.
Your absence has gone through me like
a thread through a needle everything
I do is stitched with its colour.
.
Fíli was stitched throughout Kíli.
Kíli latched onto the memory of a brother, of a bond sworn unbreakable, but these were delusions, fractured pieces, fragments of Fíli and they would never suffice, for each time Kíli outstretched a hand, he would be abandoned. Fíli dispelled to darkness and left Kíli to dwell in silence and sorrow, plagued with hauntings of his other half.
Death was excruciating for Fíli; it was wretched and agonising and he felt it acutely, felt it with each ragged breath he drew, each unbidden cry that clawed its way out of his throat, and Kíli felt it too. Kíli felt it before he saw it, felt it first in the uneasiness of his own soul, then he saw it, he looked upon Fíli and felt such utter agony in his chest.
Fíli felt his senses fading, vision waning, dim heartbeat falling softer, slower, weaker. Kíli screamed, hoarse and broken and fierce, a mangled sound that pained Fíli more than wounds and grief and a harrowing death ever could. He felt his blood thrum as Kíli neared, as Kíli buried a series of arrows in the chest and face and neck of the orc, and Fíli's heart beat faster and stronger and louder, as though it were calling for Kíli.
Kíli fell to his knees, flung his bow aside as he crumpled beside his brother, his heart, the other half of his soul. Gently, he turned Fíli over, so that he might rest upon his back rather than his side. Kíli whimpered brokenly when his eyes fell upon the gaping wound in his brother's chest. Devastation was etched into each ragged, broken line of Kíli's face, a face stained with blood and grime, a face once youthful now plagued with grief, a face worn by a war that he should not have had to die for and aged by a journey that he should not have embarked upon.
Unbidden tears spilled from Fíli's eyes as Kíli pressed one hand to his wound, the other carefully cupped the left side of Fíli's face. His lips trembled, heart clenched in his chest as Kíli looked upon him with wide, frightened eyes. Kíli felt that he too was destined for death, for he felt his own soul fading, felt it in his bones and in the longing of his heart to journey only where Fíli did.
Dark crimson blood spilled from the corners of Fíli's mouth, it tricked down his chin, wept from the jagged wounds and gashes scattered across his chest, and seeped between Kíli's slender fingers as he pressed down pointlessly. Kíli raised his hand away from Fíli's face and brushed the hair back from his brother's forehead, fingers running through golden locks matted with dirt and beads and bleached with blood.
Fíli cried not for his own misery and misfortune, but for Kíli's. Kíli watched Fíli like he did when they were children, when Kíli was terrified of the thunder and he crept out of his cot to cower beneath it, and Fíli would find him, as he swore he always would, and he would outstretch a hand to his sobbing, shaking, terrified mess of a brother and whisper, Kíli, grab my hand.
War was no place for Kíli, Kíli who was wild and untamed and more suited to roaming forests for game or working in the forges as opposed to this, this savagery, this carnage that raged on around them, but Kíli was ignorant to this bloodshed, he was immune to it. All he saw was Fíli, his Fíli, his brother who coughed and spluttered up blood and beckoned him closer with a look, all it took was a look, all it ever took was a look.
Fíli, with blood on his lips and tears in his eyes, spoke so softly, begged so gently that his words were barely more than a broken rasp drowned out by ferocious cries of war, "Kíli, grab my hand," but Kíli heard, he heard over the roar of battle, and his hand stilled in Fíli's hair, his shoulders tensed and his entire body turned rigid.
As he did when they were little more than dwarflings, Kíli hesitated. He would peek up at Fíli from beneath that brown mess of untamed hair and his eyes would hold such naked fear that it pained Fíli, it ached to see his brother frightened, terrified to the point of trembling. On the field of battle where Fíli had fallen and met his fate, it was truly no different. Raw fear lurked in those wide, tormented eyes of Kíli's.
Unable to muster the strength to find Kíli's hand and clasp it tightly, Fíli cried, "Hold my hand, Kíli." but he refused, and Fíli began to panic, despair surged throughout him at the thought that he should never see his Kíli smile or hear his easy laugh ring throughout the silence.
Kíli pressed his forehead to Fíli's, eyes clenched shut as he wept against him, fierce and silent, tears spilling against his brother's skin. A choked sob tore through his chest as Fíli cried, "Kee, grab my hand and I will never let go," and when Kíli's hand finally found Fíli's, he clutched it tightly, so tightly that it hurt, just like when they were children.
Fíli and Kíli were threaded throughout each other, bound by more than a bloodline. Their souls were entangled, stitched and sown and patched together. In his heart Fíli knew that when they would be found together, cold and still and pale, their fingers would still be intertwined.
A/N: Thank you all for the follows/favourites/reviews - you're all wonderful. The author for the lovely poem at the beginning is W.S Merwin. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the illustrious work that is The Hobbit.