"Papa."

"Fíli."

Zefur smiled at his son's expression. Question time. Fíli took questions very seriously, and it was best to answer as honestly as possible. One of the lad's best qualities was knowing when an adult was lying to him. Understanding other children was more difficult, though. He was an old soul trapped in a young dwarf's skin. Zefur patted his knees and held his arms open. Fíli accepted the invitation, hopping up on his father's lap and settling against his chest. He held a few strands of twine in his hands, weaving them into a slim band.

"Who is that for, I wonder?" Zefur asked, though he knew full well.

"Kíli."

"Ah. I think he'll like it."

"Me too."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Fíli spoke again.

"Papa."

"Mmhmm?"

Fíli's fingers stilled. "What is 'wreck lass'?"

Zefur nibbled on the inside of his cheek, considering.

"Is it a word?"

The boy nodded.

"Hmm...do you mean 'reckless'?"

Again, Fíli nodded. "Yeah, that. What is it?"

"Doing something and not caring about the consequences."

Fíli's mouth twisted. Usually the big 'c' word meant no dessert or going to bed without dinner.

"But Kíli's not that."

Zefur grinned a little, knowing that Kíli could be very reckless indeed. "Who said he was?"

"Ori's mum."

"Pfft!" Zefur struggled to calm himself. Fíli's bluntness certainly kept him on his toes. "You don't think he's just a little bit reckless?"

Fíli shook his head. "Kíli's just wild...like your animals, but he thinks real quick before he does things. It just doesn't always go like he plans."

Zefur smiled, proud of his little boy's insight. "You know something, laddie?"

"What?"

"I think you're right."

Fíli burrowed deeper in his father's arms and smiled into his broad chest.

"...Fíli?"

"Papa."

Zefur smiled at his son's perfect imitation of his own voice. "What exactly did Kíli do?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Well, we were teaching Ori how to swim when Kíli wanted to see who could hold their breath the longest, and..."

Zefur couldn't help but chuckle over Fíli's opening sentence. He could already see where this story was headed.

Steam rolled across the surface of the water. Wavelets lapped the rocky shoreline. Songs of mourning lifted from the throats of the people of Lake-town.

Emptiness. Such emptiness as Fíli had never felt before was a yawning cavity in his chest. It was better than the guilt and the pain...wasn't it? No...the void inside him was too silent, too terrifying. He reached out for the pain, cradling it close as one would a child. It was tangible. And though it suffocated him, it grounded him, even if only for a few moments. His mind drifted. He was dazed...numb. The sun appeared at some point, as did a vial in his hand.

Fíli stared at it, seeing it but not seeing it. When was the last time he blinked? His eyes were sore...dry. And very tired. A hand tipped his head back, another guiding the forgotten vial to his lips. He swallowed automatically, unaware of his own actions.

Kíli.

Like lightning, the name sprang to his mind, striking his heart and making him flinch. Mum. What will I say to her? Do I have the courage? Too painful. The numbness returned, the cycle repeating itself again. Yet underneath all the pain and guilt glowed a small ember.

Hope.

Kíli could hold his breath for ages. At least, that's what he told himself to keep from giving in and blacking out, drowning in the depths below what remained of Lake-town. Fire and debris were everywhere. There was virtually nothing left of the settlement above, but the amount of wreckage littering the lake made it near impossible for Kíli to find a way out. His lungs screamed for relief.

Air! the blood in his head pounded relentlessly. Air, air, air!

It was too much. Kíli clawed for the surface, breaking through with a gasp that choked him violently. He tried to stay afloat as he caught his breath, but he'd never really mastered the technique. The strong flap of wings overhead made him slip beneath the surface again in a panic. Had Smaug survived somehow? Kíli had heard that the fire drakes were cunning. Perhaps his plummet to the lake had been a trick of some kind?

A gigantic shadow passed low over the surface above, and Kíli's heart galloped. Smaug is looking for survivors. Just when he thought he was safe for a brief moment, huge talons snatched him up like a fish out of the lake, and he struggled uselessly in their grip. He looked up and was greeted not by the sight of a massive scaled underbelly but that of chocolate colored feathers instead. An eagle's call split the air.

Thorin strides toward an ornate throne. A thick robe edged with dark fur drapes around his shoulders, and his step is confident and full of sacred purpose. Dwarves kneel on either side as he passes, dwarves who have come from all corners of the land. Balin stands before the throne, eyes shining with emotion, his smile bright as the sun. Thorin kneels before him, and Balin raises his hands above his head, a crown held aloft in his fingers. Ancient words flow from his mouth, echoing around the seemingly infinite throne room. When he is finished, he places the crown on Thorin's head and steps aside.

"Arise, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!"

Cheers erupt from all gathered, and the king stands, moving forward and up the steps to the throne, above which glitters the symbol of his authority: the Arkenstone, most precious of gems. He sits, and the chant is taken up.

"Hail, Thorin King! Hail, Thorin King! Hail, Thorin King!"

Thorin smiles, bowing his head deeply in gratitude to his people. Kíli stands at his right hand, shouting as loud and louder than the best of them. A circlet rests on his brow: the symbol of Erebor's Crown Prince. A great feast follows, and the dwarves celebrate with abandon. After much food and drink, Kíli excuses himself, and his mother kisses his cheek. She understands.

