AN – This chapter makes me anxious for whatever reason so I'm just going to throw it here and run.

Big thanks to phoebe-artemis for the beta! Love you bb.

Warnings: Brief battle scene, mild panic attack (at least the beginning of one), wounded baby dwarves, a small scene that could be interpreted as child abuse? Or at least the thought of it. Technically. That makes it sound bad but it's not.

Greater than Gold
Chapter 21: Seventy and Sixty-Five
By Displaced Hobbit

He snaps awake, the last tendrils of his dream slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers. It's left him with a cold, unsettled feeling that tightens his chest that makes his hands shake. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to assess his surroundings, a technique Dwalin had taught him ages ago. The room he and Kíli share is dark, his brother's breathing deep and even with sleep. The embers in the hearth have burned low and soft, and he knows it must be nearing dawn.

With a shuddering sigh, he scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, willing the dark thoughts away and taking a deep breath to steel himself.

He slips from the bed silently, mindful of his little brother still slumbering just a few feet away. With a fond smile he adjusts the blankets from where they've gotten clumped and tangled about his feet, pulling them back up and tucking him in properly. Kíli's brow is furrowed; his lips are moving silently, and with a sinking feeling he realizes that his brother is on the verge of a nightmare of his own. He reaches down to brush a hand along his cheek, smoothing over the high arch of his cheekbone and scratching against the dark stubble that has only recently blossomed along his jaw. He repeats the soothing motion until Kíli's face relaxes and he sighs softly in his sleep, calmed once more.

He doesn't notice how the brief contact with his brother stills the trembling in his own fingers.

"You're up early," Thorin observes once he finally meanders into the kitchen, searching for something to eat.

"Mm," he hums in agreement, finding some of Bombur's apple cinnamon scones still waiting for him, a gift Kíli had brought home a few days prior. "Scout patrol leaves today," he offers as an explanation. "I want to get in some practice with my swords before we leave."

"I should think you've trained plenty enough," his uncle murmurs with a small smile, one that glimmers just so with pride. "Fíli, you are ready for this," he affirms warmly. "There is nothing to be nervous for. Dwalin is leading your patrol; he'll be with you the entire time."

He huffs softly in indignation. "I am not nervous," he grumbles.

"No? Not at all nervous for your first week-long patrol?" Thorin presses gently, giving him a knowing look as he sits beside him at the table.

"Alright, fine," he concedes. "I am a little nervous, but not for the patrol. I…it's been a long time since I've been away from home." He really means from my brother, but knows that Thorin hears it even though he doesn't voice it.

In truth, he is nervous, downright terrified even, that he will be a failure. He wants so very badly to make Thorin proud of him, to assure their people that he is worthy of his title of Prince, and he worries that his insecurities and inadequacies will come to light in the cold dark of the patrol. He doesn't dare voice these concerns to his uncle; too afraid that Thorin will see his weakness and scorn him for it.

"All will be well here," his uncle murmurs. "There is not much work to be done at the forge, and if the weather is nice enough I'll send your brother out hunting to occupy him and get him out of that wretched mood of his."

Fíli nods, but chews on his bottom lip for a moment in hesitation. Kíli has been in a horrid mood as of late, but it was only due to Thorin's refusal, yet again, to allow him to join the patrol. It had been promised to Kíli since he was small, that he would one day be the general to Fíli's prince. It was tradition for dwarflings who aimed to become warriors to join the patrol after their sixtieth year, but Thorin had denied him that rite of passage, kept insisting that he train for one more year.

With a sigh, he makes up his mind. He and Thorin have attempted to have this talk before, just yesterday, no less, and it still sits ill within him. "You could just let him join the patrol," he says calmly. "It's his duty to lead Erebor's armies one day, is it not? It's his birthright." He winces when he sees the tick in his Uncle's jaw, knowing full well that this could escalate into another shouting match.

"He is not ready," Thorin answers quickly, finality in his voice.

"You've been saying that for five years," Fíli counters quietly. "And he is ready, Uncle. He is far more ready than I ever was."

Thorin's entire body tenses as his gaze focuses on the fire burning away in the sitting room's hearth, by all appearances unwilling to hold this conversation, resolutely ignoring Fíli's observation.

"You're not ready, are you?" he asks, finally voicing the question that had been stuck in his mind for months. It didn't make sense any other way. Kíli was skilled with his sword and bow; Dwalin had said as much. As a member of the patrol, he would also learn diligence, would learn to control his recklessness and become a strong leader. There was no reason not to let him, yet Thorin still insisted.

