/THE HEART OF EREBOR\

ACT IV

-The Long Road Home-

Chapter 35

Farewell to Rivendell

With a final tug, Kíli cinched the last strap on his pack tight, and determinedly resisted the urge to take it all out again and make sure the Arkenstone was still sitting where it ought to be sitting and that he hadn't forgotten anything vitally important. He'd already done so twice, leading a frustrated Fíli to abandon him with the threatening declaration that if Kíli did not soon follow he would send Dís to sort his troubles for him. Heeding his brother's words, he let the straps slide through his fingers this time, only to find that, when freed, they immediately found their way back to the brooch pinned to his collar.

Fíli was right, he knew. Right that he was worrying over things that had not even happened yet. Right that he was not alone in this. Right that Thorin needed them both. Right that Erebor would be new and strange and difficult for all of them. Right that the responsibilities Thorin had asked him to carry were nothing more than his birthright. Heir or not, he was still a scion of the royal line, bound by all that entailed, a servant to his people and his king.

Fíli was right, and Kíli hadn't been wrong, even if he had not been dutiful, but that did not make the memory of the Company's slowly dwindling faith in him hurt any less. It didn't make the stinging words that had been thrown at him any lighter a blow. He wanted to go back to the mountain. He wanted to make this right. He just didn't know if he could.

Frustrated, unable to settle his agitated thoughts despite how easily Fíli had calmed them a short while before, he tore his hands away from the emblem to dash them through his hair instead, freezing when his fingers touched on the other symbol of his lineage he wore. Slowly, he loosened the clasp from his hair, lowering it into his line of sight as his fingers traced the fine etchings that adorned the silver bauble. An heirloom of the House of Thráin, once Thorin's, gifted to him as proof he had been forgiven, accepted, loved. Thorin had trusted him to carry it even after he stole the Arkenstone, and now his uncle was entrusting him with a greater burden. He had thought it almost a cruelty at the time, and it was only now, as he called to mind the vivid memory of the day when Thorin had tucked that clasp into his hair and drawn him back into the family he had once thought lost to him forever, that it dawned on him the wealth of faith that had gone into the gesture.

It was like locking the last piece into a puzzle. Turning a key in the lock. Something rose, shifted, and settled in the back of his mind, and he closed his fingers about his clasp with fresh determination. He could bear disappointing the Company, his people, and every other dwarf lord in Middle Earth, but he would not fail Thorin. One step at a time, Fíli had said. He could manage that. He would manage that, no matter how difficult facing his past mistakes might prove to be.

Resolve made, he hefted his pack and slung it across his good shoulder, marching out of the room with his head held high. Following the path he knew his brother would have taken he made his way outside, only to pause, staring in astonishment, at the sight that greeted him there.

The normally tranquil courtyard had been transformed from its usual, calm state into a flurry of frenzied activity. Mounts were being saddled, wagons packed, and everywhere Kíli looked someone seemed to be knee-deep in preparations of some sort. Directly across from him, near the top of the steps leading down into the lower gardens, he could see Elladan and Elrohir in the midst of a lively conversation. Closer, sheltering next to the sturdy bulk of one of the wains, was his own brother. Feeling out of place with just his single bag slung across his shoulder he picked his way down the steps into the throng, moving forward in wavering steps that kept him clear of the elven warriors hurrying about their business until he reached Fíli's side. Adjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulder he leant back against the wagon's wheel, watching the proceedings with an air of complete bewilderment.

"What on earth is going on?"

"We are to have an elvish escort, apparently." Fíli seemed more amused than confused. "Elladan and Elrohir are traveling to Lothlorien to visit their grandmother, and their journey just happens to coincide with our impending crossing of the High Pass. If you ask me, I think they're just bored, and Lord Elrond is perfectly content to get them out from underfoot."

"And the extra wagons?" Pulling himself up the railing of the cart, Kíli tapped on one of the covered bundles loaded inside.

"Food mostly, I think." His brother's expression sobered slightly. "Elrond was concerned we might not have sufficient provisions to last the journey and any troubles we might encounter, on the road or when we arrive. It is a generous gift."

"Yet you don't sound pleased." Kíli studied his brother's discontented expression for a moment, then admitted defeat. "Why?"

