A/N: Hey everyone! Well, firstly, you may have noticed that 'Bring Them Home' has a new cover photo, and I just want to say an enormous thank you to the wonderful Mhyin for drawing some fabulous fanart for this fic. I demand that you all go and check out her amazing artwork, which you can find at mhyin. tumblr. com! And secondly, I am forever being overwhelmed by the response to this story and I just can't thank my readers enough for sticking with me, despite the copious amounts of emotional trauma I've been inflicting. I'm hoping Chapter Thirteen will provide a little light relief, but I have restocked my tissue box supply just in case…

Fíli sighed as Kíli began kneading his left foot with the warm washcloth. He was lying on his bed, propped up on his elbows, with his left foot resting on the towel in Kíli's lap. Kíli, sitting with a basin of warm water at his side, continued to studiously wash the dirt and grime from his brother's foot. His gentle massaging worked some feeling back into Fíli's foot, which had been subjected to two trips, to and from the vaults, rendering it almost blue by the time Fíli had returned to their room.

"Starting to feel your toes again?" Kíli asked, with a soft smirk, giving Fíli's big toe a pinch for good measure.

"Yes, thank you," Fíli replied, wriggling his toe away from Kíli's grasp, a smile twitching on his lips.

"They've got their colour back, anyway," Kíli murmured. "You know I did offer to fetch your boot for you… If only you weren't so stubborn."

"I managed just fine."

"Yes, and you brought half of Erebor's dust with you." Kíli glanced at the basin at his side. The water was now muddy brown in colour. "You're lucky I'm willing to go near your feet."

"There's nothing wrong with my feet," Fíli said, with a tone of mock-offence.

He suddenly jerked his big toe into Kíli's unsuspecting nose and Kíli recoiled with a yelp, but they both ended up snorting back their laughter… and then they froze. With his heart hammering in his chest, Fíli's eyes met Kíli's, and in that moment they realised that, if only for a few seconds, they had forgotten. It was an experience so unexpected, especially in light of all that had just passed in the vaults, that the brothers simply stared at each other in shock. And then Fíli saw the pain return to cloud Kíli's brown eyes, just as surely as it was reappearing in his own. His stomach squirmed with a hot and sickly feeling which he recognised as guilt… the guilt of forgetting, now coupled with the ache of remembering.

Kíli didn't comment, and quickly tore his eyes from Fíli's, focusing on drying his brother's foot with the towel. The silence was like being slammed back onto the freezing, hard ground of the vault, and Fíli dug his elbows further into the mattress, trying to force the breath out of his throat. It was true that talking to Estel, painful as it had been, had felt like a release; similar to the one he had experienced when he had spoken to Thorin for the first time in Thrór's bedchamber. But now Fíli wasn't sure how to react to the momentary loss of pain in his chest, and as his fingers slowly began to curl over the edge of his grief, he realised he had no idea how to navigate the uncertain path of letting go laid out before him.

Fíli looked to Kíli, as if for answers, as he rose from the bed, carrying the towel and basin of water over to the table by the fire. His movements were slow and guarded, and Fíli sensed that he was trying to deal with the same guilt. Their laughter had momentarily taken the redness from Kíli's eyes, but now Fíli saw, as he looked at his brother's profile, that the soreness from crying remained. He heard Kíli's voice in his head: "You saved me, Fíli, and you saved Thorin…"Visions of him standing in the doorway of the main vaults - a trembling, black silhouette - filled Fíli's mind like shadows spreading into the corners of a room. It came to him then that, although the events he had recounted had been turning over and over in his mind for weeks, it was the first time Kíli had heard the whole truth about the battlefield.

"I… I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Fíli whispered, just as Kíli turned away from the table.

Kíli stopped, noticeably flinching; he obviously knew exactly what Fíli was referring to. But then his face relaxed, and he returned to the bed, perching on the edge by Fíli's knee.

"I think I understand why you couldn't tell me," Kíli said quietly, his expression serious. "It's not your fault… You needed time."