Softness replaces the tension in his uncle's features for less than a second, before it is replaced with sternness. "He is not ready. If he still mopes about like a child at my decision, then he lacks the maturity to handle a patrol." The harshness in his tone leaves no room for argument, and Fíli sighs in resignation.

"Just…" he starts, and then shakes his head. Just give him a chance; he deserves it, he wants to say, but he doesn't want to start another argument between them, not when he's due to leave for a week, at least. "Fine," he murmurs, not able to keep the bite out of his voice.

Thorin sighs heavily. "Fíli…"

"No, it's…it's your decision," he mumbles as he stands to leave the table, deciding he will finish his breakfast later. "If you don't think he's ready then…then it's fine. But don't expect it not to hurt him." He returns his scone to the pantry, taking more haste than normal to depart their kitchen. "I'm going to go and train for an hour or so."

Thorin hasn't moved from his seat on the bench, but he nods despite the tempest of emotions brewing on his face.

Thorin frowns as he watches Fíli retreat to his bedroom to prepare for the day. His sister-son is right, and they both know it. It is not Kíli's preparedness that he doubts, it never has been; it is his own.

He'd sparred with Kíli just last week, and the lad had held his own against him, at one point had nearly beaten him, and his skill with the bow was unprecedented, virtually unheard of amongst their kin. It would do Kíli well to serve on the patrol, would teach him the diligence and give him the confidence in his abilities that he so desperately needed.

But he couldn't. Every time he found himself ready to acquiesce his youngest nephew's request, he was reminded of the horrid dreams that still plagued him, ones of his youngest nephew being ruthlessly murdered by the Defiler, or writhing in agony after being struck with an orc arrow, or being enslaved and tortured by men, and he found himself refusing.

He wasn't trying to be cruel, but Fíli, with all of his kindness and patience, would never be able to understand him in this. He couldn't. He didn't remember his brother's first days in this world; he'd been too young and swallowed whole by a grief he never should have been burdened with. He didn't remember.

But Thorin did.

He remembered being there when Kíli was born, remembered how his heart had sunk at the tiny size of the dwarfling (too small, he'll never survive the winter). He remembered sitting by and being able to do nothing but watch as his precious baby sister succumbed to her heartsickness, remembered how nothing, not him nor either of her sons, could pull her free from it. He remembered how he'd locked himself away in their spare bedroom, stricken with the weight of his loss, Kíli wailing away from his crib beside him and Fíli similarly grieving in his room.

He remembered giving up.

He'd even planned it, exactly what he was going to do. He knew Kíli was too small, that he wouldn't survive winter in the wilds, but Fíli might. He'd pack for them, bring all the food and furs they could manage, and they'd leave, just the two of them, to head south. And if Fíli couldn't make it, then…he'd have to leave him behind as well.

Then Kíli's cries, the high, thin wails that had become little more than background noise as he sat numb with his sadness, stopped. The sudden change in his surroundings snapped him out of his thoughts, and he rose on stiff legs to investigate. The lad had stopped breathing, his face reddened with the effort of trying to take in air and lips purpled. Panicked, Thorin had leapt into action, grabbing the tiny dwarfling and pulling him close, rubbing and patting his back until the blockage in his throat loosened and passed and his cries resumed in full force.

He remembered how he'd frantically worked to get the lad to calm down, how he'd fed him and soothed him until his tears stopped and were replaced with happy babbles.

He remembered apologizing to the tiny babe, over and over again. He'd been immediately ashamed of his thoughts, once his mind was clearer, that he'd even considered leaving an infant behind to starve and die, leaving Fíli alone in the cold to fend for himself. He hadn't been thinking clearly, as blinded by his despair as he had been.

But more than anything, he remembered how he finally let himself weep for his losses, and how Kíli, with his tiny, clumsy hand, had reached up and touched his face. And he found hope. He found hope, and Kíli hadn't let him lose it since.

It was Kíli who had helped pull Fíli out of his grief as well, though not as directly. Thorin had asked for his help, Thorin had told him that he couldn't do this without Fíli's help, and the little prince had picked himself up and mustered the courage to press on, to be a good brother, as Thorin had asked.

Kíli was his hope, Fíli his future, and he knew, knew without a single doubt in his mind, that losing Kíli would be his downfall. Kíli had become the glue that held their family together.

And if anything were to happen to Kíli while he was on patrol, it would be his fault. Fíli would never forgive him, and the bond that they had would surely wither and die without Kíli's spirit to hold them together. He didn't know if he could bear it. He'd let the lad down far too many times in his life.