Fíli tilted his head, offering him a long-suffering smile. "I am contemplating the best way to tell Uncle he needs to thank Lord Elrond for all his help."

"Oh." Kíli pulled a face. "Can't we do that?"

"We could. But it would mean more coming from Thorin, and Erebor would not suffer from an alliance with Rivendell. There was a friendship between our two realms in grandfather's time, and I do not think Lord Elrond would object to forging another."

"But Thorin might."

"So you see the reason for my dilemma." Fíli grinned at him. "Any suggestions?"

"Get ma to do it," Kíli fired back quickly, earning himself an unimpressed look from his brother.

"You are no help at all."

Laughing, Kíli let his gaze wander, settling at length on the ponies Bilbo and Thorin had brought with them. The humble creatures looked small and scruffy next to the grand elven mounts, but that thought soon slipped Kíli's mind as he counted them, then turned, frowning, to his sibling. "Where are you riding?"

"On one of the wagons, I expect." Fíli shrugged. "Ma won't let me ride, and to be honest I am not at all sure that I could. Once we join the others we'll be traveling slower. I should be able to walk some of the way at least."

Kíli chose not to point out that the mountain paths they were taking would be difficult to navigate by wagon. That, though they were allowing a few extra days to take the easier route through the Pass, there would still be places where a walking climb was necessary. Where mounts would have to be led and carts pushed. Fíli already knew those things, was probably more aware of them than Kíli was, but was simply determined they would not become a hurdle. Determined he would not let them.

"We could always ask the stone giants for a lift again?" he suggested aloud, and Fíli snorted.

"No, thank you. Nearly becoming a Fíli shaped smudge on the side of the Misty Mountains once was more than enough for me. You are welcome to try it yourself, though."

"At least you would have left an impression."

Fíli lunged and, laughing, Kíli slipped beyond his reach. Then, after a second's thought, out of his cane's reach as well. Fíli brandished it at him instead, like the old gaffer Bilbo had told them about who spent much of his life chasing children out of his yard. Fortunately, before Kíli could make that comparison out loud, his attention was drawn by a commotion at the other end of the courtyard. Hooves clattered across the stone surface as a small group of riders approached the assembly, milling in an orderly fashion on the outskirts . Too distant to make out any faces, Kíli nonetheless recognized them.

"It's Alatair," he informed his brother, whose view was partially blocked by the readied wagons. "He's returned at last. I am going to speak with him."

Not waiting on Fíli's reply he began to weave his way back across the distance, reaching the ranger patrol just as their captain dismounted, and Eldalil's voice sounded out in welcome.

"Alatair! It is a blessing to see you at last." Drawing nearer just as Kíli did, the elder ranger's smile dropped away, replaced by a look of consternation. "You do not look at all well, my friend."

Eldalil was right, Kíli realized in alarm, as he finally pushed his way to the front and caught sight of the swaying man. Alatair was pale and gaunt, the strength and sureness with which he had carried himself at their last meeting replaced by a lack of steadiness and a certain haggard air.

Nevertheless, he waved away Eldalil's concern, offering all three of his recovered men a smile. "I am fine."

"He isn't."

Belatedly, Kíli realized that Alatair was not the only member of his company to have dismounted. Another ranger he did not recognise, shorter than most of his compatriots and with eyes of pale green in the place of grey, stood a step behind the captain, strategically positioned to catch the man should he fall.

"Faeron," Kilarin greeted the newcomer. "I am surprised Lord Halbaron could spare you."

"He couldn't," Alatair interjected immediately, with a glare at his warden. "But my brother is a ceaseless worrywart who at times forgets I am a Captain myself and have not needed a babysitter in some years."

"Says the man who decided a virulent fever was not enough of an ailment, so tried to get himself decapitated as well."

"Decapitated?" Ranlóm exclaimed in alarm, paling himself.

"Faeron exaggerates," Alatair assured him at once. "The blade barely touched me."

With a look of disapproval fit to adorn the highborn features of Lord Elrond himself, Faeron skewered his brother with his eyes, and Alatair hastily seized upon the first available distraction.

"Master Kíli! It is good to see you again. How fares that brother of yours?"

"Right here," Fíli spoke for himself, having made his way across the courtyard at a more sedate pace than Kíli. "Hale, hearty, and still in possession of my head."

