A gentle breeze stirred the dark hair on Kíli's face, tickling the bridge of his nose and rousing him from his sleep. He blinked the fatigue out of his eyes and stretched, reaching out for his mother; when he touched nothing but air on all sides, he bolted upright with a gasp.

"It's all right, Kíli," said Dís from his left. "I'm here."

Kíli turned his head and saw her by the window, and his shoulders slumped, the initial anxiety leaving him. Dís sat down on the bed and smiled.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she said.

Kíli looked down at his hands gathered in his lap. "I'm not shaking anymore," he said. He pressed his palms into his temples and closed his eyes. "But there's this—this tightness in my chest, and it won't go away." He gritted his teeth as he fought back a wave of fear that tried to crash over him; Dís took his hands in hers and pulled them away from his face.

"Kíli," she said gently. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Kíli's shining brown eyes met the deep blue of his mother's. In those eyes he could see a deep care and concern, but there was something else there, too—a sadness and a fear that confused him. Was she worried for him? No—that look said something else, and a small spark went off in his mind that told him that he knew why. But as quickly as the spark had come, it died, leaving Kíli in the impenetrable darkness without flint or tinder, and he simply shook his head.

"I—I don't know what happened," he said. "I know I should, but I don't."

"I won't push you, then," Dís said. "Dwalin told me what happened when—" She stopped, and her eyes widened. Kíli stared at her, perplexed.

"What is it, Mum?" he said, trying to find Dwalin in his memory.

Dís pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. Then she met Kíli's gaze with a wan smile.

"Never mind," she said. "Come, get up and I'll make us some breakfast."

Shadows began to stir in Kíli's mind, fighting to creep into the light, but at the moment, there was nothing. Kíli swallowed back his growing unease and nodded, throwing off his covers. He stood up and stumbled, but he caught himself before he fell. Dís's hand was suddenly on his back, and he jumped; she rubbed his shoulder blades gently, and he relaxed. You are safe, he told himself. You are home. You are safe.

But something didn't feel quite right. Something was missing…

"Kíli, come on," said Dís.

Kíli obediently made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the table. As Dís busied herself pulling together a meal for her son, he studied his surroundings, searching for anything that would bring back memories. Yes—this was home; he could recognize that now—but it felt empty somehow. He looked at the chairs around the table. There were four, counting the one he sat upon, and he knew that the number was right. Him, Dís… and who else?

"Mum?" he said.

"Yes, my love?"

"Who else lives here?"

When no response came, Kíli turned to look at his mother. She stood leaning on the counter with both hands, looking down. Kíli's stomach lurched and his heart began to pound. What's wrong? What did I do?

"Mum?" he said, an edge of panic in his voice.

Dís spun around and tried to smile, but it was wan and insincere, almost pained. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat, and Kíli could clearly tell that she was trying to hide her distress as she leaned silently against the counter, avoiding his eye. What had happened? An icy chill of panic trickled down from the top of Kíli's head down through his entire body, and his hands began to shake again.

"Mum, what's happened?" he cried, frozen in his seat. Dís simply shook her head, still refusing to look at him, and Kíli heard a rushing wind start through his ears.

"Dís, are you all right?" came a deep, rough voice from the hall. Kíli yelped and covered his head with his arms, his nose touching the table, and stayed there, trembling.

"I'm fine," came Dís's shaky reply. "I'm all right."

"Kíli?" said the same deep voice, and large hands touched his shoulders. Kíli flinched, but he didn't move, petrified.

"Thorin, you're scaring him," Dís said; the hands lifted from his shoulders, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Thorin. Why couldn't he remember him?

"I live here too, Kíli," Thorin said. Kíli looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Thorin took a seat and sat rigidly, watching Kíli study his face, but still he found no answers. Frustration burned in Kíli's chest, and he looked down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with a trembling finger. He glanced at the fourth chair.

"And my father?"

Kíli did not have to look up to know that Thorin and Dís were both staring at him; he could feel their eyes. Their silence was unnerving, and Kíli bit his lip, fighting against the fear that tried to grip him. He returned to tracing the grain on the table while he waited for a reply.

"Kíli, your—your father… he died a long time ago," said Dís finally. "You were still a baby."