Yet still, it was Kíli's birthright, it was his place, and to deny it from him was undoubtedly cruel, even if his intentions were to protect him. Perhaps he should reassess…the past had proven to him that Kíli had been no safer locked away in the settlement. He had no guarantee that they would be protected because there was no guarantee, none at all. Not in this world where they cowered in the sides of borrowed mountains, looked down upon and forsaken by all others. There was no safety at all for them in this world, no matter how fiercely he wished for it.

He is still lost in his own thoughts when Fíli reemerges from his room, nearly misses it when the lad bids him farewell and promises to return in a couple of hours at most.

Seeing his eldest walk out the door makes that churning, anxious feeling in his gut spurn forward, reminding him of the times he had nearly lost Kíli, reminding him that if it could happen to his youngest, so too could it happen to his heir.

He sits in silence for several long moments, in an attempt to calm the tumultuous thoughts in his mind. He knows what he needs to do. With a sigh, he comes to a decision, and rises from the table to follow it through before his cowardice talks him out of it once more.

"Thought I'd find you here," Kíli calls as he enters the training arena, smile evident in his voice.

Fíli stops himself mid-swing, turning to regard his brother as he wipes the sweat from his brow. "Look who's up before midday," he teases, earning himself a playful shove at his shoulder from his little brother. "I'd have thought you'd sleep the whole day away since Uncle gave you a break from the forge."

Kíli's nose wrinkles ever so slightly, either at the mention of their uncle or working in the forge, he isn't sure. "Yes, well, I thought I might come and see if your arse is in shape for this patrol or not," he says playfully, giving his elder brother a meaningful glace as he grabs one of the practice swords.

"What do I get when I win?" Fíli asks nonchalantly, pleased to see his brother in higher spirits, returning his own sword to its scabbard before picking up a wooden one, testing its weight in his hands and taking a few experimental swings.

"If you win," Kíli says, with a small bite in his voice, paired with an impish grin, "I've a gift for you that you might find useful on your patrol."

"Oh?" he replies, curiosity piqued. "And if you win?"

"I get a very nice gift that I'll never find useful on patrol," he says with a slight pout, but his eyes are mirthful, indicating that he's not as downtrodden as Fíli had expected him to be. It's a strange mood that his brother is in, but he does seem to be happier than he has been as of late, so Fíli doesn't fret too much on it.

"One day, brother-mine," he murmurs in a singsong reply, reaching a hand out to shake and accept the wager. "You're precious to Uncle. You know that."

Kíli snorts quietly in disbelief. "No more than you are," he retorts, turning away from him to walk to the sparring area, dragging the tip of his practice sword as he walks.

"Precious in a different way, then," Fíli acquiesces as they fall into their ready stances.

Once their sparring match begins, he finds his thoughts drawn away from his brother's slightly off-kilter behavior in favor of their mock battle. Kíli has always been faster and more agile than him, and he always needed to stay on his toes. True, a well-placed hit with his own sword would send his baby brother sprawling down into the dirt, but Fíli had no desire to win as quickly as possible today. Though,…Kíli was leaving his side open far too often for his liking.

"You're doing it again," he observes as he parries and blow and jumps back. "Leaving your left side open after you swing."

"Am not," comes the immediate denial, so Fíli ever so lightly smacks his sword against his abdomen the next time it's presented to him. Kíli squawks in indignation at the barely-there hit, dropping his guard for a split second that Fíli uses his advantage, twirling his sword just so around his brother's wrist and causing Kíli's wooden blade to come crashing to the ground as his grip falters. "Not fair!"

Fíli just gives him a wide grin. "Yield, nadadith?"

His little brother uses his speed then, rushing at him while he's left himself defenseless and tackling him into the dirt. They dissolve into nothing more than a wrestling match, much as they had when they were younger; only now, Kíli is considerably larger and puts up much more of a fight. He finds himself breathless with laughter, not minding in the slightest when Kíli pins him face down in the dirt, mirthful laughter spilling from his lips.

"Oy, get off me," he says once he manages to catch his breath. "You're heavy now!"

Kíli lets out a sound of mock surprise and moves to let him up, but Fíli only whips around and tackles him back into the ground.

"Cheater!" he shouts, though his laughter jumbles his words. "Dirty, rotten cheater!"

"Yield?" Fíli asks again, plopping himself down on his brother's chest none-too-gently, using his heavier weight to his tactical advantage.

Kíli wheezes lightly, smacking at him to get off. "Yes, fine, yield; just get off! The last time I get you scones, I swear it!"

