A/N: This chapter heavily references Race Against Time. If you haven't read it, you may be confused. Sorry.

The next thing Kíli knew was that he couldn't breathe.

Water shot from his lungs and burned through his windpipe, and he was coughing, he couldn't stop coughing, and his whole body ached. How was there so much water in his lungs? He gagged, and someone flipped him over and supported him as he vomited. When he had finished, he returned to coughing, the water still burning, but coming up slower now.

Everything hurt.

"Kíli, can you hear me?" called a panicked voice out of the darkness. Someone was holding him, someone with strong arms, but he couldn't place it. He tried to take in a breath, but he just coughed again. Water and spittle leaked down his chin, and his mouth hung open loosely. Finally he was able to take in a breath, and he sucked in a lungful of air.

His chest exploded in pain.

Kíli cried out weakly, incapable of doing more. The world was still dark, and the only thing he was aware of was pure agony and a terrifying inability to breathe. His fingers curled around fabric, and he clutched it weakly, wheezing painfully. The person holding him turned him over onto his back and rested a hand on his brow.

"Kíli, are you awake? Can you open your eyes?"

Kíli groaned between wheezes and forced his eyes open just enough to catch a hazy glimpse of Thorin leaning over him, his face showing a raw fear that Kíli had never seen before. He let his eyes close again—keeping them open was too exhausting. His lungs hurt so much…

"Let me go!" cried another voice, and Kíli opened his eyes again, searching for it. His eyes rolled in his head, and he coughed again; he tried to push himself up, but his limbs would not obey, and he stayed in place.

"Don't try to get up," Thorin said. "You almost died—don't push yourself."

Suddenly the memory of what had happened came rushing back. Fíli beating him, holding him under the water—then accepting his fate and allowing himself to die. But he hadn't died. Somehow, he was still alive, though every breath felt like he was being stabbed in the chest. He moaned despondently before losing himself to a harsh bout of coughing. His insides were on fire; the last time he had felt this much pain, he was in bed, on the verge of death with pneumonia, and it was not a feeling that he had ever wished to repeat.

"Thorin, I can't hold him back much longer!" called a distinct and familiar voice. Bofur. Thorin suddenly left his side, and he was alone in the grass, gasping. He turned his head to watch his uncle, who made his way towards Fíli being held clumsily by Bofur.

"Don't you dare move!" Thorin roared, and Kíli started at the force of his voice. Fíli started, too, and he stopped struggling against Bofur's grip and stared at his uncle.

"Have you absolutely no humanity?" Thorin continued, his voice losing none of its volume or power. "You would resort to assault? To murder? You would attempt to kill your own kin?"

"He's not my kin!" Fíli shouted, pulling forward, but Bofur still held him.

"Take him back to the jail!" Thorin rumbled dangerously. "Do whatever you need to do to get him there—knock him out if you have to. But make sure he gets there and stays there!"

"Aye, Thorin," said Bofur, his normally cheery face drawn and weary. He pulled at Fíli, but Fíli pulled back viciously, throwing Bofur off balance. He recovered quickly and regained his hold on the blond before he slipped away, and Fíli growled. Thorin started towards him, then stopped, turning to look back at Kíli; the concern radiating from his expression was almost tangible.

"Dwalin! Glóin!" Thorin called then, and Kíli faintly heard the two dwarves call back. Soon their forms emerged from the nearby wood, and they dashed towards the scene before them.

"Dwalin, with Bofur," Thorin ordered. "Get Fíli to the jail and for Mahal's sake, don't let him get away. Glóin, get your brother and meet me at my house. We need him immediately."

Dwalin and Glóin nodded, both of their gazes straying to where Kíli lay wheezing in the grass. Then they did as they were told, Glóin dashing off and Dwalin taking over for Bofur in keeping Fíli compliant. He growled something that Kíli could not hear in Fíli's ear; suddenly Fíli went pale and stopped fighting, and Dwalin and Bofur led him away between them. Thorin turned back to his youngest nephew, but for a moment, his gaze was unfocused, and he stared out into nothing; the broken, betrayed look on his face was so unrestrained, so acute, that for a moment, Kíli was afraid. He didn't know why, but that look frightened him in a way he had never felt before.

Then the expression disappeared, and Thorin set his eyes on Kíli. He ran over and knelt at his side.

"You're going to be all right," he said, his voice wavering. "I've got you, my boy. How's your breathing?"

Kíli shook his head and wheezed. He raised his hands weakly to sign. I can't breathe.

"Do you think you can walk?"

