A/N: Hello, dear readers. Welcome back. I'm sorry for vanishing for the past… *counts fingers*… four months. REALLY, I AM SORRY! This proved to be the worst academic semester I've ever had (and hopefully shall ever have). Too many required credit hours, too many labs and studios. I was in a very bad place mentally for a while… but here I am, home at last with the few sane remnants of my mind left, an almost 4.0 GPA, and a promotion to the dean's honor list! As I take a healing rest at home I shall continue this story from where I left off. Expect updatesies, yes indeedies, preciousss!

Let me take a moment to give an extremely-belated public thank you to my darlin' reviewers jaymzNshed, BarbedWire, Bourbon Rose, Lady Ravenshadow, Purestrongpoem, MistakenMagic, Thousandsmiles, Iamlizshort, the girl who is here, 1monster2, GregsMadHatter, Gladoo89, Booksnake3, Death to elves, Fíli and Kíli themselves; a guest reviewer, She-Elf4, Noelani618, twiffy31, and AllieB.

It is with great pleasure that I and my muse, The Blue Canary, present you with this brand new chapter, hot off the press and ready for reading. Enjoy.

Arc I: Growing Pains — Chapter IV

"Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes;

fathers that children with their judgment looked;

and either may be wrong."

– William Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream"

The tickling beads of sweat trickle heavily down my forehead and gather on my brow. I grunt with annoyance but otherwise ignore them, frowning in concentration as I shape the blade before me. The water droplets spill down my face when I frown, and proceed to dribble down my chin; I suck in a breath of air at the irritating sensation and sharply shake my head, momentarily losing focus and almost losing grip on my tool.

"Careful, daydreamer," chortles Kíli from somewhere nearby. A loud hissing noise tells me he has finished beating the dents out of his assigned buckler and is cooling his hammer in the nearby water bucket. "You'll be apt to drop things with butter fingers like that."

"I'm being careful," I snap a little too sharply. "It's this cursed heat; I'm dripping wet and it's beginning to interfere with my work!" Groaning, I stretch my aching back and then resume my bent posture over the longsword I'm working on. "Curse and confound it all," I grumble to no one in particular, "Why can't we open the door or the shutters and get some air?"

"Dwalin says it's too windy today," Kíli replies, more subdued. "It could cause problems with the fires by putting them out or whipping them too high."

"Of course they could," I sigh tiredly, running the blade through the flames again. I exhale heavily, trying to relieve the prickly tension building in my chest. As I finally pull the sword out of the fire I pause, turn to my younger brother with an apologetic smile, and make an effort to be humorous. "Nevertheless, if I entirely succumb to the heat and melt away altogether, the sheer amount of water I'd leave behind would surely put all the fires out—and that would be a problem."

The dark haired dwarfling grins at me, quick to forget my harshness, and shakes his head. "Indeed. Perhaps we ought to put you outdoors for a while to collect yourself… and maybe I ought to come with you to make sure you don't wander away in a daze, like the old man you are."

Before I can even so much as open my mouth to lightheartedly protest against that used-to-ad-nauseam joke, Thorin intercedes as he passes by with his arms full of empty scabbards.

"No—no breaks," he says in a firm voice. "You had one an hour ago and there's no time. There's much to do before the day is done."

Kíli stares at our uncle's retreating back with a dour expression before he straightens up, glances at me, and returns his attention to his buckler. I chuckle quietly, shaking my head at my petulant brother as he swings the little shield over his arm with a mildly annoyed huff and stalks off, presumably in search of his next assignment.

I have always loved the forge and all its elements—the musty smells of the smoke, wood, and coal; the bright sounds of metal beating against metal; the blowing heat and splashes of water at the cooling troughs. It has long held a spell over me. Once, at the age of four, I cunningly hid in an immense pack of Dwalin's when he stopped by our home for a visit while on his way to the forge. Thus I eventually snuck my way into that forbidden place, where I wandered around an entire thirty minutes unbeknownst to all. It wasn't until I decided to enthusiastically help pump the bellows (and nearly burned off someone's whiskers in the process) that my presence was discovered. I nigh scared the daylights out of poor Uncle Thorin—and worse, my mother, who upon our return scolded the both of us severely, though only one of us was truly guilty of any crime.