Kíli's head shot up and his eyes widened. His Da? Dead? A sinking feeling dropped down through Kíli's stomach as Dís's words sank in. He heard the distant sound of someone calling his name, but he slowly shook his head and ignored the voice.

This couldn't be true. He didn't want it to be true. But he knew it was. His memory of his father wasn't missing at all. He didn't even have memories in the first place. He balled his hands into fists and bowed low, sick with frustration and grief. But I want a father, he thought. I need a father. He could feel the aching, empty place in his heart growing stronger as his grief grew heavier. Even if he could remember everything that he had ever known in his entire life, there would still be a blank, empty space where a father should be.

"Kíli, are you all right?" said Thorin gently.

"Who are you, then?" Kíli burst out. He couldn't figure it out. He lived here with them, and though Kíli could not explain why, there seemed to be some kind of steadfast strength that emanated from his being and brought him inexplicable comfort. If he wasn't his father, who could he possibly be?

"Kíli…" Thorin whispered, his barely more than a breath. He stood and stepped forward, his expression raw with grief, and squatted down to Kíli's level. He reached out with both hands, and Kíli flinched; Thorin drew back and looked into his eyes pleadingly.

"I'm your uncle," he said. "Your Uncle Thorin. Don't you remember me?"

Kíli glanced from Thorin to Dís, seeking confirmation, and Dís nodded. He slowly turned his gaze back to his uncle and stared, searching as hard as he could in the darkness of his thoughts for something, anything, to latch on to, but nothing came to light. He wanted so desperately to remember, to know this old, dark-haired dwarf with piercing blue eyes, and to be free of this oppressive fear that clung to his insides like a stubborn frost. He needed to remember.

"Help me, please," Kíli whispered.

Thorin stared at Kíli with wide eyes, a thousand thoughts and emotions flickering within his deep blue gaze in the span of a moment. His mouth opened and closed as he stuttered.

"I—I don't know how," he admitted finally.

"Please," Kíli begged. "Try something—anything. I just want to remember."

Thorin swallowed and nodded. He leaned towards Kíli with a sudden jerking motion, and Kíli gasped and jumped back, his heart pounding.

"It's all right," Thorin said. "I will not hurt you. You have my word."

Kíli nodded and tried to control his breathing, but each breath was coming in faster than the last, and his fingertips and his nose and lips were starting to tingle. Thorin reached out again, and before Kíli could pull away, his hands were on his face. Kíli let out an involuntary shriek, but Thorin pulled him forward until their temples met and held him there. Kíli moaned and tried to escape as half-memories of terrifying visions danced in his head, but Thorin held fast, keeping silent. Uncle Thorin, Kíli said to himself. He will not hurt me. He gave his word. But still he could not stop the cold fear clung to him just as fiercely as Thorin did. His uncle's thumbs began to move, gently stroking his cheekbones. Kíli relaxed some under the comforting motion, so unlike the cold hands that he remembered from before.

"I'm not your father, my boy," Thorin said evenly over his nephew's hysterical gasping, "but I have always done my best to be one to you. Think, Kíli. Remember me."

Kíli grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. I can do this, he told himself. He won't hurt me, he's my uncle, I have an uncle.

"Uncle Thorin," he mouthed, fighting the fear and forcing himself to think. "Uncle Thorin. Uncle Thorin. Uncle Thorin…"

"That's right, Kíli," said Thorin. "I know you can do this."

Kíli let out a frustrated sob and shook his head slowly. "I can't—I can't," he said.

Thorin pulled away and looked into Kíli's eyes, his own lit with a pure blue flame.

"Yes, you can," he said.

"But I can't," Kíli protested, his voice cracking.

Thorin searched the air for memories; then, snatching one, he turned his gaze back to Kíli.

"I taught you how to use a bow," he said. "Do you remember?"

A shadow stirred in Kíli's mind, and he blinked rapidly, keeping his eyes fixed on Thorin. His uncle seized upon the recognition in Kíli's eyes and continued.

"Your br— others said a bow wasn't very proper. Very dwarven. But we knew better, eh? Not everything is close range. A bow comes in handy. Do you remember me saying that?"

Kíli nodded, his brow furrowed as a dim memory crept out of the darkness, but its shape still could not be seen. A smile twitched on Thorin's lips.