Fíli couldn't deny the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looked at his brother. The eternally-patient, eternally-forgiving Kíli… Traits he had no doubt inherited from their mother. Fíli once again found himself wondering how he would have ever made it this far without Kíli at his side.

"Did… Did Thorin really mention me before he… died?" Kíli asked suddenly, and there was a hint of his much younger self evident in his tone. He studied Fíli with a strange, insecure look in his eyes, which was quickly replaced by fear of having said the wrong thing.

Before Kíli could withdraw the question, Fíli answered: "Of course… Of course he did." With his brow furrowed, he added firmly: "He loved you, Kíli."

Kíli nodded, then looked away for a moment, as if processing this confirmation he clearly needed. Fíli thought back to their first argument after the battle… There had been a similar look in Kíli's eyes when he had said: "I just wish I could have been there…" Waiting to see if Kíli had further questions, Fíli felt his back begin to burn, objecting to the strain caused by resting on his elbows. He slowly shifted himself down into his pillows, lying flat against the bed sheets.

"You need to sleep," Kíli said gently, seeming relieved at being able to drop the subject of all that had been said in the vaults.

Fíli wished his body didn't have such an automatic response to being horizontal. His eyelids had already begun to feel heavy and his head throbbed; all part of the siren-song of sleep. Every excursion on his crutches seemed to incur the same inevitable exhaustion. But then black images of Thorin and the bloodied crown burst in front of Fíli's eyes, bringing a lump to his throat and making his stomach turn.

"I've had enough sleep for today," he said, and there was a splinter of ice in his voice.

Kíli's eyes looked him over warily, and then realisation dawned. Fíli hadn't told him what had prompted his hasty, unannounced departure from their room, but he knew Kíli had spent enough time in the early hours of the morning wrestling him out of his night terrors to make the connection.

"I'll stay with you, if you want," Kíli said, a little cautiously. "I'll be here this time."

The guilt in his voice as he spoke was unmistakable. Instead of trying to find a way to tell Kíli it wasn't his fault - that none of this was his fault - Fíli simply found himself nodding, attempting a small smile. Without a word, Kíli rose and helped him slide under the bed sheets and rearrange his pillows. Once he was settled, Kíli retreated to the chair at his bedside. He pulled off his boots and crossed his legs under him. It was a strange position, but Kíli seemed to find it comfortable, and Fíli had woken many times to find Kíli cross-legged at his bedside.

As his eyes slid shut off their own accord, Fíli tried to think of something to say; some parting words about bedtime stories or bed bugs to make Kíli smile… But he was asleep before the words came to him, and for the first time in weeks, Fíli dreamt of nothing at all.

Fíli's pipe froze at his lips as Dwalin, sitting at his side, turned around again to direct a hard glare at something, or someone, behind them. The footsteps receded as more curious dwarves reluctantly returned to their own fires. A week after his trek down to the vaults, Fíli had begun to grow restless, and had decided another outing was necessary… And it had been a very long time since he had last sat by the company's fire. Dwalin had initially been against it – for reasons made apparent during the meal they had just finished – but the company's overwhelming excitement at the prospect had swayed him, and so Fíli had joined them for supper.

Dwalin slowly turned back to the fire, cracking his tattooed knuckles, and muttered something about 'spies and busybodies'. Fíli took a long drag on his pipe, sensing that his nerves needed it; every time footsteps approached their fire his stomach clenched and his heartbeat sped up to a gallop.

"They don't mean any harm, Dwalin," Balin said, with a sigh, and then he looked to Fíli, his eyes twinkling. Balin's eyes had done nothing but twinkle all evening and he had been wearing a permanent smile… Fíli couldn't deny that it made him feel better.

"They've got no business bothering the lad whilst he's having his supper," Dwalin replied, glowering over at his brother.

"Well, then by all means swing your axe at the next dwarf who gets too close!" Balin said, throwing his hands up in frustration, and the rest of the company sniggered.