Due to my great promise of talent (and probably because I wore Mother down with my endless begging), Thorin began my forge training a little earlier than customary. I had barely turned twelve** when we started, but in my eagerness I learned fast and progressed quickly. Kíli started a few years later; he too holds promise and surely would progress more rapidly, if only he could concentrate long enough. His heart just isn't in the trade like mine is. He tires quickly of the overwhelming heat and strenuous atmosphere of the forge, and the brute strength required for much of the work is not something for which he is well adapted. Balin thinks he would've been more suited to the fine art of jewel-craft, for Kíli's fingers are slimmer and lighter than average, and he has an eye for design and meticulous detail. Unfortunately, ones in exile cannot afford jewels with which to craft, so there is no way to train my sprite of a brother in what was once a common vocation for our people. We must make do with our lot, humble as it is.

We have always struggled to maintain a small sense of prosperity, and these days are no different. Though it is not as bad as when Kíli and I were very small, times of late have become difficult for the dwarves. Our elders try to hide it from the younger folk but Thorin has been very blunt with me. Perhaps it is against his better judgment—for I somehow doubt he would tell me if he felt he had a choice—but he explained to me in distressing detail the fine fiscal line we are walking on. The local economy has grown poor; costs of common goods have soared, and the dwarves have begun to feel the pinch. It is with great gravity—and obvious regret— that Thorin informed me he will have to keep me and Kíli in the forge more often; not for measured training sessions, but long hours of actual work. I accepted the news silently, innerly disquieted by the dark circles under his eyes and grim set of his mouth. He didn't need to tell me how much we were legitimately needed.

That was three weeks ago, and there has been no sign of economic improvement since. Kíli and I have been at the forge almost every day, and there is little time for our studies. My brother seems rather pleased by that little detail but of course I doubt he understands the severity of the situation. How could he? I venture a glance at him now; he's busy sharpening a Man's set of daggers while sticking out his tongue in almost comical concentration. I shake my head; no— he is but a flighty-minded child. He does not comprehend.

An aggravated slam on the work table next to me jolts my mind to the present.

"Pay attention," Thorin admonishes me sharply, "A wandering mind easily leads to an accident."

I wince inwardly at his hard stare and pull the longsword out of the fire, where it has sat too long. "I'm sorry. It was but a moment, Uncle."

"A moment is all it takes," he says sternly, pulling the sword out of my hand and examining it with well-trained eyes. "These are tools, not toys. Real injury can be done to oneself or to others if you're not careful."

I try not to bristle at his rebuke, but the long hours have made me weary and uncharacteristically short of temper. "Yes, sir," I mutter, "I know it." Twice now in less than ten minutes I've been upbraided while performing the same task—first, by my less-experienced brother, and now, by my guardian. As if I, of all people, am ever truly not careful.

Uncle Thorin raises his eyes at my sullen tone and his frown deepens. "Then act like it," he growls. "You know better."

Back-talk has never been tolerated by my uncle even in the slightest; I curb my tongue before I can say something stupid, and instead lower my gaze in a manner I hope appears contrite. After a beat of silence my guardian continues with a sigh. "This is looking well," he says, changing the subject and turning the weapon in his hands. "However, it could be better." And with that he inclines his head slightly and I step aside, allowing him to demonstrate his skill.

For the next hour or so we work together on different orders, something which in days past I would have been excited to do; it's an experience I normally relished. Part of me always gets a tiny bit giddy when I get to work with Thorin on equal terms. These days, however, tensions in the forge are running dangerously high. I'm not here to gain classroom knowledge, but to help support my family; work is aplenty, time is short… and so are tempers, especially Thorin's. Even on his best days my uncle can be grumpy and gloomy, but I'm old enough to understand that those types of moods generally have nothing to do with anyone in particular; they are usually brought on by old, grievous memories. However, on my uncle's bad days—when he is taut as a bowstring due to some inconceivable matter and easily provoked to ire—there is little one can do but stay out of his way and say as little as possible. When he's in this black mood it is virtually impossible to please him. It's folly to reason with him and one must never, ever argue. Kíli and I learned from a young age that when one has to deal this Uncle Thorin, everything is strictly 'Yes, Sir; no, Sir,' and 'As you say, Sir.' Anything less will be perceived as ill-mannered; any more, as sass. Thus, it is with this delightful version of my guardian that I currently find myself attempting to work with in the already-stressful environment. I do my best to satisfy the demands he makes of me but of course it is for naught. Every time my craftsmanship falls short of what he asks of me Thorin's impatience rises another degree, as does my own carefully-guarded annoyance. I dare not protest when he asks me to complete something in a manner that exceeds my skill, knowing that either way I'm ultimately doomed to displease him. Rather, I try my best to harden my skin to his clipped tones and abrasive remarks, while biting my lip against the rising urge to verbally lash out in weary frustration.