"So I see," Alatair answered, a spark of mirth in his eyes. "Ready for the road as well, it would seem. We saw a caravan of your kinsmen headed East. Are you bound in the same direction?"

"So long as Uncle does not get lost again," Kíli chipped in. "What about you?"

"Alas, I am merely here to rid Lord Elrond of three nuisances," Alatair gestured at his men, who looked utterly untroubled by being addressed in such a way. "My company and I are at the tail-end of our patrol, bound for home, and so I thought it best to collect my missing comrades, lest their wits depart from them completely in boredom."

"That would necessitate having wits in the first place," Eldalil quipped. "Which, I can assure you, neither of these youngsters do."

"As you are losing yours with every day that drags you nearer to senility, I will forgive you your words." Kilarin retorted, before switching his eyes back to his leader. "Are we to leave at once, Captain, or will you stay for a decent meal?"

"I rather fear we do not have the time for such luxuries." Genuinely regretful, Alatair shook his head. "Though I do have a message for Lady Gilraen."

"In that case you have time for a bite to eat," Kilarin decided, seizing the older man by the shoulder, whilst Ranlóm fell into step on his other side, ushering him away before he had a chance to make a word of protest. Eldalil, for his part, lingered, taking a step closer to Faeron and speaking in what was not quite low enough to be an undertone.

"Fever?"

"The worst I have ever seen. It has been like wildfire," Faeron answered with the same quiet timbre. "Many of our best healers took ill trying to save the sick. Not all recovered."

"What of Nárran and Ana?" Ignoring the fact he may well be stepping into a private conversation, Kíli asked after the two who had tended he and his kin so diligently. Nárran was the reason his brother still stood beside him, the thought of him departing to then die of a winter illness…

"Nárran was well when last we spoke," Faeron, choosing to overlook the interruption, offered him an answer. "Ana as well, though she was nursing a wolf-bite, and none too happy to be doing so."

"A wolf-bite?" Fíli queried dubiously. "I did not think the wild packs were bold enough to attack settlements?"

"They are not, usually," Faeron allowed. "But much of their hunting ground was wiped clean by the presence of wargs in the Wilds last fall. They were hungry and desperate, and they were willing to risk our swords for a chance at our livestock." Reflectively, he added, "It has been a hard winter for all who dwell in Eriador."

"Those are not the words of a man who carries good news, I think." Uncharacteristically sober, Elrohir stepped forward to make himself a part of the circle. "Though, with you, my friend, it is not always easy to tell the difference."

"Alive and able." Despite the grim news, Eldalil still mustered a weary smile. "Those are the two things by which our dear Faeron chooses to measure the day. As Alatair seems to be both, I find myself rather agreeing with him. He is fine, and you should stop fretting."

Faeron met that accusation with a bland lift of one eyebrow, which Eldalil answered with a clap on the shoulder that was both rebuke and comfort, then followed after his three comrades. Left alone with the dwarves and Elrohir, Faeron chose to address them properly.

"So, you are the dwarves that ensured Alatair's last endeavor ended with such excitement."

"Kíli…" Beginning what was their usual greeting, Kíli then handed the reins over to his sibling.

"And Fíli…" his elder brother added, before they both bowed in practiced tandem.

"At your service."

"Faeron, of the Dúnedain , at yours," the man replied with a dip of his head. "I believe we have you to thank for the recent decline in the goblin population."

"That wasn't intentional," Fíli said as Kíli nodded, remembering their time spent racing around the warren of the goblin caverns. The only thing he had been focusing on at the time was getting back out again, and he was fairly certain he was not alone in that respect. "And really, Gandalf was the one who killed the Goblin King."

"Perhaps. But if you think I am thanking a wizard for preventing trouble rather than causing it then you are not as clever as Alatair painted you to be. Besides, I am certain he did not tear a swathe through the hordes alone."

"We may have had a hand in that," Fíli admitted.

"Or three or four or thirteen pairs," Kíli finished for him.

"Indeed." Faeron's lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile that never eventuated. "Well, whether you meant to or not, you have played a part in making the road East a safer one. Continue to achieve results such as that unintentionally, and I am certain Alatair will be glad to tell the tale of how he saved the heirs of Durin's Eldest Line from death." He turned, as though to leave it at that, but then caught himself on his heel and swung back to add a parting remark. "Though, I would count it as a personal favour if you ceased dragging Wargs with you everywhere you go."