Fíli glanced across at Kíli, sitting at his other side, and the two shared a sly smile. Listening to Balin and Dwalin's bickering brought a warmth to Fíli's chest; a warmth fuelled by memories of their journey, and he couldn't begin to describe how much he had missed the company's fireside. With the Rivendell party supping at Thranduil's camp and Bilbo returned from one of Gandalf's enigmatic errands, a slight squint could make Fíli believe, if only for a second, that they were back on the road, still bound for the Lonely Mountain. But, of course, Bombur, Glóin, and Nori were en route back from the Blue Mountains, and even when they returned, their company would forever be missing one…

Thorin's absence was reflected in the eyes of every member of the company when they looked at Fíli, but he had chosen to persevere. He thought of the weeks he had spent confined to his tent at the foot of the Mountain, hearing from Kíli that Dwalin and Bilbo were suffering, that the company missed him… and he had done nothing. He was determined to make it up to them, and Estel's voice sounded in his head: "…good kings try to rectify their mistakes." And so, despite his initial anxiety and the sickly feelings stirring in his stomach, Fíli had shared his first meal with the company by their fire in the Entrance Hall. There had been awkward jarrings in conversation and several morose silences that had threatened to bring on a lingering black mood, but Bofur and his unwavering optimism had always been on-hand to pull them back from the brink.

Fíli's gaze moved to Bofur now, and he watched him as he scrubbed their supper bowls clean in a basin of soapy water, before handing them to Bifur, who was standing ready with a tea towel – one of the many things Nori had acquired from Bilbo's kitchen. Bifur had originally been quite confused by Fíli's appearance and became distressed, asking after Bombur repeatedly. It seemed that now Fíli, who had disappeared from the company for a time, had returned, Bifur believed that his cousin should have also returned with him. Bofur had managed to calm Bifur down, and then several times over supper Fíli had found Bifur studying him with an unnervingly knowing look. Fíli wasn't sure what it was that Bifur knew, but he guessed Bifur knew a lot more than anyone ever realised.

In the after-supper lull, the company were all engaged in various conversations and activities. Ori and Bilbo were collaborating on a new handicraft project which involved knitting a pair of mittens for everyone, now that winter was at the height if its power; Dori and Óin were in fact having a rather loud conversation about how cold it was. With Kíli speaking quietly to Balin, Fíli took the opportunity to carefully turn around and peer behind him at the camp set up in the Entrance Hall. He found several startled pairs of eyes looking at him, and the dwarves, after hasty bows, all darted back to their respective fires like frightened deer. Fíli swallowed, feeling his heart thudding against his ribs, but his eyes continued to scan the rows of tents until they came to rest on a tent, much larger than the rest, erected in the corner of the hall.

"What's in that big tent in the corner?" Fíli asked, his brow furrowed as he turned back to the fire.

"Oh, that's the infirmary, lad," came the answer from Balin, and all eyes moved to the large tent, which had once been known as the 'main tent' when the camp had first been set up before the Front Gate.

"Are there any patients left in there?" Fíli murmured, and his thoughts turned to Thorin's funeral, to the dwarves he had seen in the crowds, standing on crutches, with their heads bandaged and arms in slings. He remembered how, in the darkest of hours, it had brought him comfort that they had attended despite their injuries, and Fíli, sitting by the fire with his crutches at his side, still felt a strong affinity with them.

"Aye, not too many now, but a few," Balin replied, studying Fíli with a curious look, clearly wondering at his reasons for asking.

"I think I'd like to meet them," Fíli said. Estel's voice rang out in his head once again: "You become a king when you start acting like one…" He reached for his crutches.

"Er, now?" Kíli said, a note of panic in his voice, and the company were all exchanging concerned glances.

"Oh… Is this a bad idea?" Fíli felt his cheeks colouring as he looked from Kíli to the rest of the company.

"No… We're just not sure The Grouch will take kindly to a casual drop-in from royalty," Dwalin explained, rather cryptically.

"But it has been an awfully long time since we last inconvenienced Grefur," Kíli pointed out, and when he turned to Fíli he was actually grinning. "So let's get you up."