In my heart of hearts I know Thorin doesn't truly mean to act so angry. The severity of his temper is irrational; I know that normally he would be pleased with my efforts and would appreciate the amount of work that I am doing. I remind myself that he is under great stress: he is overwhelmed by not just the responsibilities of caring for our family, but from seeing to the well-being of everyone's families. Such is his burden to bear as our leader. A lesser dwarf would crack under the pressure, but not him; he never complains. He simply does what is needed in the time and manner in which it must be completed, and I say to myself once again that if it means his negative emotions have to explode once in a while, then it is alright. He doesn't mean it.

But it's not alright. As he hammers a broadsword a little harder than necessary, explaining something about its fancy golden scabbard in a flurry of words, my hand clenches by my side and I focus on keeping my breathing even. I know I should be more forgiving but today I can't and I wish that for once Uncle didn't have to be so selfish in his emotional rampage. If only he could see past his own anger for just five minutes. . .

"You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" Thorin snaps, turning from the anvil and straightening up. Despite my current aggravation I shiver at the black cloud hovering over his eyebrows and I take a deep, measured breath through my nose.

"No, I… I heard you, Uncle." It's not a falsehood but it's not an entirely true statement, either, and we both know it.

Thorin grimaces. "Then what did I just say?"

I sigh harshly, my thin façade of forced calm threatening to crack any minute. "You—I don't know, I just missed the last few words—" Thorin rolls his eyes and I raise my voice ever-so-slightly; "—I was thinking about what you've been saying, is all."

"If you insist on 'thinking' more than listening, then maybe I ought not waste my breath in attempting to explain this to you, and instead allow you to figure it out by yourself," he says coldly. "There is too much to be done still and I cannot waste my time instructing you if you are not prepared to listen." And with that, he slaps the hammer into my palm before turning on his heel and walking briskly away. I allow myself the brief and admittedly unsatisfying fantasy of throwing the hammer at his head, before I force myself to turn away and focus instead on the damaged scabbard before me. Curse him and his melodrama, I think to myself. Regardless of what Thorin believes, I was actually paying attention—mostly, anyway— and I can certainly perform the task better without him looming ominously over my shoulder.

"Grouch," I breathe to myself in self-indulgent temper. "Good riddance."

"Good riddance to what?" Kíli inquires as he sidles alongside me. He looks as gangly and awkward as a dirty child who'd been playing in a coal bin. His bare arms are filthy, the rolled-up sleeves stained and damp with sweat. A large smudge of soot graces his left cheek and he looks positively exhausted, but the usual sparkle in his eye has not abated in the slightest. How is it that he seems to be enjoying myself when I cannot? He ventures a glance in Thorin's direction before looking back at me, gesturing with his head slightly. "Been giving you a hard time, has he? He's in an awful state today."

No worse than it's been in days, I want to admit. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem wise to be grumbling about my ill-tempered guardian when we're in the same room together, even if he is out of earshot. Instead, I simply shrug.

"It's of no consequence," I say dismissively. And with that, I turn away from Kíli and begin working on the ornate scabbard by myself.

As usual, my younger brother refuses to allow me to stew in the juices of my brooding temper for long. He decides that the best place to polish an entire stack of blades is close enough for me to hear him jabber on and on about Mahal-knows-what. He takes great pains to engage me in conversation but for the longest time I refuse to cooperate, still too angry to take part in idle chatter. Kíli cheerfully makes up for my silence by talking enough for two. For a while I am irritated by his insistence but gradually his prattle has an oddly calming effect on my nerves. Another hour passes, I am well through another order, and finally I allow myself to fall into idle conversation with him. We laugh quietly about some things or another before he suddenly looks up at me with suspiciously wide and soulful eyes.

"Alright, smarty," I drawl with amusement, "What's brought on The Look this time?"

He puts aside the leather scabbard he'd been repairing and leans in close to me. "I have a great idea."

I snort, pointedly ignoring the suspicious look on his face and continuing to sharpen the arrowhead in my hand. "I don't doubt it, but you'd better stop right there," I tease.

"Oh, hush! Listen, tomorrow—" And Kíli leans in even closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratory whisper; "—we ought to cool off from all this dreadful baking and go swimming."

My eyebrows shoot up and my head follows suit as I meet the sight of my little brother's beguiling expression, his face inches from mine. "Don't you mean 'wading', kiddo?" I ask in an adult, matter-of-fact kind of voice, "Seeing as how you can't actually swim?"

He remains unfazed by my mock solemnity, and only stares at me unblinkingly with soft brown eyes, waiting.

