AN - Goodness, I still can't believe we have come this far.

Warnings - Some descriptions of injuries, mild swearing, goldsickness…

Eighty-Three and Seventy-Seven - Part 4

The Company is reunited in Erebor.

His consciousness rushes back to him all at one. He's blinded by the unnaturally red brightness, can hear nothing but screams and crashing, can smell the acrid smoke that sits heavy in the air.

"Fee?" he calls weakly, his throat filling with that smoke, burning. He tries to get his eyes to focus, but everything is bright yet hazy at the same time. The world seems to sway bizarrely around him, as if he's not quite on solid ground.

"M'right here," Fíli says from beside him, hand reaching down to squeeze his shoulder.

He pushes himself up so that he is sitting next to the solid mass that he presumes is his brother, cradling his head as the change in position throws his senses off once more. He tries to cough some of the smoke from his lungs. "Where are we?"

"On a boat," Fíli replies, his voice tight. "Trying to get out of Laketown."

Kíli blinks, confused. "Why are we -"

His words are cut off by a roar of wind, smoke and ash whipping up around them before he hears the terrifying screech of a dragon. The world gets brighter, hotter, and people scream.

Icy cold dread washes over him, as the brightness fades and he is finally, finally able to get his eyes to focus. The whole of Laketown is burning, its people screaming and clambering into boats with all they can carry to escape. To escape Smaug, who was clearly no longer in the mountain.

"How did...is Uncle…?" he asks, not wanting to finish the question.

"I don't know," Fíli says, voice sharp, but Kíli can hear the sadness and fear in his voice. "Have to focus on getting out of here for now."

Kíli nods, taking Fíli's cue and swallowing the fear he feels. He sits up straighter, focusing instead on getting his wits about him once more. He is seated toward the back of the boat, sandwiched between Fíli and Bofur, who are paddling swiftly. Oin is seated not far ahead of him, and Bard's children are near the front of the boat. The redheaded elf from Thranduil's halls stands at the stern.

He frowns, trying to piece together the fragments of memories from the past day. Or days? He doesn't know. The last thing he clearly remembers is Oin tending to him after Thorin...after Thorin left him behind. Then there was just pain and Fíli's voice. Then brightness. Then nothing.

"She healed you," Fíli says quietly, following his gaze. "You were...you were dying, and she saved you." His voice cracks as he speaks, and Kíli feels suddenly very guilty that he put his brother through so much.

Yet, he doesn't understand. Why would the elf help him? She was one of Thranduil's guards, she had thrown them in cages. He starts to voice his question, but Smaug rushes past them again, spitting fire throughout the city. The screams intensify; he feels sick as he realizes how many people are dying.

And it was their fault, wasn't it? It must have been the company that had roused the dragon. Thorin had hoped that the signs they'd read had meant that Smaug was dead, withering away in the mountain. But they were wrong; so very wrong.

And what had become of the company? Of Thorin, and Dwalin, and...and everyone? His mind fills with every possible scenario; the throbbing in his head intensifies.

"Da!" Bard's son yells, standing up suddenly and swaying their boat, pointing to the top of the bell tower. "There! He's up there!"

"What is he doing?" the littlest girl asks.

Kíli focuses his gaze on the bowman, eyes widening when a whiff of smoke wafts away and allows him to see more clearly. "He's shooting at the dragon," he says, disbelieving. Smaug swoops low again, giving Bard another opportunity. The arrow strikes it's mark, but ricochets harmlessly off. "He hit it!" he shouts, equal parts impressed with the bowman's aim and elated at the prospect that he could bring the dragon down. That there could be an end to this reign of terror.

The elf looks back at him, expression schooled into blankness. "It is useless," she says. "His arrows cannot pierce its hide; I fear nothing can."

"A black arrow could," Oin says, casting a meaningful glance at Bain, who nods in understanding.

They pass under a bridge, several ropes hanging from it. Without hesitation, Bain grabs one and hoists himself up, gathering momentum to swing himself closer to the pier.

"Bain, no!" one of the girls screams. "What are you doing? Come back!" She reaches for his leg, but only grabs empty air before he swings again, letting go and arcing through the air to land gracefully on his feet. He bolts across the pier and jumps onto a nearby boat, searching for a moment before triumphantly raising a black arrow.

Gasps fill the boat at the prospect; if he could get the arrow to Bard...

With an encouraging smile aimed at his sisters, Bain takes off down the path, heading for his father.

"We have to wait for him!" the younger girl says, turning imploring eyes to the elf. "We cannot leave him here!"