'A casual drop-in from royalty' Dwalin had called it, and as Fíli arrived at the infirmary's entrance, he was starting to think this was not one of his better ideas. His palms, sticky with sweat, were slipping against the hand-grips of his crutches, and his heart was pumping painfully fast inside his chest. Despite the many creeping footsteps during supper, Fíli had still underestimated how much attention he would draw to himself by beginning to move through the camp. As he had weaved around the tents, flanked by Kíli and Dwalin, all the dwarves he passed had got to their feet and bowed, and now he daren't look around for fear of finding that they had all followed him to the infirmary. Although he supposed it was the dwarves who should be afraid as Dwalin had, much to Balin's chagrin, strapped Grasper to his back before they left the company's fire.

Dwalin held the tent's heavy door-flap open for him, and Fíli slowly entered with Kíli at his side. There were two rows of beds, lined up against opposite walls, but only two beds at the other end of the tent were actually occupied. There was a group of patients clustered around the furthest bed on the right-hand side, and a few healers were sitting at a table, at a diagonal from them in the tent's left corner. They all looked up when Fíli appeared and froze. With his instincts from Thorin's funeral kicking in, Fíli found himself moving forward down the path between the rows of beds, and the healers leapt up from the table, coming to meet him with gasps of "Your majesty!" Two of them gave short, awkward bows, but the third - a tall, bald healer with thick, black eyebrows – simply fixed Fíli with a look of scrutiny. Fíli recognised him as Grefur, the head-healer who had organised his move into the Mountain.

"Is everything all right, lad?" Grefur asked carefully. "You needn't have come here yourself, we could've sent someone."

With every pair of eyes in the tent boring into him, Fíli tried to formulate a response, but found his mind had drawn a blank. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and with an element of trepidation.

"Oh… I, er, I'm not here for myself," Fíli said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. He coughed to clear his raw throat, and turned to the group of patients on his right. "I'm just here to… to visit your patients." He attempted a smile, but the patients only stared back at him with varying expressions of shock and wonder.

"Uh, right," Grefur grunted, and he seemed distinctly unimpressed. The distasteful sideways glance he directed at his patients suggested he was unable to fathom why Fíli would want to do such a thing.

"Can we get you anything, your majesty?" the short, grey-haired healer standing behind Grefur asked, moving forward in an effort to alleviate the awkwardness.

Fíli winced when he heard the title for a second time, but forced himself to smile at the eager healer. "I'd be grateful for a chair," he replied quietly.

"Of course!" the healer said, seeming distraught at not having already thought of a chair. He quickly moved to retrieve one from the healers' table and set it down between the two occupied beds to their right.

Fíli slowly lowered himself into the chair and handed his crutches to Kíli, who came to stand at his side. Dwalin was no doubt standing behind them, showering the patients with pre-emptive glares. The white-haired dwarf, lying in the bed to Fíli's left, his hair barely distinguishable from the bandages wrapped tightly around his head, was asleep and snoring softly. But the younger dwarf, in the bed to his right, was propped up against his pillows and studying Fíli with a pair of alert blue eyes. Two other dwarves, with their crutches laid in their laps, were sitting at his bedside; the broad-shouldered, black-haired dwarf had a nasty, purple-red welt running across his forehead and the red-haired dwarf at his side had thick bandages wrapped around his chest, just visible in the 'v' of his loose shirt. Another red-haired dwarf was standing behind him, one arm in a sling, with his free hand resting on the back of his chair. They were all watching Fíli, their shock now reduced to something close to embarrassment as they waited for him to speak, and they wore identical, slightly uneasy smiles.

Inhaling deeply, Fíli found the strength to address them: "I just wanted to say thank you to you all… for attending Thorin's funeral. I… I know it must have been difficult for you to make it down to the vaults."

"Well, nothing was going to keep us away, laddie," the black-haired dwarf said, his voice low and deep. There was a murmur of agreement from the group. "We had to fair carry Gilin here between us, but we managed it, eh, Gil?" He slapped a hand on the blue-eyed dwarf propped up in the bed before him.

Gilin turned to Fíli and smiled meekly. "Your uncle was a truly great leader," he said, his eyes shining. "I'd be damned if a few cuts and bruises were going to stop me paying my respects."