Kíli tried lifting his head, and the world spun around him. He dropped back into the grass and groaned, shaking his head.

Thorin wasted no time in scooping Kíli into his arms; he held him close to his chest and ran clumsily with his burden. Kíli tried not to think about the scorching fire in his lungs as he was bounced along, but every breath was agony, and he wished that the pain would just stop.

He wished everything would stop.

Kíli was frozen to the spot.

A wolf prowled a little distance away, far too close for comfort, eyeing Fíli and Kíli hungrily. I've done it now, Kíli thought. It knows I can't run. I'm wolf food.

"What is it?" Fíli said, following Kíli's gaze over his shoulder and stiffening as he saw what Kíli saw.

"It's fine," Kíli whispered, trying to sound calm and failing miserably. "It's all right... right? It hasn't seen us."

"Shut up," Fíli hissed. "It's looking straight at us. Of course it's seen us." He stepped in front of his little brother, pushing the brunet firmly behind him. Kíli's bow dangled loosely from Fíli's fingers.

"Shoot it," Kíli whispered frantically. He knew Fíli wouldn't want to, but they didn't have a choice. In his condition, there was no way that Kíli could handle a bow. His fingers twitched.

Immediately Fíli's head began to shake violently, and Kíli reached for his arm and squeezed. It was supposed to be reassuring, but it seemed desperate even to Kíli.

"Fíli, I can't shoot," he said, pushing down his frustration. He knew Fíli was scared, and it would be no good to overwhelm him. "You're going to have to do it. It's going to come after us. Look at it."

Fíli shook his head again, and Kíli held back a groan. They were going to die—the wolf was prowling closer now. Kíli wished he could use his own bow; if he weren't so badly injured, the wolf would be dead by now. Either Fíli overcame this fear or they were both going to die at the jaws of this wolf. Or, at least, Kíli was. There was no way he could outrun the beast with his injury.

"Fíli, don't be foolish! I'm fine. I'm back here. Now use the bow."

Suddenly Fíli's demeanor changed; he straightened, and his head cocked to one side loosely.

"All right," Fíli said, shrugging off Kíli's hand. "All right, I will." Slowly he raised the bow and fitted it with an arrow, but he did not aim at the wolf. He turned, slowly, until the arrow was pointed at Kíli.

"Fíli, what are you doing?" Kíli cried, dodging out of the way, but Fíli adjusted his aim to point at his brother again. Kíli's heart was thumping in his ears loudly, and he felt cold with fear.

Fíli said nothing; his eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a cruel smirk. Kíli backed away, hands raised in surrender. He dared to glance past Fíli to the wolf, but it was gone. The only threat now was one that he never would have guessed and never would have believed. Tears built in his eyes, and he gasped harshly in terror.

"Please, Fíli, stop this," he begged.

"Pathetic," Fíli murmured, and then he released the arrow.

Kíli awoke with a panicked gasp, and instantly piercing pain in his left side followed. He let out a strangled cry and his arms flailed, his hands coming in contact with a body, and instinctively he latched on, his fingers curling into the fabric of someone's shirt. Someone else's hands pulled his fingers away, and whoever was carrying him laid him down on something soft—a bed. His bed. He wheezed harshly, every breath like a dagger to his chest.

"It's all right, Kíli!" said a deep voice. Thorin's voice. "You're safe. We've got you. We've got you."

He was panicking. Kíli knew he was panicking, but that awareness did nothing to stop it from happening. He gasped again, and his chest flooded with pain that overwhelmed his other senses. Blindly he reached out for someone, anyone—someone to hold on to. He was dying—he knew he was dying. Was he dying? Memories and sensations mixed and mingled, leaving Kíli confused. He was cold, so cold; his teeth chattered and his body trembled, and the constant stabbing pain in his chest left him breathless.

"Get him out of those wet clothes and under the covers," ordered a familiar voice that Kíli recognized as Óin. Wet clothes? When had he gotten wet? He had been in bed for weeks, hadn't he? Hands pulled at him, peeling off his tunic and trousers and undergarments, and blankets were hastily pulled over him. Vaguely Kíli was aware that he should be mortified by this treatment, but his thoughts were in such a disarray that he couldn't bring himself to care. He struggled to remember what was going on around him through the fog of pain and confusion.

His left side hurt terribly—so terribly. In fact, his entire chest burned, and Kíli remembered this pain. Pneumonia—he had pneumonia, didn't he? He was dying. No, he had died, and then he had woken up. Fíli had been so angry that he would surrender—he had shouted at him. How many times do I have to watch you die, Kíli? How many times do I have to watch you give up and hope that someone is there to keep you alive? Tell me now, just so I know when I should give up on you.