It took Kíli a moment too long to come up with a fit retort for that, and the man had already walked away to rejoin the rest of Alatair's company before words found their way onto his tongue. Beside him, Fíli made an odd little noise, head tilted to the side.

"I had almost forgotten how lucky we are," he murmured.

"Lucky?" Kíli questioned, only for Fíli to turn to him gravely.

"We had Ered Luin. We don't get sick. I don't remember ever going hungry. We were lucky, Ki."

"The same might be said for those who dwell here in Rivendell, or any of the settled places in the world," Elrohir answered him. "But fortunes rise and fall, and the hour of the Dúnedain is yet to come."

"You say that like you know something," Kíli said, giving the elf a searching glance.

"Perhaps I do." Elrohir's smile was secretive and mysterious and infuriating all at once. "But I am not about to share it with you, Kíli Kinsaver, so point your scowls elsewhere."

"Speaking of scowls," Fíli interrupted. "There is Uncle." He turned to Kíli, then, with a rueful look of one about to commit to an act they knew was foolish but meant to carry out regardless. "Time to poke the sleeping dragon."

~The Heart of Erebor~

The Healing Halls of Rivendell had a strange scent, one that was both sweet and aged, sorrowful almost, as if the rooms remembered the broken lives that had passed across their threshold, and those that had never left. It invoked a solemn serenity, a sense that to disturb the tranquillity of this place would be an act of sacrilege, so Thorin's tread was soft and measured as he paced the pristine corridors, in no hurry to reach his destination for more reasons than one.

Beside him, Fíli kept pace, his gait surprisingly smooth despite the cane that tapped against the stone floor with every second step. Fíli, who had, to Thorin's mingled amusement and consternation, wasted no time in wielding the authority of his new rank. He could not deny the merit in his nephew's argument, however, nor argue against the need for action on his own part. He had… amends to make here.

Erebor's loss had devastated his people. Those who had survived had fled with nothing to their names, some without even clothes upon their backs, for those had burnt away to ash. Dale could not have provided aid even had they wished to, Esgaroth had cut their bridges and hidden in their homes in the hope the lake would save them, and the elves… the elves had turned their backs without hesitation. Had not thrown even a paltry loaf of bread to their unfortunate allies, a betrayal Thorin had neither forgiven nor forgotten to this day.

But Lord Elrond of Rivendell was not King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and he did not deserve the vitriol Thorin had so readily directed his way. The half-elven lord had opened his house to Thorin and his kin, providing food, lodging, and safety without any expectation of repayment. Had saved them from the jaws of death twice now. Had tended to his injured nephews as diligently as any dwarf healer would have, and had, perhaps most admirably, never once responded to Thorin's hostility with like words. Where Thranduil had turned his back, Elrond had been nothing less than munificent, and Thorin suspected the hardships of Erebor's exiles would have been greatly eased had it been the Lord of Rivendell watching their plight from the clifftop that day.

At the time of their first meeting, he had used the fact that Thror had not spoken of the elvish lord as an insult. It had not been until much later that he realised the implications of Thror's dismissal of so valuable an ally. His grandfather had never mentioned Elrond's name, had never thought to ask for aid when his people had lingered on the brink of starvation and despair. Elrond would have provided it, of that Thorin was now certain, and, though some might have explained Thror's decision not to seek succour as the result of Thranduil's betrayal, the unfortunate truth was his grandfather had simply not had a thought to spare for his people's welfare. He refused to make that same mistake. No matter the blow it would be to his pride, he would make his parting properly this time.

Reaching the doorway to their destination he slowed to a halt, giving himself a moment to examine the scene laid out before him. The room Lindir had directed them to was the heart of the Healing Halls, that in which the various implements and medicines by whose aid Elrond conducted his sanative work were prepared and stored. Thorin had lingered there before, had even watched the master healer at his work as he waited to see its benefits manifested in his nephews' wellbeing, but it was not Elrond's hands sifting through the various herbs and tinctures today. Rather, that task seemed to have been appointed to his human ward, who worked with the admirable diligence of determined youth, following the soft-spoken instructions of the Lord of Imladris with a sureness and deftness that suggested a long practiced routine.

