Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
10. I See Fire
It was almost time for the evening meal before Thorin was able to break away from the small knots of concerned or mourning dwarrow to find his nephews. Besides the Firebeard, they had lost a Stiffbeard and a Longbeard from the Iron Hills, a veteran of both the Battle of the Five Armies and the Siege of Erebor during the War of the Ring. Though he had recalled all the teams after the tragedy on the stairs, the lack of active exploration did not mean that the king would be free to mourn privately. Instead, he had slowly made the rounds among the camps, speaking to any who wished it. Most whispered softly of other times, other sorrows, for the dwarrow had many to choose from, no matter their clan. Some, however, had concerns that Thorin tried not to view as petty, and anger that the king worried might grow.
The main camp had been moved this morning to the great concourse on the second level where the vast markets had once rung with the voices of dwarrow, elves, men, Beorn's ancient kin, and even some early hobbits. With so many hands, ideas, and ways of organizing, it was inevitable that some small items would be misplaced, but there had been things taken out of packs, leaving nothing else disturbed and who was to say whether a barrel was accidently stove in, or deliberately?
There were rumors spreading of some odd enemy plot or ghosts haunting the caverns, but the more plausible explanation was, in Thorin's view, even more depressing – a petty thief. Such a one could not only injure morale, but turn the closest of comrades against one another, let alone those they had been taught from birth to hate. At least the king had been able to have a quiet discussion with Nast on the issue. Who better than Nori's son to look into such a problem? His talents were wasted simply throwing a grappling hook!
Predictably after the trials of the day, Kíli seemed to have found the most isolated corner of the concourse without going into one of the old shops to start their small fire, someone having moved their things over as well. Just now, the prince was sitting slumped, a bowl from the noon meal left forgotten by his knee as he stared with unnatural stillness into the fire. Beside him, Fíli glanced up at their uncle's approach and gave a quick head shake, hands flashing the warning Thorin did not truly need.
'He's feeling guilty and depressed. Walk carefully.'
Abruptly, the younger prince shifted, casting a broken crossbow bolt into the flame with an angry snap of the wrist, making the fire flare briefly. The flash of greater light was quick, but enough for Thorin to see a pale face drawn with sweat and tears before the brown hair fell forward, shadowing it once more. Beside him, Fíli rubbed one hand soothingly up and down his sibling's back while murmuring words too soft for Thorin to catch, firelight making his own mane glint like pure gold.
Dark and light, a true reflection of their inner beings, Thorin mused as he settled down upon Kili's other side, though he did not try to touch his nephew. He knew better. Only Fíli's or Vestri's hand would be tolerated at the moment, with his older brother the more welcome of the two, no matter how much he truly loved his wife. Kíli would instantly shrug away from anyone else, even as he craved the comfort that they offered. These two rarely allowed those outside their small circle of friends and family to see the truth of their inner nature, instead hiding behind the shells they had created that were almost the exact opposite of their actual personalities. Or they had, until their return to life appeared to strip down many of the brunette's protective walls, leaving him raw and fragile.
Kíli had always bounced around, joyful, laughing, teasing, seeming a perpetual child to most… That exuberance had tamed somewhat now, occasionally even becoming visibly forced, a tarnished silver that only showed hints of the light hidden by the dark layer, yet another mask. Those false fronts stayed stubbornly in place, too thick for any to penetrate until he was alone with those few with whom he felt comfortable allowing in. Only they bore witness the fear, anger, and depression that so often took him, a thundercloud that could pass overhead without raining a drop, or the most violent of storms that flattened any with the misfortune to be in its path, even Kíli himself. It was these intense moments that caused his family to worry, when the self-doubt and anger turned inward, and the prince was his own worst enemy.
Fíli, by contrast, showed such a placid, serious, responsible nature that many had wondered how he could put up with, let alone be related to, his irrepressible brother. Hidden under that calm, however, was a wicked sense of humor that could scorch the unwary as readily the sun's hot rays in summer, with a deeply felt passion that could burn those who opposed him. The elder prince of Durin's line was the steady driving force behind his brother's somewhat erratic genius, while Kili's dark, more cautious side could stop the wave of stubborn certainty that sometimes threatened to swamp Fili. The two worked together as a seamless unit that could not be broken apart by the most determined of foes because they consistently read the two wrong, unable to grasp the true complexities of the relationship.