"And the first time you hit a target right on the bull's-eye—I was so proud. Do you remember what I said to you?"

"'You have the makings of a great warrior, Kíli,'" said Kíli automatically, and half a moment later, the full memory followed. Thorin. Uncle. Standing tall over a tiny, dark-haired dwarfling with an equally tiny bow, pride shining in his eyes as they stood before a perfectly shot target. He had been so happy in that moment. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, and soon a broad grin spread across his face as the floodgates opened and memories came rushing back. Sword training with Thorin and Dwalin; studying books with Balin; scraps of other memories with other kin. He remembered.

A bright smile lit up Thorin's face at the recognition in Kíli's eyes, and he pulled his nephew into a crushing hug. Kíli immediately returned the embrace, clinging tightly to his uncle as part of the fear in his heart dissipated.

"Uncle," he said into Thorin's shoulder.

"You did it, Kíli," said Thorin joyously. "I knew you could, my boy."

Suddenly Kíli's rush of memories hit a dark wall, and he stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of Thorin's tunic as he gasped.

"Kíli, what's wrong?" said Dís. Thorin attempted to pull away, but Kíli held on tight and dropped his head onto his uncle's shoulder.

"Something is still missing," he said. "Something important. I can feel it."

"Let me go, lad," said Thorin gently, and Kíli relinquished his hold on his uncle. The old dwarf held him at arm's length by the shoulders and studied his face.

"What do you remember?" he said.

"N-nothing—I-I mean—I'm not sure," Kíli said. "I remember lots of things… You, Mum, Balin, Dwalin, Glóin... our family and friends—it's coming back, I think. But something is missing, and I don't know what."

Thorin turned and caught Dís's eye; they exchanged wary glances, and Kíli narrowed his eyes.

"Are you keeping something from me?" he said.

Both siblings quickly looked back to Kíli.

"You've been through enough stress for today, my love," said Dís. "And you haven't even had breakfast. Come, let us all eat together, hm?"

They're hiding something. He could see it in their eyes. But even as the shadows moved behind that dark wall, nothing further came forth, and Kíli tried to put it out of his mind. Pressing closer to those hidden memories only made him anxious and afraid, and he had had quite enough of that. Even so, whatever it was that he had forgotten—it was not a small thing. It was something important; something very important, and the fact that Thorin and Dís seemed to know and were unwilling to tell him did nothing to calm him down. He looked again at the fourth chair at the table, and for a fraction of a moment, he could almost see someone sitting there—someone with golden hair and a confident grin. But then the image faded into shadow, and Kíli slumped in his seat, disappointed. Who had he just remembered?

Kíli's patience was wearing thin. He had spent a good portion of the day with Thorin, doing mundane activities that had undoubtedly been chosen to keep him calm. Every time he tried to bring up those missing memories, Thorin pulled him off the subject and gave him something else to do. By lunchtime, his fear had almost been forgotten as frustration burned fiercely inside him. He scowled over his lunch silently, trying to think of some way to get his uncle and his mother to broach the subject.

"Can I ask a question?" he said finally.

Thorin and Dís both stopped what they were doing and looked up at Kíli, their faces wary.

"Kíli, I don't think—" Dís started, but Kíli interrupted.

"No, this is a different question," Kíli said quickly. He had planned this; if he started with a subject they were willing to address, perhaps he could steer them towards whatever they were trying to hide. "I want to know about my father."

"Oh," said Dís. She abandoned her dishes and sat down with her brother and her son at the table. "What do you want to know?"

Kíli shrugged. "Anything," he said. "What he looked like. How he acted." He glanced down at his food and lowered his voice. "How he died." He kept his eyes on the table in the silence that followed and waited for someone to speak.

"Well," Dís started, "he looked a lot like you, Kíli. Or—you look a lot like he did."

Kíli looked up. "Really?" he said.

Dís nodded. "He did. Except he didn't have dark hair—that comes from our side." She nodded towards Thorin. "His hair was a dark blond, and he always wore it quite long… but he would braid it in the front, just like Fí—" She stopped and covered her mouth with her hand, cringing.