She shakes her head. "We cannot wait. We must get you to safety."

Kíli swallows a thick lump in his throat and presses closer to his brother. Bain's sacrifice for his sisters pulls at his heart, because he knows that if it meant Fíli's safety he would do the exact same thing. He glances at his brother's face and sees that he is thinking the same thing, knows because Fíli is chewing at his lip the way he does when Kíli suggests something selfless or reckless (or oftentimes, both).

He tries very hard to ignore the fact that there are tears streaming down his brother's face, feeling completely and utterly useless.

He can't breathe.

All he can do is stare, open-mouthed, as Smaug unleashes wave after wave of fire upon Laketown. Upon the lads. The lads. Who he loved as though they were his own sons. Who he prayed to every deity he had ever heard of that they were not presently choking on smoke and ash. A crueler part of his mind keeps reminding him of Smaug's wrath an age ago, of the screams of their people, the heat of the flames. He had been lucky to escape, that was all. Sheer, dumb luck. And after all of the tragedies that had befallen the line of Durin, he was certain the lad's luck had run out.

Despondent, Dwalin hopes that the dragon will finish his rampage soon, then come back to kill the lot of them. It is all that he would deserve; he had failed. He was supposed to protect them, to protect Thorin; he should have stayed behind with them. He should have...

"Poor souls," his brother utters from behind him, breaking his spiraling thoughts, and Dwalin can hear the thickness in his voice, the unspoken fear he doesn't dare say aloud. Gloin and Bombur sit next to him, the latter weeping.

There is nothing they can do to stop Smaug. And they are the ones who unleashed him.

"What can we...is there nothing we can…" Bilbo falters over his words as he paces, fretfully wringing his hands before he plops unceremoniously onto the ground and covers his face with his hands. Dwalin pities him. They coaxed him from his warm, comfortable home and thrust him into...this.

Dwalin finally releases a shuddering breath. Thorin. He cannot let Thorin lose himself in fear over the lads. He turns, searching the company until he finds him, back propped against a jagged piece of stone blown loose by Smaug's exit, eyes staring off into the distance, not at the lake, nor at Erebor. At nothing.

As he gets closer, he sees that Thorin is crying.

He doesn't try to offer any words of consolation, because he knows he has none. Instead, he just stands beside him, shoulders close like they were children again, close enough that he can feel how Thorin's own shake almost imperceptibly. Close enough that he can hear the shuddering breaths he takes.

"I left them to die," Thorin says after a while, voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

"You don't know that," reminding himself as much as his king. "They're smart. Resourceful. They may find a way out. They may have already left." His voice is shaking, so he takes a breath to steady himself. "We don't know, Thorin." He feels a few of his own tears slip free. "We just don't know."

Thorin laughs, humorlessly, tucking his chin into his chest and screwing his eyes shut. "How ironic," he mutters. "I said nearly the same to Fíli when his father was unaccounted for in the mine."

And just like that, Dwalin wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. He is trying to think of what to say, of how to reassure his oldest friend when he himself doubted the words, when the ground rumbles beneath their feet.

"What was that?" Gloin asks, jumping to his feet. "What happened?"

"It...it fell," Bilbo says, disbelieving. "I saw it. The dragon fell!"

Dwalin rushes back over to them, watching for fresh streaks of dragonfire, hope blossoming in his chest when there are none. It seems impossible, but…

"It's dead. Smaug is dead!" Bilbo says, pointing to where an eerie ball of steam seems to rise from the lake. "They killed it!"

"By my beard…" Balin utters. "He's right! Look! Ravens are returning to the mountain!"

They erupt into a chorus of joyful shouts, a mess of warm bear hugs and renewed faith. If Smaug was dead, maybe the lads had something to do with it...maybe that had escaped, maybe all was not lost after all. He looks back at Thorin, hoping to see his friend's confidence restored. His stomach sinks.

Instead of joining them in celebration, Thorin's eyes are fixed on the mountain.

"I hadn't had the chance to thank you," he says as he approaches the elf, feeling rather small and uncertain. She is off to the side with the elven prince, who last time Kíli had encountered him held a knife to his throat. He wasn't keen on repeating that scenario.

They were upon the shore of the Long Lake, the still-burning ruin of Laketown in the distance. The air smells strongly of smoke and death; around him the survivors are sorting provisions, pulling their less-fortunate kin from the icy waters. He swallows thickly, fully aware of how easily he could have been one of them. How he should have been one of them.