"F-Fíli," Kíli croaked.

"Not now, Kíli. Just relax," said Thorin.

"Where?" Kíli said. Full sentences took too much breath.

"Where what?" Thorin said, sitting down on the bed.

"Where's... Fíli?" he said. Mahal, he hated this pain. He wanted Fíli by his side. He needed to apologize. Didn't he need to apologize? He wasn't sure.

"He's not coming anywhere near you," Thorin said bitterly.

Confused, Kíli pulled his hands out from under the blanket to sign in Iglishmêk.

Why?

"Thorin, I need to look him over," said Óin impatiently. "He's having far too much trouble breathing, even given the circumstances."

"Don't you remember?" Thorin said, ignoring Óin and studying Kíli's face worriedly.

Kíli stared at his uncle and searched his jumbled thoughts for the answer. What did he remember? He remembered pain in his side from the arrow wound... everything had gone wrong since then. He had caught pneumonia, and now he was dying. Fíli had driven himself to sickness with worry and guilt...

He raised his hands shakily to sign—breathing was still too difficult—and then stopped, staring at his left hand; his fingers curled and twitched and didn't easily obey the signals he sent to them. Alarmed, he looked up at Thorin, who in turn got up immediately to let Óin sit at the bedside. He took Kíli's left hand and examined it carefully, and then pulled out a pin and poked the tips of Kíli's fingers, nodding when his patient hissed and pulled back.

"Make a fist," he said.

Kíli curled his fingers into a fist with a small amount of difficulty, and Óin nodded again.

"Now stretch out your fingers."

Kíli did as he was told, grunting as his fingers wavered instead of stretching out completely, but Óin seemed satisfied.

"Probably temporary," he assessed. "But I'll keep an eye on it." He gave Kíli back his hand, and Kíli looked to Thorin worriedly.

Fíli's sick, he signed.

"That's one way of putting it," Thorin growled.

What on earth was Thorin talking about? Where was Fíli?

I need to tell him I'm sorry, Kíli signed.

"Thorin, talk to him later," Óin said in a warning tone.

Thorin reluctantly stepped back towards the door, looking at his nephew with the most curious look. Kíli stared back at his uncle.

"Out," Óin ordered. "I'll call you back in after."

With one last glance, Thorin left the room, and Kíli and Óin were alone.

"Look at me, lad," Óin said. "Tell me what is going on. Where does it hurt?"

Kíli gave Óin an incredulous look and pulled down the sheets to his waist. He looked down at his arrow-wound, and then paused; there were no bandages, and the wound was long-since healed. Only a white scar remained.

"Kíli, for Mahal's sake," said Óin in utter shock. "Why wouldn't you tell me it still bothered you?"

Kíli barely heard Óin's rebuke as he stared down at his scar. His confused thoughts came together then, and he felt a cold chill of horror sweep through his entire body. He wasn't dying of pneumonia. That was thirty-seven years ago. His dream had swept him into the past, and now he realized what he had just done. Thirty-seven years of secrets crumbled away in an instant, but the horror was short-lived. A second icy chill swept through him as another realization assaulted his mind.

Fíli tried to kill me.

Kíli was unpleasantly forced back into the present as he remembered Fíli holding him down in the water, drowning him, telling him you're not going to follow me anymore. He remembered giving in and allowing himself to drown. If he had to live in a world without Fíli, he would rather not live at all. But he was alive—still alive—and Fíli was gone forever. Fíli hated him. Fíli wanted him dead.

Kíli wanted to be dead.

Silent tears fell down Kíli's cheeks, and he fell limp, closing his eyes and turning his head away from the old apothecary. He didn't care anymore. The pain could continue forever, and he wouldn't care. He could lose his eyesight and his hearing and his ability to speak, and he wouldn't care. The world could burn down around him, and it wouldn't matter in the slightest. Kíli had already lost everything. Kíli had already lost Fíli.

"No, no, no, stay with me," Óin said, pulling Kíli's face towards him. "Look at me. This is important."

Kíli opened his eyes and stared at Óin morosely, but he said nothing. The only sound he made was the labored wheezing that meant he was regrettably still alive. Óin looked at him for a moment, tight-lipped, but Kíli simply closed his eyes again. A moment later his left eyelid was being pulled open, and Óin was staring into it; then he did the same with his right. Kíli suffered the indignity with indifference, letting Óin do as he wished. He didn't care anymore. Fingers were pressed lightly to the side of his head, and he hissed involuntarily as the pressure stung.