Kíli wanders down deeper and deeper into Erebor. He follows one of the few paths lit by torch light, and finally he arrives at a set of large double doors made of stone. Two guards stand to either side, but they do not ask his business. He comes here every day. Pressing a hand to one of the doors, it swings easily inward as if made of the lightest material. He steps forward, walking down a hallowed hall of sleeping heroes and ancestors.

His feet know the way.

At last, Kíli's footsteps cease to echo. Before him is a sarcophagus carved from the bones of the mountain itself. A statue of a dwarf lies above it, hands clasped over his chest as if in peaceful slumber. Every braid, every feature and every detail has been lovingly carved. The likeness is so flawless that the dwarf's lips curve in a soft smile, dimples deepening ever so slightly. But then, Kíli expected nothing less of Bifur's remarkable skill.

Kíli presses his forehead to the statue's a sad smile on his lips. He takes a deep breath, struggling to speak around the lump in his throat. So many times he's found himself here in the past several months since Erebor was won, yet every time is as difficult as the first.

"Hey, Fíli," he begins, and a tear spills over his carefully constructed wall of calm. "Sorry I kept you waiting, brother."

Fíli woke with a shuddering breath. It should have been me. His shoulders shook. His hands trembled. He must have passed out. With a little sleep, his vision was clearing some, the fog lifting slightly from his mind. He looked around for the others. Kíli - his mind still stumbled over the word, his heart still stuttered in pain - would not have wanted this for him. What would he want?

Fíli glanced at the charred remains of Lake-town. Smaug was dead. What had happened to Thorin and the rest of the Company? Were they alive? Had Smaug...? Fíli couldn't finish the thought. The very implication that he might have lost most of his family in one day was too much. Fíli had to reach the Mountain.

He rose on unsteady legs and moved to where Óin and Bofur stood. Bard and Bain were there with Sigrid and Tilda, and the family members were laughing and hugging each other with an enthusiasm which suggested that their reunion was quite a recent development. As Fíli approached, Bard explained the dragon's demise. Smaug's impenetrable hide was flawed. There was a chink on the left side of his jewel encrusted chest. Bard climbed to the top of the bell tower with Bain, and though it had seemed useless at the time, he'd retrieved his bow and quiver of black-shafted arrows. After several attempts, the bowman's arrow found its mark and the beast was slain.

Bard glanced at Fíli as he fell silent. Taking note of his shadow's absence, he asked, "...Kíli?"

Fíli's eyes hardened, and the others looked swiftly away.

"I'm sorry," Bard said softly. "I didn't realize."

The dwarves mutely acknowledged his apology.

"What will you do know?" the dragonslayer inquired.

Clearing his throat, Óin looked to Fíli. The younger dwarf glanced from him to Bofur and back again. They didn't say it out loud, but Fíli knew what they were thinking. If Thorin was gone, as the dragon's presence suggested, Fíli was now the leader of the remaining Company. He looked to the Mountain, expressionless.

"We're going to Erebor."

Bard nodded.

Fíli glanced again at the smoldering town and its shaken survivors. "If my uncle lives," he said in a tired voice, "then I have not the right to offer you the shelter in the Mountain. But make your way there with the rest of the refugees and seek the aid of the King...whomever he may be."

Fíli didn't want to think about the fact that that king may very well prove to be himself, but the reality of the situation was undeniable. Bard seemed to understand his somewhat vague statement.

"Aye. If fortune favors us after today, we will meet you there...and thank you. My children and I are in your debt."

Fíli accepted Bard's gratitude and shook the man's hand firmly. "Farewell."

Bofur, Óin and Fíli walked until mid-afternoon, and the lake was finally behind them when Fíli called for a rest. He sat with eyes wide open, terrified that he might doze off and suffer more nightmares. He didn't want to be brutally reminded over and over again of how he'd failed his family. Thorin told him once that a king is often forced to make impossible decisions in desperate situations. Fíli had hoped that those decisions would never involve his brother, but Elrond had been warning him all his life that they would. Still, that persistant flicker of hope stubbornly refused to go out in his chest. He stared back at the lake, torn.

He couldn't handle not knowing for certain. He was making up his mind to go back when the cry of an eagle pierced the sky. A dark brown shape shot towards them. Fíli recognized Baranthor instantly, and his heart stopped altogether when he heard a sound he thought he'd never hear again in this life: Kíli's infectious laughter.

Baranthor swept out of his dive. In the brief moment when he hovered just above the ground, he released his dwarven cargo. Kíli touched down in full sprint and careened to a stop just before he was tackled by his brother. Fíli clutched him to his chest. Kíli was confused until he realised...

"You thought I was gone."

Kíli hugged Fíli fiercely. Mahal. The torment that Fíli must have endured...the emptiness that Kíli knew he'd have felt himself had the situation been reversed. All those years of fearing the worst and suffering from the nightmares only to believe that the unthinkable had actually happened.

"I will never leave you behind again," Fíli swore.

Kíli smiled. Perhaps in another life, he might have felt smothered by his brother's protective nature. But not now. Unfortunately, Fíli's euphoria was short lived, for Baranthor's appearance was not simple coincidence.

"It is not my wish to interrupt such a reunion," the great eagle said. "But I bring grave knews. The goblins of the Misty Mountains have been gathering their forces above ground. They're making for the Lonely Mountain, and the pale orc leads them."

Fíli's joy fled from the truth of Baranthor's words. "We have to warn Thorin!"