Kíli was dismissed as frivolous, mercurial, when it was actually he who agonized over rulings, examining them again and again from all sides, while Fíli was apt to jump when his heart told him he was in the right, not waiting for the logic to catch up. Such contrasts had proven to be the bedrock of their joint rule, strong and true, but Thorin knew that if an enemy were ever to come along who truly saw to the core of the duo, it could also prove to be their greatest weaknesses.
As the king silently sipped on his own mug of tea, a short form moved into the firelight, bearing two more cups that were handed to Fíli when Kíli made no sign of having noted his presence, merely casting another old quarrel from the pile next to him into the fire. Frodo settled to the ground halfway across the fire from the brothers and their uncle, giving Thorin a sympathetic smile. Even as the king acknowledged that with a tip of his head, his heart ached once more for the dear friend the younger hobbit so resembled. Here, silhouetted by the fire, Frodo could easily have been mistaken for Bilbo, even his darker hair matching what the older hobbit's had looked like after weeks on the road with no proper baths.
During the year and a half the old hobbit had lived in Erebor following Thorin's return to life, the two had become close friends, giving the dwarrow king a vital outlet for the troubled emotions he dared not share with his family. The doubts, fears, and rages when he did not understand, or could not cope with, the changes wrought by his becoming Durin had all been absorbed by the elderly hobbit with an understanding ear, sound advice, or a tart rebuke as needed. In his turn, Thorin had held the other as he mourned the damage he had unintentionally brought upon his own heir with a shared understanding few others could match.
Thorin had long mused over why he had suddenly taken to Bilbo in such a way, and had finally concluded that the old hobbit reminded him of Balin. From the white hair and somewhat acid wit to his kindly nature and willingness to call Thorin a fool to his face, the burglar was the check the king had sorely lacked with Balin's absence. How often had their former burglar sat as he raged against the cult and its elusiveness or chafed with impatience at the slow preparations to retake the Iron Hills? Was this, then, what his own suspicious, stubborn nature had robbed him of during the quest for Erebor? Had he listened to and valued the hobbit then, as Gandalf had constantly urged, might the disaster that unfolded at the foot of the mountain have been prevented? He would never know, but had vowed not to make the same mistake twice.
"Frodo," The former Ringbearer looked up, a slightly strained smile telling the king that the memories must be pressing equally close for the hobbit tonight. "How is Gimli?"
The hobbit laughed lightly at that, rolling expressive eyes in long sufferance.
"He's fine, just sulking and grumbling to Legolas about dwarf tossing and how many bruises he gained this time."
A snort from across the fire let them know that Fíli, at least, was listening, though Kíli remained motionless, a shadow against the stone wall. The oldest prince allowed a small smile as he spoke.
"From what I've heard, he's suffered worse. Gimli just likes to play the martyr; he always has."
"Indeed."
Out of respect for a dwarf Thorin had a feeling he might never see alive again, he refrained from remarking on Glóin's similar, and annoying, tendencies toward drama. By the twinkle in Fíli's eyes, however, he was following his uncle's shaft of thought without any trouble. Now, though, Thorin turned to his younger nephew, knowing that putting off the question would accomplish nothing beyond allowing Kíli to sink deeper into his morass of self-recrimination.
"Kíli… I need to know what happened today."
He was very, very careful to allow no hint of accusation or doubt to color his tone, but the prince flinched as if he had been struck anyway. The response was low and bitter.
"So do I, Thorin." The lack of a familial title was telling. Kíli only reverted to such stiff correctness now when in council, court, or when he felt some action of his had denied him the right to claim such ties, a form of self-punishment that he allowed none to contradict, even Fíli. "It's like… trying to shoot through a fog. I don't always know if I'm seeing a deer or a log… or nothing, then, all at once, things are too sharp, too bright, and I get blinded. I saw- I can't-"
The prince cut himself off with a frustrated growl, hand clenching the black bolt shaft he had picked up so hard that it snapped with a sharp 'crack', making the rest of them jump. Kíli merely huffed in disgust, pitching the pieces into the fire before reaching beside him for another, this one already partially split. Why the prince had decided to take it upon himself to collect all the old, useless projectiles, Thorin had no clue, though they made decent fuel if one could put up with the smell of burned fletching.