Not for the first time Thorin found himself wondering at the circumstances that had brought a human child into a realm of the Eldar. The way in which the rangers had been received in Rivendell spoke of the good relations between the elves and the Men of the West, but the child named Estel was more than just an honoured guest beneath Lord Elrond's roof. The boy dwelt here, and had done so for quite some time if the ease with which he carried himself around the Valley's other inhabitants was any indication, safely protected by borders that admitted no evil.

Such protection was rarely offered without cause, he knew, and the fact Estel was the sole child sequestered within Imladris, away from his kinsmen and the homes his people had made for themselves in the Wilds, spoke of the value placed upon his life. The boy was important, draped in a shroud of fate and a burden of destiny he did not yet know was his to carry, left instead to the freedom of his childhood years. He had not yet been forced to bid farewell to innocence, a virtue whose remaining vestiges had been torn away from Thorin's nephews, and had thus been the perfect balm for wearied spirits and scarred hearts.

It was difficult to dwell on the shadows of the past when enmeshed in the bright world of a child, a lesson Thorin had learnt through experience, and a gift that his nephews had been granted without either they or the one giving it knowing.

"Lord Elrond." Fíli slipped past him to announce them both with a polite bow, a gesture that earned him an amused glance from the elven lord, who was no doubt calling to mind the numerous occasion on which his guests had not been so courteous.

"Fíli." Setting aside the bottle held in his hands, Elrond continued, "I did not expect to see you willingly set foot in these rooms again. You left them with such haste the last time you were here."

"I had other places to be," Fíli excused himself, with a sheepish glance at his uncle. "I'm sorry. Are we interrupting?"

"Not at all." Turning, Elrond laid a hand on his pupil's shoulder. "Come, Estel. We shall continue this lesson at a later time. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hunt down your brothers for me and make sure they are not causing Lindir too much grief with their preparations."

"Of course, Ada."

With a curious glance Thorin's way, Estel gathered up the books scattered amongst the various herbs laid across the table, then bowed politely and excused himself from the room. Left with his nephew and the Lord of Imladris, Thorin hesitated, searching for something politer to say than the sharp words swarming at the tip of his tongue. Fíli, after glancing his way hopefully, let out a silent sigh that was betrayed by the drop of his shoulders, and spoke to fill the silence.

"We have come to offer our thanks for all the assistance you have provided," he began, voice one of humility, every word sincere, his eyes never leaving those of their host. "I know I speak for more than just myself when I say there is no way we can truly thank you for all you have done for us. My brother and I owe you our lives and more, a debt I hope it may one day be within my power to repay."

"A healer does not count the lives he saves as currency loaned and later returned, Master Dwarf," Elrond replied. "It was within my power to help you, to not do so would have been nothing less than shameful."

"It is a pity." Finally having found his voice, Thorin answered before Fíli could. "That not all your kin share such noble sentiments."

Elrond gave him a shrewd look, taking his time before offering his reply. "Not all my kin have weathered the sorrows of the ages intact. Darkness leaves its mark on all beings in Middle Earth, and it is not a stain that is easily washed away."

Despite the promise he had made his nephew on the way, Thorin bristled. "You would excuse Thranduil's actions?"

"No." Sombrely, the elf lord shook his head. "I regret them, just as I regret all the evils of this age, and those that passed before it. Just as I fear those that have yet to come. The darkness that plagues this world is one your people have endured with fortitude, but you would do well to remember, Thorin, son of Thráin, that not even the hardiest of beings can face every hardship alone."

Ignoring the reproachful look that Fíli was giving him, Thorin retorted, "Why is it that elves can never offer their wisdom in simple words?"

"Why is it that dwarves can never accept the wisdom of others with grace?" Elrond countered, and Thorin beat down the absurd urge to smile.

"We have our own wisdom," he said instead. "Wisdom that says a true friend, once found, is not to be forgotten. Fíli is right. You have our gratitude. Perhaps, one day, the ties that once existed between Erebor and Rivendell will be forged anew. Until then, I would have us part on good terms."

"You have the goodwill of this realm, Thorin Oakenshield," the Lord of Imladris replied. "But tread warily on the road home. There are powers at work that only mean you ill, and they have been thwarted enough times to make the danger all the worse. I would not see the King Beneath the Mountain felled before he ever had a chance to come into his own."