Fíli climbs up off the ground, offering him a hand up in consolation. He half expects his brother to just tug him back down and restart their wrestling match, but Kíli just hops up with a breathless smile. "So, where's my prize?" he asks, and receives a shove in the shoulder for his trouble.

"I don't know if you should have it," Kíli murmurs thoughtfully as he returns his wooden sword to the rack, reaching out a hand for Fíli to turn his over as well. "But it's at home. Did you still want to practice more?" Suddenly, his little brother looks concerned, unsure of himself. "I didn't mean to distract you."

Fíli throws an arm around his shoulder and leads them away from the sparring ring. "Not a distraction at all," he reassures. "I was almost done anyhow. Or, I should have been at least."

"I don't know why you're so nervous," Kíli mutters, staying pressed close to his side as he wraps his own arm around Fíli's torso. "You've been off hunting with Mister Dwalin and me for longer trips."

"It's not…I'm not nervous about being gone for a while," he says, trying to find words to voice his concerns. It's more than just being away from home, and being away from Kíli. "I just…I don't know."

"I do," his brother says, almost nonchalantly. "You want to impress them. And Uncle. Don't you?"

Fíli frowns for a moment, marveling in his brother's apparent ability to read his thoughts, and nods in agreement. "I think…yea, I think that's the best way to put it. I'm…I'm supposed to be their prince. I should be someone they can depend on. Don't you think?"

He is unsurprised when his brother nods in agreement. "But you already are, nadad. I hear people talk all the time about what a great prince you'll be…what a great king you'd be after Thorin."

He flushes at that. "Do…really?"

Kíli nods. "Truly." His expression turns a little somber after, and Fíli knows, without a doubt, that he's thinking on what the townspeople say about him.

"Your time will come, Kee," he says quietly, but Kíli looks wholly unconvinced, and he can't think of anything to say through their whole walk home.

Thorin doesn't appear to be home when they arrive, for which he is equal parts relieved and anxious. They quickly divest themselves of their weapons and boots, before Kíli all but sprints back to their bedroom. With a fond smile, Fíli follows behind him. His brother is rummaging around in his chest, finally lifting up a rather large parcel wrapped in paper. Curious, Fíli strides up to him, accepting the gift as it's handed to him with a small smile. "What's this then?" he asks, reaching for the leather string tied around it.

"Told you," Kíli murmurs, somewhat shyly. "Something useful for patrol."

With childlike eagerness, Fíli tears into the parcel, revealing a fine leather overcoat. The lapels and cuffs are lines with soft grey fur, and the tan leather that makes the coat is soft and pliable. His sigil is embroidered along the hems, in a thread that's just a shade darker than the coat itself. It's ornate, but not flashy, and it's so perfectly Fíli that he has to marvel at his brother's thoughtfulness in this gift.

"Do you like it?" Kíli asks quietly, all boisterous bravado from earlier lost, hidden in the quiet insecurity that his gift isn't enough, that he isn't enough.

"It's…" he starts, flummoxed. "It's perfect. Did you make this?" he asks incredulously. He knew Kíli was skilled in leatherwork, but he'd never seen him make any clothing before.

He shakes his head. "I mean, not really? I helped tan the leather, and the fur is all from rabbits that I caught, and I came up with the design," he explains. "But I didn't…I didn't make it," he says, deflating softly.

"No, I didn't…I didn't mean it like it was a bad thing. It's…how did you ever afford this?" he asks as he shrugs his older coat off, trying the new one on for size.

Kíli brightens back up a bit. "I…you know how I was carving things for Mister Bofur all winter?" He nods, stretching his arms above his head to get a feel for the coat, smiling slightly at how well it fits, with just a bit more room for him to finish growing. "He paid me for 'em, and I used that to get you a coat."

"Kíli this is…this is wonderful, but it's too much, nadadith," he says quietly. "You shouldn't spoil me so."

His little brother gives him a bright smile, waving a hand dismissively at him. "You needed something princely for your patrol," he explains softly. "I wanted you to have something nice."

With a soft chuckle, Fíli gathers his little brother into a warm embrace. "Then thank you, nadadith," he whispers, pressing a kiss into the mess of curls at his cheek.

He's glad to see two pairs of boots at the door when he returns home; he was hoping to catch the lads before they headed off to the barracks to await the departure of Fíli's patrol. "Boys?" he calls into the quiet house, toeing off his own boots and venturing into the kitchen.

It's not a moment later that both of them emerge in the kitchen. He raises an eyebrow at the wonderful coat Fíli is wearing. "And how did you come by that?" he asks.

