For three days, Kíli slept.

At first, sleep had been easy. His body had been through quite a lot, after all, and it needed to recover; in fact, what had been difficult was waking up. The first day after his near-drowning had been frustrating—all he wanted to do was sleep, to forget, and yet every few hours either Thorin or Dís would wake him up and ask him questions. What is your name? What is my name? How old are you? They didn't ask him again about what happened, thankfully. He wanted to stay as far away from that topic as possible, a fact of which they both seemed to be aware. At first he had forgotten a few mundane things, which frustrated him—he had had quite enough of memory loss by now. He had had quite enough of a lot of things. Eventually, though, his mind cleared, and the only evidence of his injury was the dark, ugly bruise that enveloped the entire right side of his face.

Óin also was in and out, checking on his head and making sure his breathing was all right. He wished the old dwarf would stop fussing over him—if he didn't care, then why should anyone else? He was forced to drink teas mixed with medicines for two days until his pain reduced to a more manageable level; then Óin seemed to be satisfied with the recovery process and left him alone. Once his kin were sure the concussion had subsided, they all left him alone for longer stretches of time, and he dropped into dreamless bliss for as long as he possibly could, glad to be alone.

When he wasn't asleep and no one was fussing over him, he didn't do much of anything at all. He didn't eat and he rarely drank. Sometimes he would sit in the living room and stare into nothing, trying to think about nothing; sometimes he would sneak outside and watch life go by, trying to figure out how it was possible to go along with it. He never went far, but still his family seemed to panic every time he left the house. Eventually Dís would come running out, searching wildly to the left and right before her gaze rested on her youngest. Then her blue eyes would soften, and she would coax him back inside and beg him not to scare her like that again. As if going outside were a life-threatening thing. He supposed he hadn't set the most trustworthy record.

He could see the worry in their eyes. He could hear the anxious whispers outside his door when he was supposed to be asleep; they thought they were quiet, but he could hear them.

"He still isn't eating."

"I know, Dís. I can see that."

"Well, what are we going to do?"

"We can't force him to eat."

Kíli listened with indifference. It wasn't that he was starving himself—he wasn't. He just didn't bother to eat. He wasn't hungry. His family just didn't seem to be able to grasp the concept that he didn't care anymore. If he was hungry, he would eat. If he was tired, he would sleep. But continuing on with life the way it had been before was impossible. That life was gone, just like Fíli; the world was strange and foreign, and Kíli did not know how to navigate through it.

By the fifth day, Thorin and Dís had apparently had enough.

Late in the afternoon, Dís found Kíli outside, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, staring out into nothing. He heard the door open and close to his left, but he continued staring straight ahead; not until Dís touched his arm did he turn to look at her.

"Kíli, come inside," said Dís gently.

Kíli didn't move. Dís tugged on his arm.

"Your uncle and I want to talk to you," she said. "Come inside. Now."

Kíli let out a sigh and let Dís pull him inside, where his uncle was standing in the kitchen, leaning back against the table and watching him with stern blue eyes. Dís settled beside him, and Kíli leaned back against the wall by the front door. Thorin offered his nephew a soft smile that Kíli did not return; instead, he looked away, avoiding everyone's gaze. He could feel their stares boring into him, but he said nothing, waiting for someone to speak.

Finally, Dís broke the silence.

"We're worried about you," she began. "You're not taking care of yourself, love. You've spoken barely a word since—well."

Kíli shifted uncomfortably.

"It's so unlike you," she continued. "I just want my boy back. What can I do to help you, Kíli?"

Kíli finally looked up, turning his gaze meaningfully onto Thorin. There was only one thing he wanted—only one thing he needed.

"Can you get Fíli back?" he said.

Thorin's mouth dropped open as he struggled to find words.

"Kíli…" he said hesitantly. "I promise you, I will do—I am doing—everything I can to get Fíli back."

A spark of anger lit in Kíli's heart. That was a lie. Thorin wasn't trying. He hadn't done anything. He swallowed and closed his eyes, pushing the feeling down as best he could. I don't care anymore.

"Kíli?" said Dís nervously, but Kíli ignored her and addressed Thorin instead.

"Don't lie," he said, his voice already shaking. It felt so odd—feeling something, anything, after the past five days. But he was angry. He was tired of lies. Fíli had lied to him, and he had almost died because he had believed him. Now Thorin was lying to him, too, as if that would make anything better. If he wasn't going to do anything, he should just say so—false hope was no hope at all, and he refused to be deceived.

"I told you, I promised," Thorin said, but Kíli clenched his teeth and shook his head. The spark in his heart was quickly growing to a flame, and he wasn't sure he could control it for much longer. He couldn't speak; if he spoke, everything would come tumbling out. Everything. His fingers began to tremble.

"Are you all right?" said Dís. Kíli pressed himself back into the wall and crossed his arms protectively over his chest, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. I don't care anymore I don't care I don't care,he thought, but he could not stop the flames that licked up to his head now. He could hear them crackling and roaring, and his face grew warm as he fought against this violent emotion that tried to take him over.

"Please talk to us, Kíli," said Thorin. "We want to help you."

It was too much. Something snapped, and before Kíli even understood what he was doing, he had launched himself at Thorin, his fist flying towards his uncle's jaw. He made contact with a loud thud, and Dís let out a cry of shock and pulled him back before he could land another punch. Kíli struggled against her grip, but he could not get free; Thorin stared at him, wide-eyed, one hand over his jaw.