"The whole right side of your face is black and blue, lad," Óin said. "How many times did he hit you?"

Kíli didn't want to answer. He didn't want to do anything, but Óin pressed again: "How many times, Kíli?"

With reluctance Kíli slowly signed back, forcing his left hand to work as well as he could. Punched, three. Kicked, once.

Óin made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat and took Kíli's head in his hands, studying the right side closely. His rough thumb brushed an especially sensitive spot, and Kíli hissed again; Óin pulled his thumb away, revealing a flash of bright red against his skin. Quickly the grey dwarf reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle and a roll of cloth and set to work, applying slave to his patient's head and then wrapping it in the long bandage. Kíli closed his eyes as Óin worked and wished for sleep to come, but infuriatingly, it eluded him. Óin finally set his head back down on the pillow and snapped his fingers close to Kíli's nose; the brunet opened his eyes begrudgingly.

"I'm going to ask you some questions that I need you to answer," he said kindly. "First off. What is your name?"

Kíli merely glared and said nothing. He wasn't going to play these games. He didn't care anymore.

"Your name," Óin prompted again, but still Kíli was silent. Óin sighed and frowned at his patient; then, seeming to give up for the time being, he turned his attention to Kíli's torso. Lightly he pressed on each of Kíli's ribs, searching for fractures. He went up the right side without incident, then started down the left. With a furtive glance at the young dwarf, he pressed on the scar over his ribs, and pain lanced through Kíli's side and cut off his ability to breathe. Kíli lifted his knees instinctively and struggled to pull in any air at all, but he was stuck. He smacked Óin's hand away and covered the spot with his hand, rolling onto his side away from the old dwarf and gasping painfully.

"You could have told me," Óin said sadly. "I'd have helped you, had I known."

Kíli ignored him and pressed his wrist into his bandaged forehead. I don't care I don't care I don't care, he thought. Go away.

He heard Óin's footsteps leaving the room, and for a moment, all was silent; then he heard Óin speaking in the kitchen to Thorin and Dís.

"He'll live," Óin started. "Definitely a concussion, but he won't speak to me, so I can't determine how bad it is. He's having difficulty moving his left hand, as you saw, Thorin—probably related to his head injury. I think he was confused when he first awoke… he seemed to think he was still a young lad, suffering from pneumonia. He knows where he is now." He paused. "Moreover, I believe the water in his lungs damaged his breathing and irritated his arrow-wound. He seemed to be aware of it—did either of you know if it had been bothering him?"

No no no no no, Kíli screamed in his head. They can't know. But then another thought occurred to him—he had been keeping this secret for so long to protect Fíli, not them. Fíli was the one who had shot him. Kíli didn't blame him for the accident, but he knew that Fíli would never stop blaming himself, and he would be completely crippled by the guilt if he knew that it still bothered him. But now Fíli was gone, and he had no reason to hide anymore. Who cared if Thorin and Dís knew? Fíli didn't even remember doing it now.

"I had a suspicion," Thorin said, much to Kíli's surprise. "I didn't want to believe it—and I wanted to protect Fíli… but after he almost drowned last week, I could tell something more was going on."

"He told me that it hurt when he couldn't remember anything," Dís added. "He said it was a sharp pain."

"And neither of you thought to tell me?" Óin scolded.

"He wouldn't tell us if we confronted him about it," Thorin countered. "What were we to do?"

It was true. If they had asked, Kíli would have completely denied it.

Óin sighed. "I'm going to mix something for him to drink," he said. "See if you can get him to talk to you. I need to know how bad that concussion is."

Kíli cringed as he heard his mother and his uncle enter the bedroom. He lay still, ignoring them, as Thorin sat down on the bed behind him and Dís took the space in front of him. Gentle but calloused hands pulled his arm away from his forehead, and then Dís's hand was gently stroking the unbruised side of his face.

"Kíli, open your eyes," she said softly.

Slowly Kíli obeyed, raising his gaze to meet his mother's. Her expression quickly became alarmed as she looked into Kíli's eyes, and she glanced up at Thorin briefly. Then her gaze returned to her son, and she put on an insincere smile.

"My love, we need to know how bad your head is," Dís said. "You don't have to speak if you don't want to. You can use Iglishmêk if it hurts to talk. Take your time."

So there was no getting out of this. Kíli nodded his head lightly.

"Tell us your name."

Kíli pulled his right hand away from his ribs and signed his name, avoiding using his left hand as much as he could manage. Kíli.

