Spring

Thorin remembered the day Kili was born, in the dead of winter. He remembered the way Dis had cried, even after she saw the fragile child. He remembered the way Kili had howled all throughout the night. It was the howl of a child born without a father. The uncle had resolved to fill in the gap that the lost parent had created. He swore to himself that he would be with his family every step of the way. And when he forgot his goal, he only had to hear Fili and Kili laughing together, playing together, smiling together, and he would be reminded.

Thorin was there with his nephew when the dark-haired child took his first steps. He could still see the toddler's brow furrowed in concentration, followed by the tentative first footfalls. Fili had almost toppled his brother over from hugging him so fiercely, and the leader could still hear his sister's smile.

The heir of Durin had done all those things over again, but instead of a life shining on the miracle of a new child, it was a shroud of death. For nine weeks, the dwarf waited by the side of a prince that seemed to never recover. For the first week, the elder had watched his remaining heir with an intensity unparalleled. The slightest movement of a finger would get his attention, sent his hopes soaring. He quickly discovered the truth of the matter, that Kili was likely never waking up. Legolas had explained quite plainly that while they had expelled the wraith, it was likely that it had left the young dwarf's soul broken, making it impossible for him to regain a conscious state. And even if he did wake, there was no telling how long he would live. It didn't truly dawn on the previous king that the elf could have been right.

By the fourth week, Thorin began to lose hope. He'd heard of those who had slept for the rest of their lives, unable to wake up but suspended in a state that mimicked life. He wouldn't allow that to happen, but the old king refused to resort to smothering his nephew either. So much like Kili, he lived in a state of monotony, taking every day as if it were the same. Every morning was one filled with anticipation, and the resulting disappointment as he saw the dwarf before him waste away.

It only occurred to him when Dwalin first came to visit two months after the battle.

"Why is he so thin?" The warrior had recoiled upon the sight of the prince in the bed. For the first time, the uncle realized the way his nephew's face had hollowed out, the cheekbones jutting out like knives, the closed eyes sinking into his head. Thorin had felt faint from the ignorance that had built up from days of observation. But while the shrinking form of Kili was too slight to notice day to day, it was impossible to ignore the day that his nephew's hair began turning gray.

Thorin was shaking.

After the seventh week, the king considered running. Not back to Erebor, not back to his hobbit either, but packing up the little house they had set up in Dale, and fleeing out into the mountains until he couldn't find a man, dwarf, or halfling who remembered the name Thorin Oakenshield. This life was a punishment. He was convinced. Even as the Pale Orc lay festering out on the battlefield, the creature was still driving the old king to madness. Several nights were spent sleepless and destructive, as the leader wished only pain. Worse was the golden face that appeared in every mirror, followed him everywhere he went. Even as Fili tortured his uncle through memory, he accused him of worse. You let me die, the fallen prince seemed to taunt from behind Thorin's eyelids. You dare give up on my brother as well.

Thorin remembered the day Kili was born again, just as the snow began to melt away into a prosperous spring. He remembered the way he sobbed, even as the frail dwarf finally drew labored breaths.

The first word out of his mouth was: "Fili!"

"Breathe, Kili. Don't try to talk, just breathe," he comforted. The sickly dwarf coughed violently, his fingernails digging into the flesh on Thorin's arms.

"Where is Fili? He was just here…" The thick tears were streaming readily down the uncle's face, and he found his lips unable to form words.

"Please, don't," he pleaded. "Just stay, a moment. You've been gone for so long." Kili's eyes were as wide as coins, his pupils completely dilated and wild. Thorin realized in that moment that his nephew was not seeing him at all.

"I can remember it, Fili," the prince whispered, staring at the ceiling as if he were looking into the face of his brother. As he spoke, his speech was slurred and broken, like he couldn't quite remember how to create words. "You used to sit by the window and wait for uncle every day, and you would hold my hand when he was late. When I was scared you would have me count to five, and name someone who loved me for every number I counted. First was you, second was mother, third was Thorin, fourth and fifth were Balin and Dwalin. I counted them down right before I drifted away again. Brother, I'm sorry I never did the same for you. I knew you were scared more than I was." Thorin took his nephew's face in his hands. Even as he desperately wanted to hear more, for his sister-son to recall more of those lost days, he could feel the repeated memories tear open such freshly scabbed wounds.

"Kili, you have to rest, just stop-" the uncle pleaded.

"I liked it when you would braid my hair, even though I said you weren't allowed to. I was just angry you wouldn't let me touch your braids. I know it was stupid. I was stupid. I wouldn't have run if I were like you. Fili, you were like the heroes in those stories mother used to read: proud, courageous, determined, regal, and kind. You've always been my hero, brother." The prince's eyes began to focus slowly, the more he spoke and struggled. Thorin sat back on the bed, trying to control himself.