"Help me?" he shouted hoarsely. "This is all your fault! If you had just listened to me in the first place, this never would have happened! Fíli would be fine! All you had to do was listen to me! You never—ever—listen!"

With a quick move that not even Dís could have anticipated, Kíli wrenched himself free and dove at Thorin again, burning with rage. This time, however, Thorin was prepared, and he caught his nephew's wrists before his fists could touch him again. Kíli pushed, but Thorin pushed back forcefully, and Kíli stumbled backwards. He tripped over his own feet and fell hard on his bottom, the force of his landing knocking all the wind out of him. Instantly Dís was at his side, but he rolled away from her onto his knees and touched his forehead to the floor, gasping painfully and covering his head with his hands. Moments passed in silence as nobody dared to move.

Suddenly his anger was overtaken by a violent wave of remorse and grief, vast and overwhelming and quenching his rage in an instant. His gasps turned into a silent cry, his mouth hanging open soundlessly; then a hoarse, animal sound emerged from his throat, long and wild and grieved. He took in a sharp breath and began to sob loudly, his body shaking and his fingers curling into his hair.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry—I'm so—so sorry—I d-didn't mean…" His voice dissolved into another keen as anguish rolled through him wave after wave. Everything that he had been forcing back into numbness was rushing at him at once—he had tried, he had tried so hard, to keep this at bay, to tell himself that he didn't care, but he did. He always had.

"Oh, Kíli, come here," said Dís, taking him by the arms. She pulled him up to his knees and settled on the floor in front of him, hugging his shaking frame tightly. Kíli held himself rigid, ashamed of his behavior. He didn't deserve to be comforted after such a heinous, disrespectful act.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered again. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry—"

"Hush, now, my love," Dís whispered, and Kíli pressed his lips together and nodded, but he could not control himself. He felt so weary and defeated and helpless, and he was tired of holding it back. He had held everything in too long. So he let it out. He rested limply in his mother's arms and let the tears fall. He let his mouth hang open and he did not try to stop the awful sounds that left his lips. Fíli would call him pathetic—and maybe he was. Pathetic without Fíli, anyway. He was only half there.

That was what hurt the most. He felt like a large part of him was missing without Fíli; he had never been without him. Not for very long, anyway—maybe a couple of days here or there, and even that had been strange to him. But this was something else entirely. And if he were honest with himself, it wasn't Thorin's fault at all. Kíli understood why he had had doubts. Thorin didn't have the connection with Fíli that Kíli had—that Kíli used to have—so of course he wouldn't have felt the same sense of foreboding with Fíli's absence. Kíli knew whose fault it really was: his own. If he had not made Fíli angry, his brother would still be here, smiling and joking by his side. But Kíli had been a fool, and he had brought this upon himself. Now he truly felt like half of him was gone.

He cried like a child in his mother's arms for a long time. She simply held him close and kept silent, letting him cry as long as he needed to. Finally, after what felt like forever, his sobs quieted to hiccups and gasps, but still Dís did not let him go—and he didn't want her to. He was tired of being alone.

"U-uncle," he said suddenly. He lifted his chin to rest on Dís's shoulder, and Thorin crouched into view before him. His uncle's eyes were red, but there were no tears on his face.

"I-I'm sorry," he choked. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known."

Thorin sighed and looked down briefly before meeting his nephew's eyes.

"No, you were right, Kíli. It is my fault," Thorin said. "I should have listened to you. I am sorry I didn't believe you."

For a long moment, neither dwarf said anything. They simply looked at each other, seeking forgiveness in the other's eyes and finding it in abundance. Kíli closed his eyes again and buried his nose into Dís's neck with a shuddering sigh. He felt completely drained and he didn't feel any better about anything. He was painfully aware that nothing had changed just because he had snapped; the thought almost sent him back into tears, but Dís pulled back and took his face in her hands. She kissed his hair and then touched her forehead to his.

"Stop," she said simply.

Kíli nodded and took a deep breath to steady himself, wincing at the twinge in his side. His mother stood and held out her hands; he took them, and she helped him to his feet. Thorin pressed a handkerchief into his hand, and he took it gratefully and wiped his face clean.

"Don't lock yourself away," Thorin said, and Kíli paused and looked at him. His eyes were soft and sad. "I've seen many a dwarf lose themselves to madness in their grief, and I don't want the same to happen to you. You're—you're irreplaceable, Kíli."

Kíli wanted to speak, but he didn't trust himself with words just yet. Instead he nodded as he mulled over Thorin's words. Grief. Grief meant something had been lost and that it would never come back.

Suddenly a familiar feeling reared up in Kíli's mind—a feeling he had almost forgotten about in the past several days. Stubbornness. No—he would not accept that Fíli was gone forever. He had let himself sink too far in the aftermath of Fíli's attack, but he would not sink so low again. He straightened his back and his shoulders and swallowed. Thorin had made him a promise, and now Kíli would make the same promise to himself. He would never give up, never, until he had gotten Fíli back or died trying. Not even if it took a hundred years. He would search, and he would fight, and he would go to Mordor itself and back if it meant that he could have his brother back again. Nothing and no one would stand in his way and succeed. He was going to win. He was going to save Fíli.

He owed his brother that much.