A slow grin sneaks up my face and I pat Kíli's un-smudged cheek. "Well, of course the answer is yes, you little fool." I chuckle. "Sometimes, and only sometimes, Brother, your better ideas are actually reasonable ones." He matches my grin with one of his own and I nod at him firmly. "It's a plan: you and me at the river, sometime tomorrow."

"You and me," he echoes brightly as he reseats himself, his eyes suddenly narrowing and his nose scrunching up, "As far away from this stinkin' place as possible," he hisses.

At that moment I become extremely thankful for Kíli's hushed tones for at that precise time Thorin approaches from behind him.

"I've just finished up here," I declare, loudly enough for Kíli to realize that we are no longer alone; the younger dwarf starts a bit and turns quickly on his stool.

"A-And I as well," he stammers, hastily picking up the scabbard he had set aside somewhat carelessly. Thorin, however, looks past him and addresses only me.

"Remember this?" he asks curtly, suddenly presenting me with the golden scabbard belonging to the broadsword I'd worked on earlier. "You did not shape that section correctly, after all."

I frown in dismay as I rise to my feet. "What do you mean?"

"It is flawed," he says, flipping the scabbard in his hands and proceeding to point out several things. "You will need to rework it before it is in an acceptable condition. As it is we cannot return this to the customer and expect payment."

My cheeks flush in mixed embarrassment and misplaced resentment. The look on my guardian's face tells me he thinks I earned this for 'not paying attention' when he had spoken to me before, and he sternly awaits my response. Kíli looks on with an expression of discomfort, and I will myself not to redirect my attention to my shoes; instead, I square my shoulders and bravely meet Thorin's stormy gaze.

"I apologize," I reply with my customary smoothness, "For not doing a better job. I shall start over first thing tomorrow morning."

"No," Thorin says quietly but firmly. "You will work on this right now. This was to be completed today, and if it is put off until tomorrow we will fall behind on the numerous other orders queued up."

Every aching muscle screams in hapless protest and I glance out the window at the darkening sky outside. "But, Uncle, the hour grows late," I protest wearily. "Couldn't I just come earlier in the morning so there would be no 'falling behind', as you say? It would seem—"

"You will stay until the job is done," my uncle barks sharply, abruptly losing the little composure he'd appeared to have regained. "I never allow anyone in my forge to produce shoddy work and then leave for the day without setting things to rights—and this," he adds, placing the wrapped scabbard in my unwilling hands, "Is shoddy work. Fíli," he continues, exasperated; "I expect better of you! All afternoon your mind has wandered; I warned you; and now this is proof of your distraction. Now go, make the repairs and then, and only then, you can call it a night."

The forge has grown silent. My mouth has turned to cotton, reeling as I am from the rare verbal chastisement, and in a sort of a daze I follow his pointing finger back into the heart of the forge. I avoid looking left or right at the others around me and move straight ahead; I choose a station and stoke the dying fire, shame slowly being replaced with hot anger at each new pump of the bellows. It's not that I am angry for being corrected; rather, for how it was done and for what reasons. My work was poor and I accept the responsibility for that, but my work suffered because I was tired like everyone else, not because of childish distraction. But of course, Thorin can't see that. He'd rather turn it into a judgment of my character. It's as though he's accusing me of laziness, and that infuriates me.

What would it hurt to acknowledge my effort, and pull me quietly aside to point my errors in a manner meant for my ears only? Must always he insist on embarrassing me in front of others? Why does he do this?

I begin shaping the scabbard anew. I try to tell myself Uncle Thorin is as tired and frustrated as I am, and he is justified in mistaking my mental fatigue for inattentiveness. I try to tell myself that he knows how difficult this all is on me and Kíli, that he appreciates us, that his immense emotional baggage is not our fault, and that I shouldn't take it personally. I know him well enough; I should be able to easily believe it.

I watch the metal glow and soften in the flames while I grind my teeth. Somehow, none of these thoughts help at all. The fact is, his words still hurt no matter how justified they are or not.

To be continued…

A/N: Perspective. Sometimes that's all it is: a matter of perspective. Lack of communication, false perceptions, and jumping to conclusions on one or both sides of a situation can be deadly! Ah, poor dwarves. Please don't hate on Thorin too hard; my regulars should know how much I adore and respect his character. :-)

Please feed the muse! He's grown rusty at the feels and the ol' bird needs motivation to hop back on the bandwagon. CAN WE HAZ ENCOURAGEMENT?

**When Fíli says he was "twelve" when he began his forge training, he'd be roughly the human equivalent of a nine year old. (consult age chart on my profile)