

Glóin felt like he was awakening from a bad dream when he became aware of the fact that he was safely nestled between his elder brother and his eldest cousin. He wasn't cold, but he shivered and one of them tucked something warm and soft around him.

"How are you feeling, lad?"

"My head hurts."

"Your head? Whereabouts?" Óin asked.

"Scalp." The recollection of his hair being sharply yanked tore through Glóin's mind and he crossed his arms, hugging himself tightly. "Did...did he pull anything out?"

"Nothing's missing." Balin promised him. "Your family braids are quite safe."

Glóin released an arm and slid his fingers through his red tresses, relaxing upon finding the familiar, thin plaits that had been woven into his hair by Sannith and Gróin. "I should've listened to you." Glóin murmured, tightly grasping his hands together.

"You weren't to know what he was up to." Óin told him, bringing their foreheads close.

But he had known. He'd known that Fóli was up to something, he'd known that Fóli was involved. If he'd said, none of this would have happened.

Why hadn't he said?

"It was my fault," the 62-year-old found himself saying, bowing his head. "It was my fault."

The two older males exchanged confused looks.

Quite gently, Óin patted his shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. "No, lad, it's not your fault, not at all. It's mine, I shouldn't have left you, however briefly I thought it would be-"

"No, you...it is my fault."

Another look was exchanged. Then Balin deigned to speak.

"How exactly," asked he,"is it your fault?"

Glóin wanted to tell them, but the notion, the thought of looking either in the eye and confessing that he'd held a suspicion was horrifically daunting and the words for it wouldn't leave his lips. He could tell both were watching him and gave the briefest of glances toward the door, pondering running away, away from the questions, away from his kin and far, far away from the gnawing guilt inside him.

Strong arms tightened themselves around him and in no time he found himself breathing in the scent of tobacco and dusty books that only belonged to his eldest of both his cousins. He'd grown up with the comforting essence, Balin having been more like a second older brother to him than a cousin. His cousin's greying beard was tickling him, but he didn't care about it.

"Come on," Balin said in a coaxing manner. "Tell us, laddie."

"You'll be upset with me."

"No, we won't. No one will, but you must tell us what it is."

The words still refused to arrive. As Glóin struggled, he nearly broke down as Óin carefully turned down the neck of his tunic, gentle fingers tracing the soreness around his throat. Not because it hurt, but because how many others had been taken that same way? What if it was currently happening again right now? What even happened to those children, aside from what Fóli had told him?

"Are you having a hard time making words?" Balin asked.

Dumbly, Glóin nodded. He knew what would be coming next and pressed his face into his cousin's shoulder as though trying to hide.

Balin patted his back. "Is there something you know?"

Óin was resting his hands on his brother's shoulders. As Glóin nodded, he gently squeezed them.

Balin's hand crept to his cousin's head and began stroking his hair. "About something or someone?"

Barely managing to whisper "both", Glóin turned his head and pressed his ear to Balin's chest. He could hear his heart beating, steadily and strong.

"I see. This someone, is it Fóli?"

Glóin nodded in answer, focusing more on his cousin's heartbeat.

"Ah. Has he told you anything to do with the babes?"

Glóin shrugged. In honesty, he only knew that Fóli knew the child-stealers. Balin tsked, displeased with the answer.

"We'll need a slightly better answer than that, lad." Óin pointed out.

Glóin slowly nodded.

"Did you only find out today?"

Glóin stilled completely. He knew he had, almost as though he'd frozen solid from a blast of ice than a simple question.
They were going to be so angry. Livid. He should've said, he should have told them... What was Óin going to say? What were they all going to say?

"Glóin? Have you only just-"

"No."

"'No' what?"

He had to get out. Balin was using The Voice. He would hit the roof, he would be disappointed and angered and saddened, oh Mahal, he had to get out...
It was too bad for his plans that he had his older brother behind him.

He should have stopped Balin the minute he started that bloody guessing game. If he had, perhaps he wouldn't have his terrified brother quaking in his arms. But, in truth, he'd been curious and was rather impressed that Glóin felt he could answer the questions and didn't want to stop him.
The questioning ended fairly abruptly, it could be said. Certainly, his dear nadad had risen so quickly that Óin barely had time to register it 'til Glóin had journeyed halfway across the living-room.

Little brothers could certainly move quickly when they wanted.

"Right," Balin said. "I'd better go and see where Dwalin's gotten to. Will you be alright?"

"Yeah," Óin answered, tucking a lock of red behind his brother's ear. "Only... You wouldn't mind coming back tonight, would you?"

"No, it'll be fine."

"Tell Dwalin he's not to ask any questions." Óin called as their cousin left. There was a confirming shout and the front door closed.