"Do you think it is because you're not carrying the Arkenstone?" Fíli asked softly.
It was a good question, though Thorin did not care much for the idea of the unpredictable stone here. Though it was what had first publicly marked Thorin for who he now was, it was a power that the Durins had never dealt with, making him uneasy, wary of something that so clearly had a will of its own. Kíli, however, was already shaking his head.
"No, we considered that before leaving, remember? It seemed to make no difference whether I carry it or not."
In fact, the prince had not actually kept the gem to hand except upon ceremonial occasions for years. Given the thing's penchant for becoming lost or manipulating those around it, Thorin had been relieved when leaving it in the treasure vault seemed to cause no further problems for his nephew. While the Arkenstone had shown none of the taint inherent in the Rings of Power, the king could not shake a deep seated unease about it, either.
"Besides, it's in my pack."
"What?"
Thorin and Fíli blurted in unison, receiving a breathy laugh and roll of the eyes from Kíli before he leaned to the side, fishing in the bottom of his small leather travel case. When he pulled out his hand, the Arkenstone's dancing colors lit up the room, making several of those nearby jerk around to stare at the princes before a glare by Thorin scattered them.
"I thought we had decided you would not carry it!"
Fíli exclaimed, eyes locked on the gem, which almost seemed to be twinkling, as if it had managed to carry off a joke and was laughing at them! Thorin grunted, dismissing that thought as the overactive imagination of a tired mind. He refused to believe any piece of mere stone could have a personality! His younger nephew shrugged, expression a bit sheepish.
"I know, and I didn't pack it, Fíli, I swear! I found it this morning wrapped in one of my extra tunics."
The king frowned, but did not call his nephew on the blatant impossibility of that. Of the royal family, only Kíli would touch the Arkenstone, so only he could have placed it in the pack, whether he would admit to it or not!
"What if it's like the Ring?"
Frodo's question, coming hard on the heels of Thorin's musings, almost made the king blanch, snapping his head around to stare at the hobbit in horror. Across the fire, Kili's face had darkened with what looked to be a defensive objection, but Fíli's hastily raised hand stilled his brother.
"What do you mean, Frodo?"
The hobbit's head darted around to assess one dwarf, and then the others before hastily flushing, shaking his head vigorously.
"Oh! No, not like that, I didn't mean to suggest that the stone might be evil. Even Bilbo had no problem handling it with the Ring no longer around. I meant that the closer I came to the source of the Ring's power, the stronger It grew, able to twist companions, pull at me…" Frodo shuddered, face a bit pale and peaked, but not the bone white it used to get when forced to talk about his former burden. "When I was still in the Shire, I remember that its tug was very light, tentative except for when Gandalf was around. At one point, a Ringwraith was almost on top of us, literally, as we hid in a grotto under the road embankment, but it couldn't find us. Later on, though, the things didn't seem to have to be that close at all. Maybe Kíli cannot feel the rock as easily here because we are so far from Erebor." The hobbit fidgeted a moment before continuing, gaze locked with Kíli. "It would also make me do things that I was not consciously aware of."
Thorin shuddered, a chill flowing through him at the thought of an unknown will manipulating his kin, even if it were benevolent. By Kili's blanch, he had not cared for the idea, either, while Fíli seemed to radiate barely contained anger. Finally, the blonde stirred, one hand still resting on his brother's shoulder.
"He didn't have any trouble last winter in Erebor, and all he had then was a map!"
The object of their discussion rolled his eyes again, casting another broken arrow shaft, this one white, into the blaze with a huff.