The prince gives him an annoyed look, but the redheaded elf turns to him, offering a soft smile. "You needn't thank me," she said kindly. "It was the right thing to do." He's not certain, but it seems like the prince stiffens when she speaks.

"Still," Kíli says, "our company did not leave your lands on...good terms. I would not think Thranduil would-"

"I am not Thranduil," she says sharply.

"Tauriel," the prince interrupts, his tone a warning. "Take your leave of the dwarf."

"I saw when you were wounded," she continues, ignoring her prince. "It was a noble thing, to risk yourself for your company. Though, a bit reckless."

Kíli flushes. He hadn't thought his actions were particularly heroic. "It was...it was the right thing to do," he says softly, and she smiles as he echoes her earlier words.

"Perhaps I merely hold esteem for others who would strive to be so honorable with their actions," Tauriel says with a mirthful smirk. "But, we have dallied here too long. We must continue to track the orcs. And you," she said, looking over his shoulder to where Fíli was helping Oin and Bofur ready their boat to carry then the rest of the way across the lake. "You must rejoin your kin."

He manages a small, hopefully grateful smile in return. If I have any kin to rejoin, he thinks, the cold uncertainty sitting like a stone in his gut. He is dreading what they will find once they reach Erebor.

"I suspect our paths will cross again, Master Dwarf," she says sharply, though not unkindly, before turning on her heel to rejoin the prince.

Kíli heads back to their boat, walking slowly. Fíli is discreetly watching him (well, Fíli thinks he is being discrete, but Kíli can feel his concerned gaze on him with every step he takes), probably making sure that he doesn't push himself too hard again. He hadn't given it yet, but Kíli knew his brother had an entire lecture prepared for him after what happened in the armory. He had pushed himself too hard, even when he had promised he wouldn't, and Fíli never forgot a promise, no matter how small.

"Can I help?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"I'd much rather have you sitting with that leg up, laddie," Oin says. "I know proper rest is in short supply, but ya' still need to heal."

Fíli gives him a knowing look, gesturing at the boat, then offering a hand to help him in. "We're almost set to leave anyhow," he offers in consolation, nodding to someone over Kíli's shoulder.

Bard makes his way through the throng of survivors, seeking the dwarves. "Are you sure we cannot offer you any more provisions?" he asks. The bowman had insisted on seeing them off with food and proper weapons, as a thanks for seeing his daughters safely out of the ruined city.

"You have many more mouths to feed here," Fíli says. "We will manage."

Bard nods. "I suspect we will make for Dale; it's the closest place we will find shelter," he says. "Though I wager we will be several days behind you. If you have need of me…" he hesitates for a moment, looking uncertain.

"Speak your mind," Fíli says, sternly, but not harshly. Thorin-ly, Kíli thinks. Kingly. Was Fíli the king now? He swallows thickly, trying to steer his thoughts into a different direction.

"I do not know what has become of the mountain, or its treasures," the man says finally. "But I do know that we will not survive the winter with the rations we have. A bargain was struck between Thorin Oakenshield and the people of Esgaroth. If he has...perished..."

Fíli nods in understanding. "Thorin gave you his word, and I will give you mine in his stead," he says quietly. "Even if all we can offer you is shelter. We will aid the people of Esgaroth."

Bard looks relieved, but Kíli feels sick at the thought. There may very well be nothing but ruin in the mountain. He's tried very hard thus far to keep his mind from wandering to that dark, terrifying place. He's suddenly anxious, hoping they will depart soon. He just needs to know. He needs to see Thorin, to feel the warmth of his embrace, to be united with the rest of the company. He doesn't think he can bear the thought that his last moments with his uncle were so fleeting, that he hadn't been able to say goodbye properly.

"Try not to fret, laddie," Bofur says, seemingly reading his mind as he joins him in the boat. "Keep telling myself that they're all just fine, thinking we've all burned to ash. Everyone worrying over nothing," he chuckles lightly, but there are tears in his eyes. "Won't know until we know," he adds as an afterthought, almost sounding like he's trying to convince himself.

Won't know until we know. Kíli repeats it to himself, trying to internalize it.

He watches as Fíli shakes Bard's hand, trying to catch his brother's eye as he makes his way back to the boat, but Fíli doesn't look at him.

"Come on, let's get moving," he says as he sits, passing the second set of oars to Bofur.

"Fíli," he says quietly, reaching out to grab his brother's knee.

"Not now," Fíli says, finally meeting him with watery eyes. "Please."

He can only nod.