"Alright, lad. Can I see how your neck is?"

Glóin shuddered and gave a protesting wriggle at the question. Clearly, the thought of being touched around his neck was not something Glóin particularly cared for. Still, Óin gently persisted until Glóin eventually decided to pull down his tunic in order to reveal purple bruising clustered around his throat like a dull amethyst necklace.

Óin stared. He'd done that, he was the one to blame for the marks. He'd nearly lost his little brother due to his own stupidity. Would it really have been so hard to stay with him for ten seconds while he tied his lace properly?

"Nadad?"

Óin forced himself to look at his younger sibling. Worried black eyes peered anxiously into the onyx-black depths of his own. Small hands scrabbled for his, their dorsal-sides still uncovered by hair.
He may have been a mere decade off from becoming of age, but Glóin really did look very young.

"Óin?"

"How did you get him off?"

"I didn't. Fóli did."

At the mention of Fóli's name, Óin scowled heavily. If he he ever heard that scumbag say his brother's name, he'd personally castrate him.

"Brother, did...did the thug touch anything he shouldn't?"

Glóin touched the damaged skin on his neck. Shaking his head, Óin carefully grabbed his hands and held them tightly.

"No, no. Anywhere that shouldn't be touched."

Glóin shook his head now, beginning to tremble again. Óin couldn't bear it. Mumbling something even he couldn't hear, he rose and staggered out of the room, leaving his brother behind.

To be frank, Balin had somewhat suspected something like this would happen. One sat by himself, clutching his ash-blonde head in his hand, the other presumably where he'd been left in another room.

Óin never had been good at letting Glóin see his 'weak' moments.

"Well, now. What's bothering you, lad?"

The face hidden by a curtain of dark blonde groaned something inaudible.

"What's that?"

"I'm failing at this. What kind of gêmadad lets his brother nearly get stolen? I'm not cut out for this, cousin."

"Oh, come now. Don't berate yourself, laddie. You weren't to know.."

"I should've stayed with him. I should've just waited, it wouldn't have taken him any time to retie his bootlace! Anything could've happened to him. He could have been sold into slavery or prostitution, he could've been murdered or..or raped."

"Yes. It was very dangerous, but it wasn't your fault. You know you are not a bad brother, despite all the wicked things you are undoubtedly telling yourself, don't you?"

Óin shrugged. "I don't know what to do," he miserably announced. "What can I do?"

"Well, you can start by going back to him and making sure he's better."

Óin stood, shoving back his chair. "I tell you, Balin, I wish I'd ordered Glóin to stop seeing him and held my ground about it."

"I know. But he knows now that Fóli can't be trusted."

'At what cost, though?' Óin wondered to himself. Sighing, he drove a hand through his ash-blonde tresses. "I wish Da was still here. He'd know what to do."

"Have either of you visited your parents yet?"

"No." Óin admitted. "I know we should, they were our parents, but...we just can't yet."

"You visited your amad."

"We had Da with us. We go to them and their passing becomes real."

Balin said nothing, but lay a hand on his younger cousin's shoulder, offering quiet understanding.

"Balin, after... After Uncle Fundin passed, how did you get Dwalin to talk about him?"

"I didn't get him to. He just did."

Óin glanced in the direction of the living-room, frowning. "But, he doesn't-"

"I think that's just the way he grieves. Your father was the same."

"Sometimes I think he's forgotten that they're dead."

Balin hmmed. "Well, I don't think he has. He was there for the funeral, after all."

Óin nearly shuddered. "I still have nightmares about that bloody day."

Balin snorted. "That I don't doubt. It was a long day for all of us."

"I'll never forget that fellow asking if Glóin was going to go to you. I could've smashed his head in, insinuating I couldn't look after my own brother, the swarmy git." Óin sniffed. "And he wasn't even feckin' wrong!"

"Óin, stop it." Balin ordered, wagging a warning finger at him. "I'll not have you saying things like that. Do you think Miss Ilinh was a bad mother to have her babe stolen?"

"No."

"And is Lady Idùzhib a bad mother?"

"Oh, no!"

"Are you a bad brother?"

Óin paused, trying to think. It was far too clear what Balin thought and he cleared his throat and tried to look anywhere but the dazzling blue of Balin's eyes. Time passed, during which Balin crossed his arms and Óin desperately tried to find a way in which he could truthfully answer without angering his cousin when suddenly the padding shuffle of slippered feet on smooth stone caught his attention.

Clearly he'd neglected his brother too long, though he'd only left him for ten minutes.