"You might try speaking to me instead of about me! I wasn't trying to read immediate changes in the rock last winter, just its present state." The brunette lowered his eyes, hands now tossing and turning the Arkenstone. "I think it might be like the bridge; I couldn't tell that was ready to fall until I touched it. If I stay closer to the front team, maybe I can warn them sooner."
"Or get yourself killed!" Fíli instantly objected, Thorin snapping his mouth shut on his own words and pursing his lips in unhappy agreement. "You can't move as fast, nor fight as long as the others if they are attacked, Kíli!"
"I will not have you put at risk."
Thorin's tone warned of the finality of that decision even as he caught Fíli's eye over the other's head, asking the inevitable silent question. Was now the time to order the princes home? The blonde's frown let him know it was being considered, but his brother erupted first.
"Thorin, I have to! I have to- I can save lives!"
Kili's body tensed, one hand pulling up his ironwood cane as if he meant to press himself to his feet despite his shakiness. The king, however, found his eyes caught by the simple wood, a stark reminder of the disability his nephew now battled daily, and a telling argument for why he should stick with his original pronouncement.
It was not one of a half dozen the prince could choose from back in Erebor, all of them elaborately decorated and made of precious materials, reflecting the various cultures and people who had gifted them to him. Instead, this one was a stout, straight piece of wood bound with iron bands in three places and caps upon its ends, one of which was a sharp point to aid in anchoring if necessary. It had been made by Thorin, patterned after the one carried long ago by Óin, and made to serve as a weapon as well as an aid for faltering steps since the prince no longer carried a sword. The desperation in Kili's eyes, however, spoke of more than just a responsibility; his pale, clammy face glistening with fever in the firelight. The king's eyes narrowed as an incident from their long journey home was brought to the fore of his mind by the sight.
"You felt them die," It was a horrified whisper, "The impact of body on stone, the blood seeping into cracks in the floor."
"I still feel them, laying atop me as they grow stiff and cold."
The words were a bare murmur, brown eyes focused unseeing upon the darkness beyond their camp, with no visible recognition of his horrified listeners. It was not something that any of them had even thought to consider when speaking of whether Kíli should join the expedition to Khazad-dûm; probably because they had all forgotten about it.
With the younger prince constantly attuned to the mountain, there had been no serious mining accidents in fourteen years, and certainly no deaths. The mental toll alone of such a thing… Thorin's stomach twisted at the mere thought. It was akin to volunteering to be tortured! Appalled, he could do no more than stare at his nephew.
The brunette's entire body flinched, almost curling into a fetal position as his face turned as white as southern marble, only the moisture filling too large brown eyes letting an observer know that this was a living being. His breathing was rapid and shallow, hands frozen in place, one clutching the staff, the other the Arkenstone, which was no longer shining with bright colors. Instead, the stone reflected muted blues and silver, serving only to emphasize the extreme pallor of its bearer's face. Kíli gave a gasp of air, and slumped boneless to the cold stone floor, Fíli's darting grasp to stop it catching only empty air, his head impacted the stone with the sickening sound of a watermelon dropped by a careless child on midsummer's eve.
"Kíli!"
Thorin was on his knees beside his nephew in an instant, hands running down the prince's limbs looking for any hidden injuries, though he did not expect any. Thankfully, there was no spreading pool of crimson coming from the dark halo of hair, as he had feared would be the case. He could hear Frodo calling for a healer behind him, but paid it no mind as the young dwarf began to stir at his touch on the prince's face. A shoulder bumped his, and he moved slightly so that there was room for Fíli, as well. Both watched, breathe held, as Kíli stirred, shuddering before brown eyes flicked open to gaze around, dazed.
"F-Fíli? Wha-?"
Fumbling hands attempted to push himself up, grimacing as one sent the Arkenstone skittering across the floor. Fíli and Thorin immediately put arms around their kin's back, aiding him to sit upright as well as guarding against a repeat of the sudden collapse.
"Easy, Kíli, take it slow. You hit that floor awfully hard."
The younger prince seemed to agree, one hand lifting to his head as he closed his eyes, weight suddenly being held entirely by the other two. Thorin frowned, shifting to take all of the burden.
"Fíli, I have him, scoot around behind. I don't want to lay him down flat again on this cold floor."