Bofur pretends not to notice when Fíli and Kíli slip away from the fire and disappear behind the battered remains of a wall. He had been certain that Kíli's death was imminent, and having known the lads as long as he had, he knew it would be Fíli's undoing to lose his brother. He sighs heavily, his mind replacing Kíli's ashen face with Bombur's, and he fills with despair.

What of Bombur? Of Bifur, of the Company? What would they find when they reached the mountain? His stomach churned at the thought of it, cursing himself for being so pissed the night before their departure. He hadn't even said goodbye.

"I'm trying not to think of it myself," Oin says quietly, eyes on the fire but seemingly reading Bofur's thoughts. "Can't help it, though."

Bofur only manages to make a grunting noise deep in his throat. He can't form words. If Thorin and the rest of the Company have perished, then Fíli was his king. He knew as much; it was in the contract. And he would be proud to call the young lad that, but he knew it would absolutely crush Fíli to fill the role that was meant for Thorin.

The only sound is the crackling of the fire, as if the whole world is holding its breath to see what happens next.

"Thorin," Dwalin tries again, calling into the cavernous ruin of the Great Hall, where Thorin still searches for the Arkenstone. "You must rest."

His only reply is a gruff jumble of words he can't make out.

With a sigh, he descends the stairs, treading carefully over the piles of gold and rubble to reach Thorin. It has been days of this, days of constant searching. He is certain Thorin hasn't slept once, has watched his oldest friend's behavior become more erratic. In his heart, he knows. He knows it's the start of the Goldsickness. But Thorin isn't lost to them yet, and Dwalin will fight with everything he has to keep him here.

"It has to be here," Thorin says, voice haggard. "They will come soon. Men. Elves. Dwarves. They will come seeking the treasures of the mountain, and if I do not have the Arkenstone, I cannot stake my claim. It has to be here…"

"We will keep searching, Thorin," he placates. "But you must eat and rest, my friend. You are no good as our king if you work yourself to death searching for it." He reaches for Thorin's arm, intending to guide him to sit, but Thorin snatches it away as though he's been burned.

"No!" he shouts, glaring at Dwalin. "No. I will not rest until I find it." He kicks through one of the piles of gold coins, eyes frantic. "I will not let this quest that took my sister-sons from me be in vain."

"There's no news from Laketown, Thorin…"

"Then if they are alive I will not let them fall back into a life where they have nothing!" Thorin shouts. "I will not let them be penniless beggars, wondering when their next meal will be. I will not let that be their life again. I cannot."

He struggles to form his thoughts. He needs to get Thorin to rest, needs to help him see reason, but he cannot think of what to say. The longer they've been here, the more manic Thorin has become. He prays that the lads are alive, that their presence will help Thorin see reason again.

Sounds of commotion echo through the halls, interrupting his thoughts. He tries to make out the words, but there is too much reverberation against the stone. With a sigh, he heads back toward the staircase, intending to return to the ramparts, when Ori bursts through a door.

"There you are," he says breathlessly, before casting a wary glance toward Thorin. "Someone is coming. Bilbo say them from the rampart."

Dwalin feels a cold weight settle into his stomach as Thorin laughs humorlessly behind him.

"I told you," he says darkly. "I told you they would come. Nine dwarves and a hobbit are not enough to defend these halls; I must find it…"

Dwalin tries his best to ignore his worry for Thorin as he heads off after Ori.

No one speaks as they make their way to the mountain, for which Fíli is immensely grateful. Too much has happened, and he needs this time, this monotonous walk, to clear his head. To make sense of things, as best he can. Before...before they find whatever it is they will find up the mountain.

He'd gone from being terrified of losing Kíli, to accepting his brother's imminent death, to accepting his own end, to being awed by healing magic, to escaping the city,, to being fearful of what has happened within the Lonely Mountain, to speaking with Bard as though he were the king, as though his word meant something…to being back on course for the mountain, all within the span of a day. A single day.

Frustrated with himself, he brushes a tear from his cheek, resolutely focusing on the mountain ahead.

They'd stopped for the night near the overlook of the ruined city of Dale, so that Oin could tend to Kíli's leg and to give them a chance to rest. It was incredible how quickly the elven magic had healed him, how much had changed since Kíli had lain on the table, ashen, barely drawing breath, seemingly lost to this world.

He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hand, hoping to rub that image away. He cannot forget it, even when he looks at Kíli seeming just as healthy and able as he's ever been, he keeps seeing it. Every time Kíli stumbles on the scree of the trail his heart leaps into his throat, fearful that he has fallen, that the healing magic hasn't banished the whole of the poison from his body. That it would rear up again and take Kíli from him for good this time.