Kíli barely noticed her blunder; his mind had caught hold of the image of golden hair, and a face was forming beneath it—a face he knew. There was a confident smile, just like he had seen before, and blue eyes, crinkled at the corners with joy.

"I remember him," Kíli gasped.

Dís lowered her hand and looked hard at her son. "Kíli, you weren't even two years old when he died," she said. "You couldn't remember him."

"But I do," Kíli said ardently. "Blond hair and blue eyes—"

"He had brown eyes, just like you," said Dís. Something had changed in her voice; now it was hard and wary, and Thorin was staring at him, too. What did I do now? he wondered, unease rising in his stomach.

"Well, then, what—"

"Do you want to hear more about your father?" said Dís. Kíli gave her a strange look, but he nodded, and Dís looked relieved.

"He was selfless, very selfless," she said, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "Proud, too, like all dwarves are, but he… he didn't have the vices that we of the royal line have. He was—he was better, better than we were."

"Royal line?" said Kíli.

"Yes, Kíli," said Thorin. "Do you remember the history of the Dwarves? Of Durin the Deathless?"

Kíli searched his mind for Durin, but he could not find it. He shook his head.

"The father of the greatest of the Dwarves. Ruler of Khazad-dûm—reborn to us to rule our people at certain times in history. You are descended from him, Kíli—as am I."

Khazad-dûm. The name sparked in Kíli's mind, and he remembered learning about the ancient halls and of Durin the Deathless, and even later of the loss of that great kingdom to Durin's Bane. Then the Dwarves had settled in Erebor until it had been lost to the great fire-drake, Smaug… Yes—he remembered, but this memory brought him no joy.

"The rightful king," Kíli said softly. "To Erebor. That's who you are, isn't it? You're not just my uncle—you're a king."

"An exiled king," Thorin said bitterly. "But yes, Kíli. I am the rightful King Under the Mountain."

Kíli nodded, going over this information in his head. Thorin was his mother's sister, and Thorin did not have children of his own. But he knew also that he was not Thorin's heir—and then he hit that dark wall again. That's it, he thought. There's someone missing. Someone important. He pushed at the darkness, but it pushed back, and an icy chill spread through his veins, making his fingers tremble.

"Kíli? Kíli, focus on me," Thorin said, his voice seeming to come from far away. Kíli forced his eyes upwards and locked onto his uncle. Thorin took hold of his wrists.

"Focus, Kíli," he said. "Don't go there. You don't have to force yourself."

Kíli nodded and pulled away from that dark place; he tried to think on anything else, anything but that darkness that frightened him so.

"M-my father," Kíli said. "How did he die?"

Thorin's brow furrowed. "That doesn't seem like the best choice of topic," he said.

"No—please; I want to know," Kíli said. "How did he die?"

"He drowned," Dís said softly, and Kíli turned his eyes to her face. Her lip trembled, and she could not meet her son's gaze. "He—he was selfless, so selfless—but sometimes I wish that he had been a little more selfish."

"What happened?" Kíli said.

"There were two dwarflings playing by the creek, and they fell in," Dís said, wiping tears from her eyes. "He jumped in and rescued them, but it had been raining and the creek was high—I don't know how he got that second little boy out and not himself. He knew how to swim. It was like something held him under. I still—I still don't…" She trailed off into a sob, and Thorin quickly moved to her side and wrapped his arms around her. She turned into his embrace, burying her face into his chest, and began to weep. A dwarf's grief was deep and slow-healing, piercing and poisonous, and Kíli regretted pressing her on such a painful matter. He looked down at his hands silently as Thorin comforted his little sister and pondered the story he had just heard. It seemed familiar, somehow—and not just because he had heard it before, which he now realized that he had. Light was filtering into the dark places of Kíli's mind, and a memory was slowly coming through. A mirthful, lilting voice; two hands on his back; then water, lungfuls of water, until Fíli pulled him out—

"Fíli," Kíli gasped. Of course. How could Kíli have forgotten his own brother? How could he have lost the most important person in his entire world? His eyes shot to that fourth chair. Fíli. Of course it was Fíli. His blond hair and his blue eyes, and that ever-confident and yet slightly mischievous grin, framed by two braids dangling from his upper lip. His steadfast and constant rock that kept him grounded, his best friend.

Where was he?

