If the sound of thousands of voices and the clashing of weapons fills the air, Fíli doesn't hear it. His heartbeat pounds in his skull and thunders in his ears, and combined with his own ragged breathing, it drowns out everything else. He's so tired, he just wants to lie down and sleep...

No, he thinks. Can't.

Thorin's there. Thorin needs him.

The battle below isn't over, not yet, but at long last the hill is won. Fíli sags, falling to his knees at his uncle's side. Kíli limps over, one hand covering the gash in his thigh. Thorin coughs harshly as Fíli lifts the torn edge of the chain mail over his chest. Fíli can feel the blood drain from his own face as Kíli inhales sharply. The wound...

Fíli tears his eyes from it, unable to look any longer. It's beyond any healer's skill, and Fíli grinds his teeth together. The pain in his heart is like a rabid beast, mindlessly ripping its way through his chest. He fights the sob that's choking him as Thorin smiles.

"Is it over?" their uncle asks.

Fíli nods.

"Then it is done," Thorin rasps. Kíli shakes his head, vehemently denying the inevitable.

"I'm sorry," Fíli says. "We failed you."

"No, Fíli," Thorin whispers, and sorrow threatens to overwhelm the eldest prince. "The choice was mine, as are the consequences."

He turned his head, gazing at the front gate of Erebor. "I have honored my promise. The mountain has been reclaimed...but not for me. It was for you...it was always for you."

"Uncle!" Fíli says urgently as the light in Thorin's eyes fades.

Thorin exhales.

Kíli roars in anguish.

Fíli sits back on his heels, numb.

Thorin son of Thrain is gone.

Fíli son of Dís is king.

A gentle hand shook Fíli's shoulder, pulling him from the nightmare.

"Wake up, lad," said Oín. "Kíli says it's time for your medicine."

Fíli rolled into a sitting position, groaning over his stiff muscles and the ache in his chest. He swallowed the medicine with a great deal of difficulty, his throat raw and aggravated by the action. A chill made him shudder. Oín eyed him critically, laying a hand on his brow.

"You're burning up. I'll make you some tea."

Fíli gripped Oín's sleeve as the old dwarf stood. "Let me tell Thorin."

The physician frowned, but he nodded. Kíli dropped down beside him then, bowl of stew in hand.

"Hungry?"

Fíli recoiled, his stomach rolling at the thought of eating. "Not really."

Kíli shrugged, digging into the stew. "Suit yourself," he said goodnaturedly. "There's plenty more when you want it."

Golden light filled the room, and Fíli frowned at the windows. "What time is it?"

"Dunno," Kíli said around a mouthful of potato, "late afternoon, early evening, I think. You've been sleeping all day."

Fíli pinched the bridge of his nose. He slept so much lately, he wouldn't need to do so again for weeks. He couldn't stand feeling so useless and burdensome. They were short enough on time as it was, and they certainly didn't need anymore complications to muck up the quest. But...Fíli was beginning to realize just how much of a complication he was, and as Thorin sat down in front of him, that fact became crystal clear.

"Fíli," Thorin said with a smile.

"Uncle."

"I'm glad you're awake. We have much to discuss. Durin's Day is the day after tomorrow, which leaves us little enough time to find the hidden door. The bargeman has offered us passage to the far shore, and though it took some bargaining, he has agreed to take us tonight."

"What about weapons?" Fíli asked. "Supplies?"

Thorin was shaking his head. "We don't have the time to bargain with these men for supplies, and if what the bargeman says about the Master is true, there's no use even trying. He'd lock us away sooner than help us, and it's a risk we can ill afford to take. The bargeman has gone to see to some supplies, but we will have to see about weapons when we reach Dale. Perhaps there will be something that we can salvage."

It was a small hope, and a desperate one at that. But then, the quest itself was a desperate hope in and of itself, wasn't it? Fíli sighed. An already impossible task was being made even more difficult. Thorin was still speaking, laying out plans and explaining the details of their departure, with Balin and Dwalin adding bits of information here or there. Oín caught Fíli's eye as a cold chill shook his body. Fíli's heart sank, and his chest tightened even more, threatening to squeeze a cough from his lungs.

He took a steading breath. "I can't go with you."

Silence. All eyes were on him, and Fíli met their stares with sorrow and regret.

Kíli was first to break the silence. "What are you talking about?"

The cough overcame Fíli's resistance and tore from his throat. He felt old. His body ached all over, his head pounded painfully, and he was very, very tired. In spite of the fact that he'd slept all day, it wasn't nearly enough. He'd pushed himself too hard - the escape, the exhertion of the route to Bard's house and the brief swim in the icy lake water - it was too much, too soon.

"The lad is seriously ill," Oín said, summing up Fíli's condition with such simple words.

"I'll only slow you down," Fíli rasped as the coughing subsided. "And you certainly don't need me waking the dragon prematurely."

"No, he can do it," Kíli said indignantly.

Thorin pressed his lips firmly together, shaking his head.

"Thorin, we can't leave him behind! I'll carry him if I have to!"

"Your brother knows his limits, Kíli, and we have never known him to back down from a challenge," Thorin began. "If anything, he often pushes himself too hard."

"Then I'm staying, too," Kíli said, and the words left his mouth in a hurry, as if he was afraid that if he didn't say them fast, he wouldn't say them at all. Fíli gripped his brother's forearm.

"Kíli, you don't have to," he said gently. All those stories, all of Kíli's dreams over the years, they were all centered on Erebor. Fíli couldn't let him give up something that important. Conflicted, Kíli glanced from his brother to Thorin, but their uncle raised his hands.