He could feel the rising fever battling with the chill Kíli had already taken.
"Right."
The blonde had just gotten into position, taking his brother so that the brown head rested against his shoulder, when several dwarrow and a man bustled up, surrounding them. Dwalin, who had moved to stand guard over the royals at some point, scowled at Nast.
"Could you not find a dwarrow healer?"
The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, waved the warrior off with one negligent hand, making Thorin's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. There were not many who would so casually dismiss Dwalin! The healer unrolled his bundle of herbs and other remedies next to the princes, large, dexterous hands already gently prodding at the back of Kili's head.
"I was closest, and I've treated the prince before. Does that hurt, Kíli?"
"Y-yess…"
The prince's single word answer sounded as if he spoke through a mouthful of mush, making the healer's eyes narrow.
"Kíli. Look at me."
"S-stop… Make'em stop."
"Make what stop?"
The man expertly snagged his patient's flailing hands while trying to peer into the prince's eyes. The question, however, seemed to make Kili's agitation worse, head whipping from side to side with eyes squeezed against the light of the candle the healer held close.
"B-bees… buzzin'! Stop'em!"
The injured dwarf knocked aside the healer's hands again, only the man's fast reflexes keeping the lit candle from flying into one of the anxious watchers, and Thorin decided to intervene.
"Kíli!"
Thorin's bark, at least, got the desired response, even if everyone else around them started, including Fíli. Brown eyes flew open to blink dazedly at the man in front of him, then the prince smiled slightly.
"You look older."
The healer laughed even as he slowly moved a finger in front of his patient's face, watching the eyes that automatically followed it.
"That's what happens with men, Kíli. We don't live as long as you do, so fourteen years can make a big difference. Coryn didn't come, he has three little ones he wasn't keen to leave, but he sends his greetings. You seem to have given yourself a nice lump. Guess even dwarrow heads aren't harder than stone!"
Thorin frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he wished Senata had been around instead of this man and his inane chatter. Kíli, however, giggled, and the king began to understand. The light banter was meant to test how much attention his patient was able to give his surroundings, and how much he was comprehending. Giggling like a dwarfling, though…
"Wyvern. Alwa's though-t funny name…"
It was only as Kíli slurred the name with another giggle that Thorin at last identified the annoyingly familiar young man; he was one of the twin healing apprentices who had stayed with the three dwarrow immediately following their return to life in Minas Tirith. With that, the king relaxed, for if he were to trust any healers that were not dwarrow, it would be one trained and sent by Aragorn.
"Aye, it is for a Gondorian, but not for one from the far north. My mother was originally of the people who settled in Fornost, but her parents were exiled when she was young, and they wandered until they were able to make a new life in Minas Tirith. When we were born, Mother told Father he could name one of us – Coryn – and she, the other. Wyvern was a creature from the legends of her people, some sort of lesser dragon. Now, how about you answer some questions for me, instead?"
"Hmmm…"
Kíli made a low hum of agreement.
"Do you know where you are?"
A soft scoff, as if the prince resented such a basic question.
"Khaa-zahhd… doom. Un-uncle an' Fíli wan' me to go home, but I can't. Won't. Nope. Nuh-uh."
"He's acting like he's drunk!"
Fíli glanced down at his brother in consternation, only to receive a bright smile in return. Wyvern chuckled, shaking his head.
"Head injuries do that to some people, Fíli. Adding in the exhaustion and fever, you have a more potent brew than the richest ale. It would account for the slurring, as he's not showing any of the symptoms I would expect to see with a more severe concussion. His pupils are both equal and reacting to light, which is a very good sign. I think it best that we let him sleep. We'll keep a healer watching him through the night and see how he is in the morning. You dwarrow heal fast, which is a blessing, at least, but I don't want him doing anything but resting for at least the next several days."
"He won't."
Thorin assured him with a grim certainty, moving to the side as several dwarrow arrived with armloads of blankets to lay out a softer, warmer bed for the injured prince. Kíli would have the rest and quiet he needed to heal, but after that… Whether he and Fíli stayed or returned to Erebor had yet to be decided.