"You have to listen to me now," he instructed, slowly, in a quaking voice.

"Uncle," Kili called, sending a new wave of shock through Thorin's body. "I want him to be here."

"He won't be here…that way…Kili. He can't be," the elder attempted.

"I don't remember what happened…the snow. Everything was so cold."

"Fili is dead," Thorin choked. "Oh, please, your brother is dead."

He remembered the way Kili had howled all throughout the night. It was the howl of a brother awakening without his sibling. The uncle had resolved to leave that gap for the time, to let his nephew mourn. But he swore to himself that he would be with his family every step of the way. And when he forgot his goal, he would forget himself.

Kili fought Thorin at first, angered and distraught by his situation.

"I don't want to talk to you," the prince would say every morning. "At least when I was asleep, it felt like he was here."

"Don't give up on me," his uncle would reply a moment later. "I would never give up on you." His sister-son gritted his teeth. His nostrils flared.

"You gave up on me the minute you met me in Mirkwood. Don't act like you did me a favor," he spat.

"Would Fili want this fight?" Thorin snapped back. "Would your brother be satisfied to see us stop talking? Would he want me to let you go?"

"What kind of a life is this, Thorin?" Kili raged one morning. "Every day, I wake up to the same blank ceiling, to your face trying to tell me that it will get better. I have two sets of memories of you, and neither of them tell me whether or not it's worth living this life."

Thorin tried to be patient. He tried to let his nephew reject him, if it made him heal. But once the snow had melted into wet grass, he gave up.

"You're sitting up today," the uncle demanded.

"You think I can?" Kili responded bitterly.

"It is not a question of whether you can."

Thorin was there with his nephew when the dark-haired child took his first steps of a new life. He watched the trepidation in his eyes as his nephew sway on weak legs, gently taking his hand off the supporting wall. The uncle had almost toppled him from hugging him so fiercely, and the leader could still hear his sister-son's smile.

Kili wasn't so thin now, but remnants of those broken times remained: a face like a crescent moon, stark white hair falling in front of his eyes. He looked so fragile, like he could be broken by a passing wind. But there was something behind that sorrow: vivacity. A young dwarf still lurked behind those large brown eyes. He could see it when Kili spared cautious glances over at him, hunching further to cover the crutches.

Though he could walk without them, the young dwarf had become more comfortable leaning on the help that his uncle had fashion. Without their assistance, he hunched over the knot his skin has formed over his scarred wound. Kili had joked that between walking like a troll, and looking like a cripple, he would gladly hobble around to bring attention to his injury, rather than his hunched back. The younger's insecurities and soft-spoken nature bothered Thorin sometime, as he remembered the proud prince he had met in Mirkwood months ago. He would wake in the night from time to time, terrified that he had destroyed his nephew's life, plucked him from the elves and placed him into a war zone in which he had lost the brother he never knew he missed, and obliterated any sense of health that he had ever experienced. It was in the days that the elven king visited that the elder dwarf was reminded of why he had stolen his sister-son back.

He could see the madness in Thranduil like a bone protruding through tightly stretched skin. Every encounter, the elf had less to say and more to stare. His pale eyes never looked more fierce yet directionless, his voice never exceeding a whisper as he would mumble words that couldn't possibly be mistaken for conversation. Thorin quickly learned that Legolas had flown the coup directly after the battle, leaving his father to marinate in his own pain and delusions. Alone and wasting, the elf sat in his chair, day after day, waiting for the shadows of trees to come and invade the home he so cherished. In that manner, his dwarven counterpart pitied him.

Kili regarded Thranduil with a quiet and polite nature, even with affection, but seemed to distance himself more and more from the elf who had raised. When asked about it, the prince simply shrugged. "It's difficult to care for someone who took care of you to manipulate what you became." Every step backward he took for Thranduil, the closer he came to Thorin. Though an anger and venom still existed between them, the pair of dwarves needed each other.

On the other side of the conflicts, Dain brought the Lonely Mountain back into a state of partial stability and prosperity. Balin and Dwalin had been the first to find the little nook in the far corner of Dale. Balin himself had been the first one to visit when Kili was awake. Away from the toxic natures of the golden hoards, Thorin found himself among friends and family seemingly for the first time in months. Ori had been the one who brought a portrait of Fili that now hung by the window of Kili's room.

It had been almost a year after waking that the white-haired dwarf was finally ready to make the trek to visit his brother's resting place. It took three days to reach the mountain, shrouded in cloaks to hide their identities to the public, but the same shade of royal blue. Both uncle and nephew were brought to their knees at the sight of the great coffin. Thorin remembered Kili's watery smile as he finally placed a trembling hand on the polished stone.