A light nudge on his arm, the way Glóin stayed so close to him, a subtle show of trust had Óin wrapping his arms around his brother's thin frame.
One day, Óin wouldn't be able to tower over him as he did. One day, Glóin would be so strong with muscle that being able to encase him like this would be nigh on impossible.
One day, Glóin might want to talk about Gróin and Sannith after all, and Óin would be there for him.
One day, Óin might recall the time he was simply Glóin's brother and nothing more.

But now he was his gêmadad. And why was he his gêmadad?

'You are all I have left and I don't ever want to lose you'

Because they'd known to trust him with his brother. They'd known he would care for him, protect him or die trying. And that was true.

Glóin was safe, Glóin was alive and unhurt..apart from the bruising, but that would heal.

Was he a good brother? He was obviously thought to be by Glóin. Balin wasn't telling him otherwise.

A bad brother would have thrown his younger sibling out. A bad brother would hurt or upset his little brother or sister. A bad brother wouldn't care.

Óin had done none of those things.

Looking up from his view of Glóin's vermilion-shaded hair, Óin caught Balin's ever-watchful eye before glancing at his brother and then back to their cousin and nodded.

Balin smiled approvingly.

Dwalin hadn't slept in his uncle's house for over a decade. He'd gazed thoughtfully at the door that had once been the entrance for Gróin and Sannith's bedroom. The place both had died in. The place that had turned his younger cousin into a gêmadad and his youngest cousin practically mute for a month.

It hadn't been a particularly happy year.

He moved himself onto his back and bent his legs so that he could barely see the door in the night's dim light and almost smiled at the knowledge that their zûadad and zûamad hadn't changed a thing since their nephews had flown the nest.

His sharp ears caught a creaking next door. He waited for Óin, studying away downstairs, to come up the stairs to sort his brother out, but no one came.

Glóin's door opened.

Dwalin lay his legs back down and stared at the door. He could hear the padding sound of bare feet coming closer and then stopping.

Then, without warning, the familiar sound of their aunt and uncle's door opening filled Dwalin's ears.

First of all, Glóin's dream hadn't been so bad. Then he'd found himself in an unfamiliar setting. It was cold and damp and dark and he'd been calling for his brother and turned without reason to, only to see his father standing there, watching him out of those brilliant blue eyes.

"I did wrong somewhere. Never thought I'd raise a coward!"

And he'd only been able to meekly whisper 'Adad' for what seemed like hours as Gróin berated and cursed him. "Please!" he'd cried at one point. "I don't know how!"

"Amad is disappointed in you."

"No," he'd choked out, sobs beginning to shake his body. "No, no, no..."

He'd awoken, his own sobs and his father's quiet accusations tormenting him still and then he'd gotten up, not even wincing at the burning cold that attacked his bare feet and walked, unthinking, to the door that had hidden Gróin from the world.

Now, he stared around. The red curtains were still open, casting the moon's crisp light into the room. The undertakers had left the bed as though Gróin had simply gotten up and left. Sannith's hair beads of silver, though one was gold and bore a red gem, lay scattered over the table they used to sit at to brush their hair. Their wedding rings lay, barely touching, on Gróin's bedside cabinet.

Walking closer to his mother's side, he spotted her comb, the runes for her name etched into the wood from last Mother's Day. Gróin's hairbrush had his name in runes, too.

'A pair, we are,' Sannith had said, lightly tugging her husband's hair. "Together, no matter what.'

And that was why Gróin died. Unable to bear the thought of living without his wife, he'd faded away, leaving his children behind. Anger squeezed Glóin's heart. Why had Adad left them? He said he'd loved them. Didn't he love them enough to stay with them? If he was alive- if he was alive, the guilt and worry eating his youngest and tormenting his eldest wouldn't be existent.

Seizing the comb, he hurled it across the room. It clattered onto the table, sending Sannith's beads scattering on the wooden floor.

If Amad hadn't died, Gróin would still be alive.

But she was his mother. The woman who'd protected him, cared for him, comforted him, done her best to be fair when disciplining him, she'd loved him. And he did love her. It hadn't been her fault. His poor amad.

Kneeling by her side of the bed, he clumsily grasped the thick blanket and drew in a ragged breath. Memories of peeking up at his sleepy mother and demanding cuddles assaulted his mind and this time, the sobbing was real.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered, trembling as he gripped her side of the quilt. "Please forgive me, I'm so sorry..."

A large pair of hands grasped his shoulders and Glóin nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning swiftly, he noted, with some relief, that it was simply his cousin who had decided to grab him with no forewarning.

"Easy, lad. It's alright..."

"D-Dwalin." Glóin murmured. "I threw Amad's comb."

He sounded so miserable when he confessed this bit of information that Dwalin didn't have the heart to tease him about it. Instead, he growled something about Sannith understanding and let his cousin hang tightly onto him as he tried to get his breathing under control.