"Kíli had it made for me," he explains, nudging his brother in the side when he looks away, embarrassed. "It's nice isn't it?"

Thorin waves him over, inspecting the garment more closely. "That it is," he agrees. "I had wondered what became of all of those rabbits you snared in the fall," he adds, with a small smile toward his youngest. Kíli only meets his eyes for a second before his gaze falls back to the floor, a behavior that has become increasingly more common of late. "Are you all packed for your patrol?" he asks, steering the focus away from the brunet.

Fíli nods. "Aye. Kee helped me finish just now," he explains. "I'm due at the barracks in an hour or so."

Thorin nods. An anxious feeling leaps up in his chest, but he wills it down. "Kíli," he calls, frowning slightly when the lad looks up at him and resembles a small, scolded child. "You're due to report to Gloin in an hour's time as well."

Kíli brow furrows in confusion, and he immediately looks to his brother for an explanation. Fíli understands what his statement means, and his face splits into a wide smile. Realization slowly dawn's on his youngest nephew's face, and he turns wide, disbelieving eyes to him. "Really?"

Thorin smiles softly at him. "Truly."

The lad leaps towards him, throwing his arms around him and hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Uncle," he murmurs repeatedly, squeezing tighter when Thorin's arms wrap around him as well, one hand tangles in his hair to keep him close. "I won't let you down," he promises.

"You could never," Thorin affirms him softly, struggling to speak around the lump that has formed in his throat. "I am sorry I held you back for so long."

Kíli just shakes his head and hugs him tighter, just as Fíli comes to embrace them both. He catches Thorin's eye and mouths a silent 'thank you,' before pressing a kiss into his brother's hair.

It still terrifies him down to his very core, the thought of sending his boys out into the world without his ability to protect them. He just has to hope that the fates are not so cruel to rip his last, most precious gems away from him.

He was nervous to be under Gloin's supervision. He knew the warrior was skilled and that Thorin trusted him, but Kíli still couldn't shake the fear that crept up on him, couldn't stop himself from remembering what had happened the last time he'd been under the tutelage of his distant cousin.

It starts as a slight ache in his side where the arrow had pierced him, and he tries to ignore it. By the time his first training session is over, his hands are trembling and it takes everything he has to keep his wits about him. He's jumpy and flighty and hopes to Aulë that the other patrolmen haven't noticed.

He's never in any real danger – they never even leave the settlement. It's little more than practicing formations and stances and Gloin and the other officers filling his head full of protocol and information. By the time they're done, he's exhausted emotionally and physically, and he wishes fiercely that Fíli had not left that afternoon. He feels worn and spent and all he wants is to curl up in bed tucked next to his brother and go to sleep.

The other patrolmen decide to go to the tavern for a drink, and he finds himself too polite to refuse. It would be nice to see Bofur, at least. The toymaker had always been great at pulling him out of his thoughts when they drifted too dark.

He has never met most of he patrolmen before this day. He doesn't feel like he has a lot in common with the lot of them, but he does his best to be friendly and cordial. They will be his new family, Fíli had said, and he'll need to learn to trust them and rely on them.

Truthfully, he feels completely out of place with these veteran warriors, ones who have fought in real battles and have been on the patrol for years. He's the youngest by at least fifteen years, and certainly the only one who hasn't come of age yet. He feels horribly, hopelessly green and inexperienced next to them, yet also envious of how they can speak of their battles and wounds as if they do not haunt their every waking moment.

It doesn't help that some of the younger dwarrow were ones who teased him when he was much smaller, and, though he's never held a grudge against them for it, he still felt like he was under their scrutiny, like he needed to prove himself. It had set his nerves on edge from the very second Gloin had welcomed him into the patrol.

Today's training, all the talk of orcs and fighting and what to do with the wounded has drudged up too many foul memories, and try as he might, he can't seem to will them away. The ale swirling in his system makes it even worse, so he shoves his mug aside, politely refusing when Gloin offers to fetch him another. Someone laughs, makes a joke about how he must not be able to handle his liquor, and he flushes slightly with shame.

Uncle was right. He wasn't ready. Not even close.

Bofur eventually comes and sits with them, squeezing in close on the bench so that Kíli is pressed warmly against his side, laughing uproariously at one of their jokes. It comes as a tremendous comfort, and he finds it easier to listen to their stories and calm himself with the kindly older toymaker by his side. What he really wants in to curl up against the dwarf and shut his eyes tight against the world, but he knows better than that. There are appearances to be kept up. He has to be strong. He has to be brave.