Not a day passed that the pair didn't miss the golden dwarf with the smile like the sun.

Thorin sat up in his chair, startled from his correspondence as the front door creaked open, the clicking of crutches scuffing the stone floor. The quill dripped ink on the greeting of the letter, leaving a large black blot in the middle of "Dear Master Baggins." He straightened in his chair, pushing the various parchments to the side as Kili hobbled into the sitting room.

"Welcome back," the uncle smiled.

"Afternoon," Kili sighed, leaning his assistance against the wall before letting himself fall into a large armchair. A moment of silent suspense passed as Thorin waited for his nephew's announcement, or lack thereof.

"What did Bard say?" he finally asked, when Kili had not given his an answer. The younger dwarf looked down at his feet.

"He said the position is mine, if I want it," he replied slowly. His uncle hadn't expected to hear such uncertainty in his voice.

"But don't you want it?" he questioned. His sister-son shrugged.

"I think so…" the white-haired dwarf attempted. "I don't know."

"Why not?" The leader was baffled. He remembered his nephew's excitement at the prospect of such a position when the spot had opened up. It wasn't every day that Dale instituted an archery unit.

"Uncle…" the prince protested.

"No, Kili. Why not?" Thorin wouldn't have any of it.

"How am I supposed to command a legion of archers when I can't even lift a bow?" Kili spat out in a rushed confession. Thorin should have known.

"You haven't tried yet," he pointed out.

"You have too much faith in my arms, uncle." His nephew's tone was joking, but he could see a seated pain behind his dark eyes.

"You don't have to worry about your arms," the elder announced, rising from the desk and strolling into the next room. When he returned, he carried a large contraption in his hands, smiling like a child.

It was a great bow, polished and well kept, along with a full set of hand carved arrows. However, it was no ordinary weapon. Attached to the bow's hand grip, was a large brace for the arm, well oiled and constructed much in the same way battle armor would be. The arm contraption worked into another piece that wrapped around the shoulders and down the length of the back, a brace that would straighten and strengthen: a bow created to make it possible for his nephew to shoot once more.

"Is that…Frerin's? Thorin, you don't have to-" Kili protested, astonished.

"My brother would have been proud to see his nephew use it," His uncle assured. "Your brother wanted this too." At the sound at of his brother's name, the white-haired dwarf looked pained and confused, his eyes still glued to the weapon.

"You didn't have to bastardize it like that," he whispered, now clearly focused on the other elements of the bow.

"Bifur, Bofur, and Balin worked on it. I wouldn't call it bastardized." Thorin tried to smile assuringly, but he found his face was stiff and nervous. Kili lived for archery, had fought hard to try and prove himself capable for the position that Bard offered, yet his uncle also knew that one this was true: If his nephew couldn't shoot, he wasn't fit to lead.

"I'm sorry, it's just…that isn't a bow that should be wasted on handicaps." The younger seemed to shrink in on himself in shame. Thorin couldn't help but feel that he was the one who was forcing him into such a state of embarrassment. But still, he had to try…

"It won't be wasted," he clarified. "It will help you start out, and as you get stronger, we can remove the braces." Kili continued staring, and the elder could see the cogs turning his head, but more so, he could sense the prince's temptation.

"I'll try."

Attaching the bow was another thing altogether. They spent a great deal of time figuring out which pieces fit where, the buckles and straps making both of them more than a little nervous. It all came down to the moment Kili carefully fit his arm into its place, and Thorin began to make all the adjustments. The dwarves who had constructed it had perfectly crafted it to his nephew's body, but several of the restraints caused the archer to hiss in pain, or grit his teeth as the brace on his back forced him to straighten up properly for the first time in a year. But when it was finally done, he stood tall, shoulders square, chest broad. Thorin carefully helped him raise the bow and notch the arrow, ready to fire. The uncle stepped aside, his eyes grinning a he watched him aim.

Kili took a breath, and watched the arrow fly.

Thorin never thought he would see the day when Kili would stand proud at the brink of a new life. Thorin never thought he was going to see Kili again.

Oh my god, that's it! It took me forever to write this chapter. I just couldn't figure out a way to close it up that would tie up at least most of the loose ends. I would like to take this time to thank everyone who has supported this story over the year it took to write. Thank you so much for putting up with my erratic update times and angst! To all of those who followed, favorited, or commented on this story, I can't express how much that helped me pull it all out. This is the first full length story I have ever really finished, and I couldn't have done it without all your appreciation and support. This has been one crazy ride. Thanks for coming along with me.

-10 of Spades