"Can you tell me what my name is?"

Dís, Kíli signed.

"And your uncle?"

Kíli rolled his eyes and signed Thorin, throwing in Oakenshield for good measure.

"How old are you?"

For a moment, Kíli was confused, and he furrowed his brow; then he remembered and signed sixty-two.

"Hm," Dís said, eyeing him skeptically. Kíli closed his eyes. He was done with questions, and he wanted everyone to go away.

"Tell us what happened," said Thorin.

"Thorin!" Dís warned.

"You're supposed to ask when someone has a concussion," Thorin said pointedly. "Now—please, tell us what happened."

"No," Kíli said. He didn't want to remember.

"Kíli, you need to talk to us," Thorin said. "This is important."

Kíli buried his face into Dís's leg and moaned despondently, but his mother did not comfort him. Instead, she pulled him into a sitting position, setting up pillows behind him, and looked at him expectantly. Kíli looked at his kin stonily and said nothing.

"I'll tell you what we know," Thorin said. "I sent Bofur in early because I had a bad feeling… and I was right. He came and got me immediately when he discovered that you both were gone, and I called together whoever I could get—only Dwalin and Glóin, as it turned out. We split up and went on a search, and found you…" Thorin's voice broke, and he looked down. "Bofur pulled Fíli off of you. I thought you were dead," Thorin said. "You weren't breathing."

Kíli stared at Thorin, muted emotions stirring in his heart. I don't care anymore I don't care anymore, he said to himself, but he knew it wasn't true. It hurt, and he couldn't stop that.

"Now fill in the blanks," Thorin said. "Please. For your sake and for ours."

Kíli sank into the pillows behind him and avoided looking at his uncle and his mother. "Kíli, please talk to us," Thorin pleaded.

Kíli glared at him.

"And then we'll leave you alone," Dís added.

Kíli acquiesed reluctantly and began to sign with some difficulty. He would keep it short—then they would leave him alone, and he could go back to trying not to exist.

He tricked me, he began. He said he remembered me and he didn't. He beat me and ran away, and I followed him to the creek. Then he beat me again and pulled me into the creek.

Kíli signed flatly, reporting the events without emotion. He was too tired and in too much pain to care anymore; in that moment, he decided to push the anguish away and allow numbness to overtake his heart. Thorin and Dís watched him warily, their blue eyes matching in dismay and alarm at Kíli's demeanor. When he had finished, they exchanged glances, and Kíli could sense what they were thinking. They had never seen him like this before; he had never been like this before. He had never been without Fíli before, and numbness felt like his only choice, since death did not seem to be an option.

Óin entered the room then with a mug in his hand and held it out for Kíli to take. Kíli eyed it warily, raising an eyebrow at the old dwarf. Anything made by him tended to taste awful, and he would rather not if he could get away with it.

"It's tea," Óin said. "A few herbs to ease your breathing, and a painkiller for good measure. Don't worry, it's tasteless."

For once. Kíli reached out for the mug and drank, and to his surprise, the tea wasn't horrible. It didn't taste delicious, but it wasn't that bad, either. He avoided the eyes boring into him and finished it quickly, then handed the mug back to Óin, who smiled and set it down on the bedside table. Already his breathing was easier, though his lungs still burned and his left side still throbbed with piercing pain; he took a few experimental breaths, wincing when he reached his pain threshhold.

"Take it easy, Kíli," Óin said. "Stay in bed and rest." He looked at Kíli with narrowed eyes, as if he could see the numbness overtaking the young dwarf, and Kíli shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "One of you should stay with him," he continued. "Wake him every few hours and ask him questions to make sure the concussion isn't getting worse."

Dís nodded gratefully to her cousin. "Thank you, Óin," she said. "We'll make sure he is taken care of."

"Please call for me if anything changes," Óin said, chancing a look at Kíli, who was startled to see an actual glint of worry in the typically phlegmatic dwarf's eyes. Then he dipped his head towards his kin and left the room.

"I'll stay with him for now," Dís said to Thorin. Her brother nodded and stood, rubbing his beard and looking at his nephew dolefully. He trudged out of the room slowly and closed the door behind him.

"You heard Óin, my love," Dís said, laying a hand on Kíli's arm. "Just rest for now. I'll be here."

Kíli gave his mother a melancholy look, and then he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, irritated. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to lie down and—well, he didn't know what he wanted to do. He wanted everything to stop, he supposed, but that was impossible. Whether or not Fíli was at his side, the world went on, and he had to go on with it.

The only problem was he didn't know how.