"I- I knew, Dwalin. I knew. I knew he knew them, I'm sorry..."

"Shh. Breathe properly before you try talking." Dwalin instructed, though he was interested in his cousin's words. "That's it, breathe."

"He said he knew them, I'm sorry, I should have told you, I'm sorry."

"Shh. Don't speak, breathe."

"Dwal', I'm sorry..."

"Shh. Breathe for me, little cousin. That's it, take it slowly, now.."

One of Glóin's hands was firmly entangled in Dwalin's hair. As his cousin began to calm, Dwalin sincerely hoped he wouldn't get so agitated that he'd start pulling on it. Patting his back, he sat back and waited until the only sounds in the room were of deeper, slower breaths, keeping an eye on the bed beside them. Both his aunt and uncle had passed away in this room and Dwalin had a suspicion that this was what had inspired Glóin's honesty to him.

"Do you have anything to tell me, little cousin?"

"I saw him a f-few days ago..."

"By him, you mean Fóli, yes?"

"A-aye. He said he kn-knew them, but c-couldn't stop them."

"How did he say he knew them?"

"He..he didn't say how, he just said he knew t-them."

"Right." Dwalin was quiet for a moment, rubbing his cousin's back, allowing him a few moments of peace before speaking again. "Why didn't you say, lad?"

This question certainly had an effect. Glóin shuffled a lot and probably would have tried to run had Dwalin not been holding him.

Honestly. Some things never changed.

"I know I should've, but didn't want him to get in trouble."

Dwalin frowned. "Glóin..."

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Dwalin didn't quite know what to do, other than think about the information he'd just received.

He didn't doubt his cousin's apologies, not for one minute. Glóin wasn't the type to apologise unless he absolutely meant it, which had proved something of a blessing and a curse in the past.
Still, he was unhappy. He'd known what that bastard had been getting up to and refused to say anything. What if other babes or children had been taken?
He could see why, if he tried. Fóli was a friend, a close friend. What if Zérid of the Guardsmen, his own close friend, had been involved? If his and Glóin's lives were swapped, he could see why Glóin had chosen silence.

Dwalin sighed. If only Uncle Gróin and Aunt Sannith were still around.

"Dwalin, he said there's lots of them."

Dwalin blinked. "Lots? How many is lots?"

"Hundreds maybe. He said they were like a kingdom."

'A kingdom'?

"I see. Look at me." Slowly, bright black eyes met sharp brown ones. Dwalin carefully flicked a strand of red out of his cousin's forehead. "Are you sure there's nothing else he said?"

Glóin nodded, jogging the strand back into place. "There was nothing else, cousin."

"You did well, lad. I know it was hard for you to say."

"I should've said before.."

"Stop now. What's done is done and we know now. No harm has come from it. But in future, you must say if there's anything not right. Promise me."

"I promise you."

"Good. Up with you. I have to see Thorin.."

"What for?"

"He'll need to know, laddie. Come, I'll take you to your brother.."

"Will Prince take my hair?"

"No! Why?"

"Traitors get shorn."

Oh. Dwalin bent and brought their foreheads close. "You've betrayed nobody, little one. Do you understand me?"

"But I didn't tell anyone about him."

"I think there's another reason along with your misplaced loyalty. What did you think Fóli would have done if he knew you were going to tell?"

Glóin's brows knotted together in thought and suddenly widened. "I don't think he would've wanted to hurt me."

"Thieves," Dwalin said, trying in vain to keep his voice gentle, "have no honour. For them bonds, whether of friendship or family, are easily broken. I think you knew this deep down and that's what kept you quiet."

"I really thought he was a good person."

"Never mind, eh? You know the truth now. Come on, let's find Óin..."

About a quarter of a mile away, Olùmil watched Dori doze next to his mother who stared into space, her large hands clenched together.

"Iddy? Are you going to bed?"

"I keep thinking."

"What about?" Olùmil asked, sitting beside her.

"Dróri."

Olùmil tried not to sniff and waited for her to continue.

"There's just something about this that reminds me of him."

"There was a lot you didn't know about him, wasn't there?"

"I certainly didn't know he was going to steal my son."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not thinking. I'm contemplating."

"What are you contemplating?"

Idùzhib's rose-pink lips set in a straight line. "Whether or not I should pay Fóli a little visit."

Unknown to the two, a small figure was currently running through the streets, a scarf of soft purple covering his face, a cloak of dark purple softly batting the ground. Ducking behind a barrel, the figure focusing a pair of beryl-green eyes at two dwarves in the distance.

"...Go and see Fóli, see if he'll confess to anything."

Softly, the hidden figure followed the two, silently unsheathing a jagged knife.