Even as he'd fallen asleep the night before, with Kíli's warmth pressed against his side, he'd dreamt of it, over and over.

What unsettles him more, though, was that once he had accepted that Kíli was going to die, he wasn't afraid of Smaug's rampage. He wasn't afraid of his own death. To be honest, it had felt almost like a blessing. It wasn't until the elf arrived, until she had healed Kíli, that he had even begun to think about surviving Smaug, and even then he was mostly driven by his need to save his brother. Because what was life for him without Kíli?

It was nothing. There was nothing left for him if he lost his brother. No throne, no amount of gold, no kinship, nothing would fill the hole left in him if Kíli were gone.

He wonders if that was how his mother had felt when his father had died. Though he'd never say it aloud, he'd always been a little hurt, a little bitter that he hadn't been enough for her to carry on. Thorin had explained heartsickness and soul bonding to him, trying to help him understand, but he could never work his mind around it. He was her son; he should have been enough.

Fíli had considered it himself, long before he overheard the conversation in which Thorin and Dwalin pondered if he and Kíli were soul bonded. He knew it was rare for siblings, but he'd also known for a long time that Kíli was more precious to him than anyone in this world; they were closer than any pair of brothers ought to be. And every time Fíli had tried to distance himself from Kíli it was agony, but they always found their way back. Kíli could read him better than anyone, and Fíli could do the same. There was a deep and powerful love between them, that bound them to one another. Two halves to a whole.

It just made sense.

Now, after everything that had happened on this godforsaken journey, he was certain of it. There was no Fíli without Kíli. They were FiliandKili. They always had been. If the agony he had felt when he'd thought Kíli was lost was even a fraction of what his mother had experienced when his father died...well, he could not fault her for slipping away from this world to be with him again.

He wondered if Kíli knew. Probably, he thought. His brother was always more in tune with his emotions than Fíli was, and less inclined to speak about it if he thought it would be something Fíli would fret over. He may have been the older brother, but Kíli was always watching out for him.

They reach the top of the incline they've been climbing as they follow the crumbled road from Dale, and he stops dead in his tracks.

The front gate of Erebor stands before them.

Fíli lets out a tiny gasp of surprise. He's never seen anything so grand. Even in all of Mr. Balin's books, the sketches that he'd seen - it was more beautiful than he possibly could have imagined. The whole front of the mountain face is ornately carved, with numerous balconies and windows linking the mountain to the world outside. Massive, detailed carvings of dwarven warriors flank the gate.

The gate, which is completely smashed from Smaug's escape.

"By my beard," Oin says softly. "Cannot believe I've made it back. After all these years." There are tears in his eyes, and Bofur claps a hand warmly on his shoulder.

"All the stories I've been told doesn't do it justice," the toymaker agrees as he regards the gate with wide eyes.

Kíli's shoulder brushes his. "We're actually here," he says breathlessly. He reaches for Fíli's hand and squeezes.

For a long moment, no one speaks and no one moves. They all know they're standing on the precipice, that once they step into the halls of Erebor everything will be different.

"Well," Bofur says eventually, patting Fíli on the back as he passes him. "Come on, lads."

Bilbo lays back on the damaged rampart, relishing in the feel of the warm sun on his face.

He had not fancied his time stuck inside the mountain, less so when he found himself negotiating with a dragon intent on eating him. He can still smell the smoke in the air, but it is better than the dragon-stench that lingers in Durin's Halls.

The dwarves were discussing strategy amongst themselves, making preparations and planning for how they could restore the great halls to a more liveable situation. Thorin was worried that news would spread of Smaug's death, and that other unsavory folk would seek to claim the mountain for themselves. Bilbo had taken his leave then, when Thorin had shifted his focus to searching for the Arkenstone, and he had felt the dwarf's eyes on his back the entire time.

He could feel the weight of it tucked inside his overcoat. Smaug's taunting about Thorin and a goldsickness had unsettled him - was the dragon right? Was Bilbo worth nothing to Thorin in comparison to the Arkenstone? He didn't want to be hasty and hand it over to him just yet. It wouldn't hurt for him to give it a day or two, to see if Smaug's words were true. He would pretend to find it, and no one would be the wiser.

Already, Thorin seemed changed, almost as if he were at war with himself. He had seemed devastated when Smaug launched his attack on Laketown, but once the dragon was dead, his focus shifted solely to the mountain and defending it. He did not speak of Fíli or Kíli or Bofur or Oin. None of the dwarves did, lestwise not in Thorin's presence. In private, they mourned and hoped in equal measure, emotions swinging like a pendulum.