At this mention of Thorin, Fíli's chest felt tight, and the ache returned to his stomach. He closed his fingers into a fist at his side so no one would notice they had begun to tremble, but then he felt Kíli's hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at his brother, and Kíli met his eyes with a small, encouraging smile.

"It was good to see you there, your majesty," the older, red-haired dwarf said, his voice quiet and sincere.

Fíli flinched again. "Fíli," he said softly, peering around at them, looking almost contrite. "Just Fíli is fine."

After an uneasy pause, the patients all nodded, a couple offering apologetic smiles. They then took this as a cue to begin introductions.

"Cáin, son of Caldun," the black-haired dwarf said, with another short nod.

Gilin spoke next: "Gilin, son of Filin… That's Grófi, son of Grafun behind you." He nodded to the white-haired dwarf in the next bed. "He sleeps through everything."

"Regin," said the seated red-haired dwarf.

"And Regur, sons of Róin," finished the younger dwarf, standing behind his brother. "I don't actually need to be in here, but the beds are far comfier than anywhere else in this camp."

"And I like having you around to pick the splinters out of my fingers," Regin said gruffly, patting the shoddy-looking crutches resting in his lap. "These useless things aren't even anywhere near my height."

"That's because they were the only pair left by the time you'd finally decided you did want to get out of bed." Grefur's growl suddenly sounded from the healers' table and everyone jumped.

Fíli had no idea the head-healer had been listening to their conversation, but his comment had made Regin's cheeks colour considerably. Fíli stared at Regin and felt a rush of understanding… He knew how difficult those first steps out of bed were, and if it hadn't been for Estel, he was sure his crutches would still be leaning against a wall far from his bed.

"Crutches are taxing enough when they're the perfect size," Fíli said, giving Regin what he hoped was a comforting smile. "So I can't imagine what those must be like… But I can ask my friend Bofur to make you a new pair that are the right height." Fíli looked to Kíli for support.

"Bofur made Fíli's crutches in a few days… I'm sure he'd be happy to make you some too," Kíli said, beaming.

"That… That would be most kind," Regin said, looking from Kíli to Fíli, his voice swelling with emotion. "Thank you."

"And ignore The Grouch," Regur whispered to his brother. "He can be a spiteful git sometimes."

"But he's harmless really," Cáin added, with a smirk.

"You speak for yourself, lad," Gilin said wryly. "He's never given you a sponge-bath."

There was an eruption of laughter and snorting. Fíli couldn't help but find the patients' glee infectious and despite himself, he laughed along with them. He could hear Kíli sniggering at his side, and he couldn't imagine a more wonderful sound… There had been a moment, out on the battlefield, when he realised he couldn't remember the last time he had heard Kíli laugh, and he had been convinced he would never hear his brother laugh again. But here was Kíli, snorting with the others, and Fíli finally let himself embrace the release brought on by his talk with Estel down in the vaults. It wasn't all right, and it never quite would be, but for now he was laughing with his brother again, and this was healing. Fíli decided that coming to the infirmary had, in fact, been one of his better ideas.

"What?!"

Bilbo almost dropped his fork as the single, dagger-sharp syllable resounded around the tent. He dared to look up from his plate and found Thranduil glaring at Legolas down the table. Legolas only stared back defiantly. Bilbo wished Gandalf hadn't dragged him along to dine with the Elvenking, but he did sense that the wizard wanted the company. Kíli and Balin had specifically asked Gandalf not to interfere with Fíli's progress, and so he had found himself at a loose end, moving between Thranduil's camp by the river and Bard's newly established garrison in the ruins of Dale. Bilbo looked across at Gandalf, sitting opposite him, but the wizard didn't seem overly sorry that he had once again dropped Bilbo in the middle of one of Thranduil's arguments with his increasingly wayward son.

"I want to stay," Legolas repeated firmly, his blue eyes hard as he refused to shrink under his father's black stare.

"We are leaving as soon as the dwarves give us the payment they promised, and you will be coming with us," Thranduil snapped, and he made to return to his dinner.

"No."

Thranduil slammed his cutlery down on the table. "It is only going to get colder and our supplies are dwindling. What possible reasons do you have for staying?"