"Alright then you lot," Bofur announces eventually, clapping a hand warmly on his shoulder. "Don't think Thorin would fancy you getting his nephew blisteringly drunk this evening. You've plenty more years for that," he adds with a wink. The patrolmen don't question his statement, and simply raise their mugs and bid him a goodnight. "Off you go then, laddie."

He's immeasurably grateful for Bofur's thoughtfulness and eagerly takes the escape he's given. He makes his way home quickly, wanting nothing more than to curl up in his bed with Fíli and sleep until his dark thoughts leave his mind. He thought he'd be okay without his brother for a week, but it's barely been six hours and he feels like he's starting to fall apart. He hopes that is uncle isn't at home; he feels too ashamed to face him.

Fate does not seem to be on his side, tonight.

Thorin greets him warmly as he enters their home, but his face falls immediately once he takes in Kíli's sullen expression. "How was it?" he asks cautiously.

His hands are badly shaking as he removes his weapons and boots. "Fine," he answers, cursing the tremor in his voice. He'd made such a big stink about how ready he was for the patrol, and he came home and trembling, terrified wreck. And nothing had even happened.

"Kíli," his uncle starts, and he worries that a scolding is coming. But his tone is concerned and almost…unsure of what to say. "Come, lad," he murmurs, extending an arm out to embrace him.

He hesitates, not wanting to seem weak, but he knows Thorin is a seasoned warrior, knows that his uncle might have an idea of how to help with his newfound problem. He tucks himself up against his uncle's side, sighing with relief when Thorin hugs him tightly, and shushes him quietly. He hates the tears that come to his eyes, hates himself for being so weak and crumbling after just one day of training.

"Come, lad," Thorin murmurs again, pulling him over to the settee to sit but not releasing his hold on him. "Hush, my boy. It's all right. Tell me what happened."

"I'm sorry," he babbles out. "I'm sorry; I just…nothing happened. I just…I couldn't stop thinking about…about before. I'm sorry." The tears fall like a flood, and he curls in against his uncle's side, ashamed at his weakness as he clutches the older dwarf's tunic.

Thorin tuts quietly. "There's nothing to apologize for," he murmurs calmly. "I should have…I should have prepared you better. I should have warned you." He cards a hand through his hair and presses a kiss against his forehead. "It…it gets better with time, Kíli. I assure you. The more you train, the easier it is to face."

"M'not ready," he whispers softly against Thorin's neck, futilely scrubbing at his cheek in frustration. "You were right. I'm not ready."

He feels Thorin shake his head before another kiss is dropped into his hair. "I should not have held you back. Had you started five years ago, this would already be easier for you."

"Can I just be on patrol with Fee? And Mister Dwalin?" he asks, feeling more like a small child than anything else.

Thorin sighs and shakes his head once more. He lets out a soft noise of protest before his uncle elaborates. "I thought hard on this," he explains. "But you have a tendency to…to hide behind your brother. To let him take the lead even when you're fully capable of doing so yourself. You…there is greatness in you, Kíli, but you're too afraid to put yourself out there and let others see it."

He's stunned into silence by his uncle's confession. Thorin has never been anything but encouraging of him, but it still comes as a shock to hear him speak of him so highly. And he doesn't quite know if he believes him or not. He's nowhere as great as Fíli is, nowhere as skilled or as brave or as strong, and he doesn't want the others in the settlement to see his weaknesses on full display. It's easier to play the part of Fíli's timid little brother; it seems much more daunting to be the second prince.

"I want you to shine on your own," Thorin concludes quietly a moment later.

Kíli frowns. "What if I can't?" he asks quietly, insecurity seeping into his voice.

"You can," Thorin assures him. "Though it will take time. There will be days when you feel like you have failed, probably like you feel today, my boy. There will be days when old hurts won't leave you alone, when others doubt you, when you doubt yourself…but you must always persevere. You can do this."

He shakes his head and curls closer to him, not wanting to trust and believe his uncle's words just yet. He thought the patrol was all that he wanted, but he feels so horribly lost, and he doesn't want to let Thorin down. He wants to be someone they are proud of, Thorin and Fíli both, but he doesn't know how, and it scares him.

Thorin's hand keeps idly stroking down his back and he starts to hum softly. The physical and emotional exhaustion of the day finally takes its toll on him, and he finds himself drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, he's still curled in Thorin's protective embrace.

It takes a few months, but they eventually settle into a rhythm. Most mornings, they both train with their separate patrols. Around midday, Kíli's patrol departs, and Fíli comes to the forge to work. In the evenings, Fíli's patrol leaves, and Kíli continues to help Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur with the tavern and other tasks they need completed. After dark, they all return home to supper, then almost immediately head to bed.