It was more than Bilbo cared to dwell on. Kíli and Fíli had both been so kind to him, as had Bofur, and Oin had tended to his every bump and scrape with the utmost care. And the company was like a strange little family...it would be devastating to lose any of them. Dwalin had offered to head back to Laketown, to see if there were any survivors, but Thorin forbade it, saying that his place was within Erebor, fortifying it for when they came.

Bilbo swallowed thickly, telling himself again that Thorin was just paranoid, that his way of grieving was to pour himself into his next task, focusing on the road ahead until he knew what had been left behind.

He sighs, sitting back up. Bombur would be setting up for dinner soon, and Bilbo had offered to help, because while he didn't know much about grand halls or treasures, he did know about food.

He brushes off his trousers as he stands up, leaning on the smooth stone of the wall and taking in the valley below. Esgaroth still smolders in the distance, thin curls of smoke spiraling up into the clear blue sky. A pang of loss fills him; he worries for the dwarves, yes, but also for the people of Laketown. For Bard, and his children. He hopes for news soon, perhaps from Gandalf when he finally rejoins them.

Oh, wouldn't Gandalf have been useful when dealing with Smaug.

Just as he is about to head back inside, he spies something moving on the path to the gate. He squints against the bright sun, wondering if it was just a trick of the light or an animal, but no, he is certain there are people trudging up the path to the mountain. He's not sure whether to be hopeful or afraid, but settles on hope.

"There's someone coming!" he calls down into the halls as he rushes down the steps to the ruined gate.

The light blinds Dwalin for a moment once he bursts from the halls, but once his gaze focuses again, he sees what Bilbo saw - four figures, making their way up the path to the Lonely Mountain.

He swallows thickly, tightening his grip on his axe. He had given Thorin his word - he would defend the mountain with his life if needed. He grits his teeth, hoping that this will be a time for celebration instead of a time for fighting. He wants to shout their names, to call out to them, but he won't until he's certain. They could be scouts from those who sought the mountain, who could benefit from knowing the names of their missing, using them as leverage to stake their own claim.

When they'd left Laketown, he'd been terrified to think that he would not see Kíli again. Then once Smaug escaped...he was certain beyond certain that he would never see either of the lads again. He had begged Thorin to let him take someone down to Laketown to see, but his king had refused. They'd had a fight like none other they'd had before, not in all their years. Dwalin had half a mind to disobey him and head down the mountain himself, but Balin had talked him out of it. His brother feared that learning of the lad's definite demise would send Thorin spiraling over the edge. Dwalin didn't disagree, but he'd felt the opposite - if he could know for sure that the lads were alive, it would pull Thorin back from the brink, reminding him of the true treasures of his life.

Balin had talked him into waiting for news. Dwalin had given him three days. If there was no news by then...Dwalin would leave.

"Dwalin!" he hears from ahead, and a sob of relief bursts free from his throat when he realizes it is Fíli's voice. His axe falls from numbed fingers.

His elation spurs him into motion once more, sprinting ahead, and it's not a moment later that he reaches the lad and is gathering him into his arms in a bone-crushing embrace, so tight he can hear the air rush out of Fíli's lungs. "You're alive," he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. "Oh, thank Aule," he says, breathlessly. "Thank the Maker." He pulls away just slightly, just to look beyond Fíli's shoulder. "And the others?" he asks. "Your brother?"

"They're coming," Fíli says, voice thick with tears. "Kíli's leg is still healing. But I saw you and I couldn't…" His face darkens. "Thorin?"

Dwalin swallows. "He...we're all alive, laddie," he says, and Fíli nearly sobs with relief before embracing him once more. Over Fíli's shoulder, he sees that the rest of them are nearly there. Cheers of excitement erupt from behind him as Gloin, Bombur, and Bifur burst forward, rushing past him to embrace their kin. Dwalin follows close behind, hauling Fíli along until he finally reaches a near-sobbing Kíli and clutches him close.

"You all right?" he asks, relinquishing his hold just a bit to look at Kíli's tearful face as he nods, before Dwalin tugs Fíli back into his embrace, clutching the lads close and vowing to never let them go. "Thought we'd lost you," he admits tearfully. "Oh, lads; I thought I'd lost you."

Fíli audibly gasps when they step into the Great Hall. Gold sparkles everywhere he looks; Smaug's hoard was truly impressive. It takes a moment for him to spot Thorin as he moves through the piles of gold and jewels and finery. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, afraid of what he will find. From behind him, Kíli's hand gently touches his shoulder.