"Where is Fíli?" he said, straightening and looking at his mother and uncle. They broke apart and looked back, their expressions identical—they both look nervous, unsure, and even grieved. Fear seized Kíli's heart when neither of them answered.

"Mum? Uncle?" he said nervously.

"He's—he's out," said Dís; she stumbled over her words clumsily and refused to look Kíli in the eye.

"Out where?" Kíli said suspiciously.

"Just out and about," Dís said, her eyes flickering between Thorin and the open air.

"Dís," said Thorin, a warning in his voice that Kíli could not interpret. He looked back and forth between his kin, trying to decipher whatever they were saying without words, but he could make no sense of it. Something is still missing.

"What's happened to Fíli?" he said. Even as he said it, however, the darkness reared up against him, and he winced. Suddenly, he didn't want to remember. Whatever it was, it was important—so important—and he didn't want to know. But what about Fíli? he thought, and his mind warred against itself. He wished his brother were right at his side, with his comforting warmth and strength and surety. But Kíli was alone, and a cold, grating voice whispered to him out of the darkness that something has happened to Fíli.

"Kíli, calm down," said Dís anxiously.

"Tell me what's happened!" Kíli demanded, though his mind said No, no, I don't want to know. His fingers curled into fists as his thoughts became cloudy and disjointed. Stop, his mind said. Stop this.

"You need to relax," said Thorin, his eyes wide with alarm. "Now is not the time, Kíli—not when you are like this."

"Is he all right?" Kíli said. "Just—just tell me that he is all right."

"Please don't," Dís said. "Not now. Not right now."

Kíli stubbornly held on to his question, searching his own mind for the answer. He remembered Fíli rescuing him from the creek… helping him home… then Fíli getting in trouble for his mistake—then it struck him like a lightning bolt.

"Shut up." Fíli threw on a dry tunic and sat down on the bed, pulling his boots back on hastily. "I'm going out. I'm not dealing with you right now."

"Fíli, please…"

"Don't talk to me!" Fíli snapped. He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

"He left," Kíli said. "He was angry with me, and he left. Where did he go?"

"Kíli, you need to stop," Thorin said authoritatively. "Trust me when I say this. I will fix this. I will take care of this."

"Take care of what?" Kíli demanded.

"I think it may be better if you don't know," said Dís meekly. "Your uncle is right. You need to calm down. Please, Kíli."

"Where is my brother?" Kíli screamed, rising to his feet. Somewhere in that darkness, Kíli knew, he knew that something had happened—something horrible—and he was terrified. Not the cold, icy terror that clung to him, but a hot, burning fear that consumed him and said He's dead, he's dying, he's been captured, he's missing—any and every possibility ran through his mind, and he knew the answer somewhere deep down, but he could not bring it to light. The idea of spending the rest of his life without his brother turned his stomach upside down, and suddenly he gagged. He turned away from the table and fell to his hands and knees, breathing raggedly. He was sick, he was going to be sick and he didn't even know why, and then he vomited with tears streaming down his face, heaving over and over until finally he had nothing left in his stomach. He pitched forward with a groan and would have landed in his own sick, were it not for Thorin's strong arms wrapping around his middle and pulling him back. He fell shuddering into his uncle's chest and did not move.

"Stop this, Kíli," Thorin said. "You're working yourself up."

"H-he left because of me," Kíli croaked. His mouth was sour with bile and his throat was sore. "Where did he go? Where is he, Uncle?"

"That is enough," said Thorin. "We are not going to discuss this now. Look what you have done to yourself."

"I need Fíli," Kíli said tearfully. "Please—please tell me—at least that he's alive."

"He is alive," said Thorin gravely, "and we are done discussing this. Come into the living room and relax."

Kíli numbly allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and led to the living room. His mind was in a haze, and now he was exhausted and his abdomen hurt from heaving. Thorin pulled him over to the couch and sat him down; he immediately pulled himself into the corner and drew up his knees, hugging them close to his body.

"Stay here," Thorin said. "And please, Kíli—calm down. Think on happier things. Don't do this to yourself."

Kíli sniffled and nodded, and Thorin left the room. Kíli buried his face in his hands. Somehow, even though the terror had lessened and his memories of his family had returned, he felt more alone now than he ever had in his entire life.