"The choice is yours alone."

"You should go," Fíli insisted with a forced smile. "You belong with them. I'll be alright."

Kíli looked down at him, and Fíli saw that the conflict was gone. "No. I belong with my brother."

Later, while they waited for Bard's return, Thorin and Dwalin stood to the side, watching Fíli and Kíli as they chuckled with Bilbo over some inside joke.

"D'ye think it wise?" Dwalin asked. Thorin glanced at his cousin and lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

"They are old enough to know their own minds, Dwalin. They have been for years. I must admit that I'm actually relieved."

"How so?"

"I thought I lost them once," Thorin said. "I'm in no hurry to do so again."

"They're capable, Thorin. More than handy in a fight! I might even go as far as to say that they're better than us, if it didn't wound my pride," the burly dwarf said with a chuckle.

"I know that. I do not doubt their skill. I just..."

Thorin's voice trailed off, his brow furrowed. Dwalin waited, knowing that he would continue when he was ready.

"This was no life for them. I only wish I could have shielded them from all of this. And I am ashamed...ashamed that even now, if Fíli was well, I would lead him to the mountain in spite of my feelings."

"You have only ever done your best, Thorin."

Thorin exhaled heavily. "And it was never enough."

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Bard slipped inside. Instantly, the little one room house was bustling with activity. The dwarves and Bilbo gathered what few possessions they'd managed to keep on their persons during their imprisonment in Mirkwood while Bard tensely watched the street outside. The sun was beginning to set, making the light uncertain. It was perfect cover for the Company to slip back to the barge, and Bard urged them to hurry before they missed their chance.

The dwarves and Bilbo made much more hasty goodbyes than they would have preferred, though Thorin lingered longer than even Bilbo. He took each of his nephews into his arms, pressing his forehead to theirs.

"Rest," he ordered, and his voice softened as he added, "and join us when your strength returns."

Fíli and Kíli nodded, and Thorin moved to clasp forearms with first Oín then Bofur, both of whom had elected to stay behind with the lads. Finally, he encompassed them all with a fond look.

"Look after one another," he requested. They nodded.

"Be careful," Fíli said thickly.

Thorin smiled. "I will."

Then he slipped out into the growing dark.

Before following the graying dwarf outside, Bard was surrounded and fiercely hugged by his children. "I'll be back before morning," he promised. "Help our guests in any way you can."

Turning to the dwarves, he said, "My home is your home. If you need anything at all, let the children know."

"We can't thank you enough," Oín replied as he shook Bard's hand. "May fortune favor you and return you home in safety."

Bard nodded, accepting the blessind, and he took his leave.

"Now then, lad," the old physician said crisply as he turned to Fíli. "Let's get you to bed. You need some sleep, warmth, medicine, plenty of fluids..."

Fíli smiled as Oín prattled on, and he allowed Bofur and Kíli to guide him away from the door.

A few hours later, Fíli could not sleep. Kíli lounged on a chair beside the bed, puffing at his pipe - the one luxury the elves had allowed him to keep. Smoke rings lazily drifted to the ceiling, and though it was calming him a great deal, Bard's children remained tense. From what Fíli had gathered, a strict curfew was enforced at night. Citizens weren't allowed to go outside the town after dark, and none were permitted entrance before dawn. Breaking curfew was apparently quite a serious offense, and the children were justifiably afraid for their father. If the Master of Lake-town truly hated Bard so much, it was the perfect excuse to lock him away...and the blame would lie squarely on the shoulders of Thorin's Company. Fíli shook himself free of such brooding thoughts and caught Bofur's attention.

"Uncle Bo," he said with a discreet nod toward the children, "I just can't seem to fall asleep. How about a story?"

Interested, Tilda glanced over. "Aren't you too old for stories?" she wondered. Sigrid shushed her, fearing that the dwarf might take offense.

Bofur grinned at them both. "You can never be too old to hear a good story," he said pleasantly. "Let me see, now. 'Many years ago, in a land far to the west, there lived a dwarven lass with a beard longer than the trees are tall...'"

Fíli settled deeper into the pillow as the familiar tale flowed from Bofur's lips like a song. The telling of tales had always been unique to the dwarf who spun them. With Bofur, they tended to be comic love stories. When Dwalin told tales, epic fights and feats of bravery were the focal point. Bombur's stories always evolved, never playing out the same way twice. Balin's versions had a habit of being more fable than fanciful, usually focusing on flawed heroes who learned hard lessons. Thorin's words usually called forth warriors and rulers of times long past. Real life heroes of ancient history were brought to life again as Thorin recounted the details of their heritage. Some of it could be pretty dry to listen to, but there were some parts that Fíli and Kíli had enjoyed and reenacted with the greatest of enthusiasm. Dís' tales were always full of adventure and discovery, inspiring her little boys even as they dreamed.

After a several minutes of Bofur's story, the girls and even Bain were engrossed, leaning forward in the seats and eager for every word. Oín checked the dressings on Fíli's wounds in the background, making sure that the bites were free of infection and healing well. As the younger dwarf's skin continued to heat up, the elder applied cool, damp cloths to Fíli's forehead and buried him beneath blankets, attempting to draw the fever out.

The children became sleepy. Kíli continued to puff quietly on his pipe. Bofur ceaselessly wove his tale over them all. Fíli drifted off to sleep with a smile still on his face, but when morning dawned, Bard still had not returned.