"I rode all the way to Rivendell and back to bring Estel here. I would like to at least witness the consequence of my journey," Legolas answered stoically.

"Consequence?" Thranduil said, arching an eyebrow. "You mean the boy's coronation?"

"Yes."

Thranduil's pale lips twisted into a snarl. "I will not have my son freeze to death at the foot of this Mountain just so he can watch the dwarves celebrate the return of their gold."

"The return of their king," Legolas corrected, sitting back in his chair.

Bilbo stole a glance at Gandalf and found the wizard was actually smiling, but he supposed he knew why: this was the first time he had heard anyone mention Fíli's coronation. The company generally avoided the subject, always treading carefully, but it was clear this was the unspoken, longed-for outcome of Fíli's recovery.

Thranduil seemed to be calculating how best he could injure his son with cutlery from a distance , when Legolas spoke again: "And I will not freeze to death. I have already been offered lodgings in the Mountain."

Suddenly Thranduil was on his feet… but then he stopped. A strange horn could be heard sounding in the distance, along with the tramping of feet. Thranduil and Legolas broke off their confrontation to share a look of confusion. Before anyone could ask the question, the Elvenking had turned away from the table and moved to the doors of the tent. Legolas rose slowly and went to join him. When Gandalf also left the table, Bilbo cautiously slid from his seat and followed in the wizard's wake.

Standing by the doors, a cold wind making his nose and the tips of his ears sting, Bilbo peered out into the landscape that was bleached with snow. Squinting his eyes, he could just make out a group of people moving towards the Mountain on the other side of the river. He glanced up at Thranduil and Legolas, and found that they were wearing matching expressions of confoundment. Bilbo guessed that their elf-eyes could see the approaching crowd far clearer than he could, and he wondered what it was that had baffled them.

"Those are very strange-looking dwarves," Legolas said finally, his bright blue eyes still fixed on the crowd.

"I think you will find, my dear Legolas," Gandalf said, smiling. "That those are dwarf women."

It was well-known in Middle Earth that dwarves were the most stubborn of all races, but what was less well-known was the fact that the dwarves' stubbornness was no match for the stubbornness of their women. When Dáin's camp had first received word from the Iron Hills, telling them that a group of dwarf women would be coming to the Mountain with supplies, great effort had been expended to discourage them from such a venture. They would not have them risking the cold and perilous journey in the heavy snows of mid-winter. But the women were adamant; they wanted to be reunited with their men, with their husbands, and sons, and brothers. And so they came anyway.

Kíli was sitting by the company's fire in the Entrance Hall when the shouts rose up and the slightly bedraggled group of dwarf women entered through the Front Gate. They all wore thick furs that were dusted white with snow and carried heavy packs, loaded with food, tools, and medicines. As they pulled down their hoods and shook off the snow, the crowd of women parted and another round of joyous shouts rose up all the louder… They had brought their children with them. A huddle of tiny dwarflings were standing at the centre of the group, having been protected there from the harsher elements. On closer inspection, Kíli realised that some of the packs the women were clutching to their chests were not supplies, but babies, thickly swaddled in brown fur.

Getting to his feet, Kíli watched as dwarves began to rush from their fires and their tents with ecstatic cries. They ran to meet their women and, with shouts of "Papa!" and "Father!", found themselves set upon by the group of gleeful children. One dwarf was almost tackled to the ground by his two sons who pounced on him before he even managed to get near their mother. Seeing families reunited, relieved and embracing before his eyes brought a lump to Kíli's throat… and part of him sorely wished his own mother had just entered through the Front Gate. But he knew she would arrive in time, and so he contented himself with watching other mothers having their sons returned safely to them.

The children's laughter and avid chattering filled the Entrance Hall, and as they pulled on their fathers' braids and sucked their thumbs, they all peered around the Mountain with wide, awestruck eyes. This was their first glimpse of Erebor; their past, and their future. And Kíli realised then that Thorin had achieved all that he had wanted and more. He had brought the children of Durin home.

A/N: I tried really hard not to make anyone cry with this chapter. So… how did I do?