"It's…" his brother stammers, and Fíli can hear the disbelief in his voice. "This is more than I ever imagined."

Silently, Fíli moves toward Thorin, with Kíli close behind. Bilbo had filled them in on what had happened, had described Thorin's apparent descent into madness. How cruel would it be for all of them to survive Smaug's wrath only to lose Thorin this way?

No; it could not be. Thorin's love for them, and theirs for him, could not be replaced with gold, or power, or anything. Thorin had told him as much just a few days ago. They would be able to remind him. No matter how far Thorin had gone, they could bring him back. Couldn't they?

His first step onto the shifting gold coins makes enough of a sound to draw Thorin's immediate attention; his uncle whirls around, sharp eyes fixing on him, barely constrained anger clear on his features. Then, all at once, Thorin's face softens, as his eyes go from Fíli to Kíli and back again.

"You live?" he asks, voice soft, almost afraid. A lump forms in Fíli's throat, and he can only nod in reply. "My sister's sons…"

"Uncle," Kíli calls from behind him, taking a few, tentative steps forward (and of course, Fíli doesn't miss how he slips on his wounded leg, nearly losing his balance before righting himself).

"My boys," Thorin murmurs, "you live." He practically runs then, as quickly as he can across the gold, to join them. He gathers Kíli's face in his hands, stares at him reverently before pressing their foreheads together. "My Kíli," he whispers, before embracing him tightly. "And Fíli," he continues, releasing his brother to greet Fíli the same way.

Fíli feels the tears stinging at his eyes. No, they hadn't lost him. He could still see Thorin there, veiled with fear and sadness, but still there. They would get through this. Together. Just as they always had.

Kíli walks quietly through the halls, eyes scanning the high walls and piles of gold and jewels. The gold doesn't interest him in the slightest (to his secret relief); he is looking for his uncle.

He had seen it, the strangeness in Thorin's behavior, of course, but he had allowed himself to childishly believe that Thorin was stronger than this sickness, or that this was only a temporary setback, that he'd come back to his senses, to himself, soon enough. As it were, he seemed to swing between madness and lucidity; one moment his uncle was there, but the next he was gone.

He was frightened, really. He had only been in Erebor for a few days, and to see how badly Thorin had deteriorated in that time broke him. If only they could find the Arkenstone; he prayed that would end his uncle's madness, his paranoia.

He hears steps behind him. "You."

It is Thorin, but his tone is accusatory and harsh; it's not a tone Thorin has ever used with him, and it sends a shudder down Kíli's spine. He is draped in royal robes and jewels, looking more kingly than ever, but his eyes are disturbingly blank as he stares Kíli down.

"There you are, Uncle," Kíli says, trying to keep his voice light. Often his or Fíli's presence is enough to seem to return him to calmness, to sanity. "We've been looking for you. Bombur's made supper." Truely, he's horrified at the state his uncle was in. Had they lost him already? Could they pull him free from this? Despair wells up inside of him. They should have left. They should have fled from the mountain the moment they'd come.

Thorin scoffs. "Uncle," he murmurs, looking disgusted with the word. "How misfortunate am I to count you among my kin."

Kíli stops in his tracks, trepidation crossing his features. "I...what do you mean?" he asks, not entirely sure he wants to know what lies Thorin has allowed himself to believe.

"Your mother was lucky," Thorin continues, eyes scanning the piles of gold, ever searching for the Arkenstone. "She did not live to see what a disappointment you are to her line."

The words hurt, despite how deeply untrue Kíli knows they are. He knows it is a lie that Thorin's sickness has conjured up. The only thing he has relied on his entire life was the love, the bond between him, his brother, and his uncle. If the goldsickness could make Thorin forget all of that...he feels a sob rise up in his throat. If it could take that away, if it could make all of those years and the closeness they shared just...vanish...what did he and Fíli have left? A throne they weren't suited for? A kingdom that was never meant to be theirs?

Thorin circles around him, eyes manic as they rove over him. "Better that you had died instead of her," he sneers, just close enough that his breath rushes past Kíli's ear with his words. "She would still have breath in her lungs if not for you."

He swallows thickly. It's not him, he tells himself. It's not, it's not, it's not. "You don't...you don't mean that," he says finally, meekly, but the words still sting, still swirl around in his mind. They're words he has uttered to himself in his darkest days, but to hear them come from someone else…

Thorin barks out a humorless laugh. "Perhaps I don't," he says quietly, eyes roving the treasure horde once more. He reaches down and picks up a gem, turning it over in his hands to admire the shine. "Look at this," he says softly.