Weekends are their refuge. In the spring and summer months, the boys spend nearly every Saturday they can hunting in the woods surrounding the settlement. Fíli still has his lessons with Balin on Sundays, but their afternoons are usually free to laze about.

By fall, their routine is regular as rain, comfortable and predictable. Thorin loves watching both of his boys blossom into fine your princes and warriors, and it eases his heart greatly to see them doing so well, especially Kíli, who laughs easier again.

After the harvest, he sends Dwalin and a rather large party of their warriors on a journey to the Iron Hills in an attempt to do some reconnaissance about the dragon and to determine if Dain really was the perpetrator of the false information they'd been fed. He has hesitated to let them leave, but they haven't seen hide nor hair of orcs or goblins all summer, and the harvest has provided them with plenty of food. He had delayed on sending them out for years, too nervous to leave the settlement weakened or too unwilling to dedicate such a large portion of their resources until they were in better standing.

But the time has come. He can delay no longer. If he wants to reclaim the mountain, he will have to deal with them being vulnerable for a few months. He worries that he no longer has the luxury to bide his time and wait until the opportune moment to reclaim what was his. He needs to create the opportunity himself.

It is two weeks to the day after Dwalin leaves that the unthinkable happens.

He receives word from a very flustered Ori that the scribe assigned to the day patrol (Kíli's patrol) reports that they had come under attack by a band of orcs, and that the dusk patrol (Fíli's patrol) had been deployed to aid them.

It is as if all of his worst fears are exploding directly in front of his face. They are short staffed – by his decision – and orcs, who haven't been seen around their lands in ages, will be aiming their swords and axes at both of his sister sons.

"How long ago did the patrol depart?" he asks calmly, though he rises with great haste and sets about preparing himself to leave. If he's lucky, he won't be far behind them.

"An hour ago, sir," Ori answers, and flinches a bit at Thorin's harsh gaze. "The scribe was injured and sent to the House of Healing. The message was held up there. I came to you straight away."

Thorin softens just a bit in a silent apology. "Go and inform Balin. Let him know that I will be at the barracks forming a third party, just in case." When Ori nods and makes to leave, he adds a "thank you, lad."

He makes it to the barracks in record time, and is unsurprised to find it in a mild level of chaos. Narvi, one of the higher ranking warriors, seeks him out immediately. "The patrols were successful; the orcs are slain," he explains, and Thorin feels a great weight lift from his chest. "But there are wounded, and three dead – Farin, Náli, and Ibûn. I haven't heard anything about our princes," he elaborates, almost apologetically. "We've sent for the healers, and sent a party our to meet them."

Thorin nods and claps a hand on the younger dwarf's shoulder. "Thank you," he says, pressing further into the barracks, finding Óin barking orders as he sets up a make-shift triage to treat the returning wounded.

"What do you need, cousin?" he asks, wanting to feel useful and desperately trying to get his mind off of his unaccounted for heirs.

"Ah, Thorin!" the healer greets warmly. "I fear we will need more valerian and other medical supplies once they start arriving. Would you mind fetching them from the halls?"

He nods, eager to accept such a menial task, and all but sprints to the House of Healing with Óin's list in hand. He finds Gimli milling about, and the young lad is more than happy to help him locate all of the items he needs. "Have they returned yet?" he asks eventually, brown eyes clearly filled with worry for his father. "Uncle asked me to stay here…but I just want to know if Da is alright."

Thorin shakes his head. "They've not yet returned. I will send word to you as soon as I know anything, lad; I assure you."

The redhead nods his thanks, and the rest of their task is completed in silence.

When he comes back to himself, he's only aware of the blinding pain in his leg. It feels like it is positively on fire, and he blinks rapidly to clear the darkness from his vision as he tries to make sense of the world around him.

It all comes back in a rush.

He'd been at the barracks, wanting to get in a bit of practice before his patrol. Work had been slow at the forge, and he'd been positively annoying Thorin, and his uncle had sent him off. He'd just gotten his twin blades sharpened, and he'd wanted to test them out.

Then Grór, the scribe assigned to Kíli's patrol, had all but burst into the barracks, covered in blood and muck, announcing that the patrol had been ambushed by a pack of orcs and needed aid.

He went numb as the young scribe continued to elaborate, as he described where the attack had happened, and it wasn't until Gamil, the leader of his patrol during Dwalin's absence, sent the word to rally the dwarrow of the dusk patrol to come to their assistance.

