A/N: Sorry it took so long to upload this one! I'd gotten caught up with school and summer activities. (And, once again, reviews are much appreciated. Thanks!)

Kili jolted out of his bed at the sound of screams. He rushed to his window and threw open the shutters, then peered over the windowsill to see what was going on. He saw dwarves rushing out of Erebor and down the mountainside. There were some words mingled with the screams, and he strained his ears to pick them out. "Fire!" some said. "Hurry! Get out!"

Could this be a dragon? No, there would be more fire. Kili could see that nearly everyone was outside the mountain by now; he had to get moving. He turned and grabbed a knapsack, filling it with extra clothes and a few keepsakes. He strapped his sword to his belt and grabbed his bow and quiver, then stepped out into the hall.

The fire was burning down the hall, a several yards away, and approaching quickly. Its heat was searing, and Kili could feel beads of sweat forming. He hurried away, head bent, clutching his possessions to his chest for fear of dropping them. After a few feet he stumbled into someone, making them fall over. He stopped and reached out a hand to help them up. Their grip was familiar. As he helped them to their feet, Kili looked at their face closely. Under the soot and ash, he saw his nephew. "Kazryk!" he said, "What are you doing here? Where is Fili?"

"He went back to check on you." Kazryk replied, calm despite the approaching flames. "He's dead now. Burned to ashes." He began to laugh, a crazy, childish giggle. "Fili is dead. Fili is dad. Dead dad. Dead dad." He sang and laughed, skipping away, back to the fire. The flames engulfed him, but still he sang. "Dad is dead! Dead dad! Dead dad!"

Kili dropped his knapsack, the horror overwhelming. "No," he whispered. "No!" Fili couldn't be dead. Not after all this. He'd saved him so many times. He couldn't just go like that. Not helplessly, waiting as the flames and the heat consumed him. He'd always said that if he was to die, he'd do it in battle, fighting for his kingdom, his family. This was not fighting. This was cowardice.

Kili ran towards the fire, determined to save his brother. The flames surrounded him, but in his determination, the heat was merely a tickle, a warm breath against his skin. It comforted him, in a way. If the flames couldn't touch him, they couldn't touch Fili.

Kili reached his room at last. He saw a figure lying on his bed, facedown, arms stretched out to either side. He ran towards the bed, then cautiously turned the body over to see who it was. Ashes and burns covered their face, but Kili could make out a few strands of golden hair. His gut twisted. On the dwarf's right hand was a ring, thick and worn with time, covered in ancient dwarf-runes. Kili looked to his own hand. There was a ring, exactly the same, on his finger. It was a symbol of their bond, given to them by their uncle, Thorin, the first year after Erebor was reclaimed.

At last the heat engulfed Kili, and he stood, arms spread, welcoming the flames. He screamed and screamed, screamed from the burning and the pain, screamed for his brother, his nephew, his family. The fire burned, both his body and his mind. He could feel himself sinking, slowly turning to ash. He couldn't move, nor speak, nor cry. His life flashed before him in a blur; he saw himself and Fili as children, chasing each other and giggling; he saw his journey to the Shire, all with his brother; he saw the reclaiming of Erebor and the crowning of Thorin; he saw Fili holding Kazryk, newly born; he saw himself, burning beside his brother, screaming. All of these memories were with his brother, his only brother, the one who meant the world to him.

The fire around him grew darker, as if the flames were turning to shadow, and the pain became a numbing cold. The floor beneath his feet crumbled, falling into a deep pit, and hands, dark hands, reached up and grabbed him, dragging him downwards. He struggled, trying to free himself, but it was no use. He looked up, and saw the stars covered by dark clouds.

A hand, pale against the surrounding dark, reached down from above. Kili gripped it tight, and the hand pulled him up, up away from the darkness and the shadows, and he saw the stars at last. The hand still held his, and he heard a voice, faint with distance. "Kili! Kili, can you hear me? You're having a nightmare, nothing more."

Kili recognized the voice as Gandalf's. He opened his eyes, blinking against the daylight. Gandalf peered down at him worriedly. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." His head hurt, but there was no fire. The silence was almost deafening.

Gandalf patted him on the shoulder. "I'll get you some water." He rose and went to a small dresser near the window. As he poured water from a pitcher into a small glass, he spoke, saying, "Kazryk has been taken."

Kili sat up. "What? By who? Elenwen?"

"I'm afraid so."

"We must go now! There's no time to lose." Kili threw off his sheet and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness struck him and he fell back onto his pillow, groaning.

"Wait until you're fully recovered, my lad," Gandalf said, handing him the glass of water. He drank it tentatively. "She'll wait for us to come."