Kíli moves his leaden feet to comply. Thorin is clearly out of sorts and he wishes he had someone with him to help bring him back to his senses. He doesn't know what to do, how to help guide him back to himself. He wishes Fíli were here; he would know what to say.

Thorin shows him a smooth, glimmering white jewel, running his hands reverently over the surface."Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? An opal," he says, his voice soft. Kíli is fairly certain there are tears in his eyes. "My sister was fond of them." Then he shoves the stone into Kíli's hand, face returning to a blank mask. "But it pales in comparison to the Arkenstone."

Kíli turns the jewel over in his hands, imagining his mother draped in opal jewelry. "We will find it, Thorin," he says quietly, choosing his words carefully as he sets the jewel back with the others.

Thorin whirls back around, eyes narrowing as he watches Kíli carefully. "You would not deceive me," he says finally, and Kíli frowns.

"Of course I wouldn't," he replies. "No one here would seek to -"

"But someone has," Thorin shouts, his voice reverberating off the stone walls, echoing in a way that makes Kíli feel surrounded. "Someone has," he whispers sharply. "They must have; it's the only explanation."

"Thorin," Kíli says softly, reaching out to touch Thorin's arm, relief flooding him when his uncle doesn't pull away. He turns and looks at Kíli, eyes soft and sad. He reaches up and caresses Kíli's cheek gently, and Kíli can see his old uncle again, the one from his childhood.

"If we cannot find it, they will take the mountain from us," Thorin whispers. "I cannot let them." His voice breaks, close to tears. "I cannot let them ghivashel." He presses his forehead to Kíli's.

"We will find it, Thorin," he says softly, embracing his uncle in return. "And if we cannot find it, we will defend Erebor. We swore an oath. To our king. To you."

Thorin gives him a watery smile, but his eyes harden once more and his hands drop away, gaze returning to the gold, ever searching.

Wordlessly, Kíli crosses the rampart and sits next to him, tucking into his side and pressing his forehead into his neck. Fíli immediately wraps his arms around him, gathering him close. "I don't know what to do," he murmurs quietly. "We're losing him, Fee. I just...I don't know what to do."

Fíli sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd seen it, too. Thorin was more frantic with each passing day, and often neither Fíli nor Kíli could not draw the Thorin they knew back out for long. "I don't think there's anything we can do, short of finding the Arkenstone." he murmurs. "I just want to go home."

He understood Bilbo's constant longing for his home now. Their life in Ered Luin hadn't been perfect by any means, but they had each other. It was filled with love. He didn't blame Thorin for wanting to return to his homeland, but Fíli and Kíli...they didn't belong here, in these unfamiliar halls. But they belonged with Thorin, didn't they? He scrubs his free hand against his temple; this was a mess. At least he still had Kíli; maybe if Thorin fully tumbled into madness they could just flee to the west.

He hated himself for having that thought in the first place. They couldn't abandon Thorin. They wouldn't.

"Are more of them coming?" Kíli asks, voice uncertain; fearful.

"Looks like it," he confirms. "More fires tonight, at least." He sighs again and presses a kiss against his brother's forehead. "They'll be on our doorstep soon." He'd watched the last few days, seen the growing crowds near the city of Dale. It already looked like more than just the survivors of Esgaroth. Thorin was right - they were coming.

Kíli lets out a shaky breath, fingers gripping Fíli's tunic tighter. "I'm scared," he admits. "There's no way out of this, is there?"

Fíli can't think of anything to say. He feels the same. There's nothing he can say that will ease Kíli's mind without lying, and he wouldn't do that to him. There's nothing he can do other than hold his brother close and pray for a miracle, even though he knows that it's only because of a miracle that Kíli is still with him. Perhaps he's used their last one. Perhaps losing Thorin was the cost for saving Kíli. He shakes his head and pulls his brother closer, drawing strength from his presence.

And so they stay, huddled together on the rampart, as more fires light along the horizon.

Oof, you guys. I've sat on this chapter for months (obviously) because I'm just not able to get the words out the way I want to. GoldsickThorin is such a challenge for me and I'm honestly still not happy with it. I've had to skip over parts of this chapter and come back to it so many times, so if some parts seem choppy that's probably why (after 28 chapters, you guys have probably noticed that editing is not my strong suit). Now, I just have to decide which of the three versions of BotFA will be the official story. Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

As always, thanks so much for reading!