Everything after that had been a blur. It hadn't been too far from the settlement that they'd been attacked, and they made it in record time. The fighting was still going on, and the orcs appeared to have the upper hand.

He couldn't see Kíli anywhere.

With a tremendous cry, his patrol leapt into the fray, easily catching the orcs off guard and making quick work of them. At one point, Fíli had been double teamed, and a particularly gruesome looking orc managed to slice his leg. It had hurt, but he continued to fight on. He must have lost too much blood and passed out, but he couldn't remember.

When his vision finally focuses, he's made aware of the canopy of trees passing over his head, realizing with a start that he's being carried in a makeshift stretcher.

"Kíli…" he mumbles out, worried sick for his precious little brother and hoping that he is all right. He can't have been too late. He couldn't live with himself if he'd been too late. He tries to crane his head up to see, but he can't muster up the energy to do so.

"We've almost got you home, laddie," someone above him says. "Try not to move until then."

He collapses back with a groan. Their steady pace and the rhythmic rocking of the stretcher lulls him back into unconsciousness.

When he wakes again, someone is pressing a cool cloth against his forehead, and there's the solid weight of a warm body pressed next to him. With great effort he manages to pry his eyes open, easily finding the ashen face of his uncle hovering above him, illuminated only by candlelight.

"Uncle," he mumbles, feeling heavy and leaden, but he doesn't miss the way the older dwarf's shoulders sag with relief. "Where's Kee?" he asks, his voice a pitiful sounding garble.

Underneath the blanket, hand grasps his and squeezes tightly. "M'here," Kíli groans, sounding just as wrecked as he feels. He turns his head to regard his brother, panic welling up in his throat when he sees the boy's chest covered in a bloodied bandage.

"You're hurt," he grinds out.

Kíli gives him a lopsided smile, though he can tell it pains him to do so. "No worse than you," he promises.

"You're both lucky," Thorin elaborates, removing the cloth from his brow and rising from their bedside. "Your wounds have cost you a lot of blood, but they will heal quickly. You've both got plenty of stitches, and you'll be out of training for a while."

"Don't even…'member what happened," Kíli whines softly, turning his head so that it presses against his brother's shoulder. "Haven't seen them all summer, and then…just pop up outta no'ere."

Fíli squeezes his hand back, idly rubbing his thumb across his brother's knuckles as a soft comfort. He's just as lost, just as confused. He'd thought they were safe, this was the safest they had felt in years, but it was nothing more than an illusion. Danger still lurked around every corner.

Thorin leans down and kisses both of their foreheads tenderly. "Óin will be in to tend your bandages soon," he says. "Rest. I have some things to tend to," he says. "I won't be long, my boys."

Fíli nods in acceptance, and Kíli is already half asleep as he pulls the door closed behind him. He counts his blessings one more time, grateful that his sister-sons came home alive and that they are expected to make a full recovery.

"This is bad, Thorin," Balin says. His normally stoic old friend looks visibly stricken, face pale as he reads over the cloth again. It's written in the Black Speech, but, as the intended advisor to the King, Balin had learned to read it many years ago.

"What does it say?" he asks, trepidation filling his voice.

Balin stares at the cloth once more, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's a ransom notice," he says quietly. "Promise of payment for the Heir of Durin. Dead or Alive."

It hits him like a punch to the gut. All of the breath rushes out of his lungs, and he has to grab the back of the armchair to keep himself from toppling over. Him. They're hunting him. Or worse, the lads. He feels sick at the thought. "Why?" he mumbles in disbelief. He can't imagine why the orcs would be deliberately hunting him. "What do we do?" he asks as he turns to regard his confidante, genuinely afraid.

Balin shakes his head, and, for the first time in all of the years Thorin has known him, looks completely lost. "I…I don't know."

"They know I'm here…or at least suspect," he mumbles. "They won't leave it alone until they've found me, will they?"

"We don't know that," Balin interrupts swiftly. "Our men reported that it appeared to be nothing more than a scouting party. We may have just had the misfortune of encountering them while they were headed somewhere else."

Thorin nods, desperate to believe this plausible explanation. "We…send for the Wizard," he decided, hoping that Gandalf may have more information for him from his travels. "And send warning to Dwalin. Use Khuzdul and the ravens." Balin nods in agreement. "And trust no one."

And in the course of one afternoon, his illusion of safety is shattered, broken beyond repair. There is no going back now; he must act, and act quickly, to keep his kin and his people from harm.

It feels as though all of Middle Earth is against him.

[flees into the night]