"Anything?"

Thorin looked up from his books with both hands on his head. Kíli leaned on the frame of the doorway to his uncle's study, rubbing his left arm, and Thorin sighed and removed his hands from his long hair. He seemed to gauge his words carefully before he spoke.

"Kíli, give me time," Thorin said gently. "This is not a situation I—or anyone else, for that matter—has dealt with before."

Kíli pressed his lips together and gave a short nod, fighting the burning frustration in his chest. He knew he had to give Thorin time if they were going to get any answers at all, but all he could think about was Fíli alone in that jail cell, glaring out at the world, angry and confused. It made his heart ache.

"Can I help?" he said.

"No," Thorin said. "You need to rest. You're still having trouble with your breathing—and you're not fooling anyone with that hand of yours."

"Reading doesn't require perfectly functioning lungs. Or two hands," Kíli challenged, rubbing his left hand self-consciously. He had almost regained complete function on his left side, but every once in a while, his fingers still wished to disobey him. It was maddening, and he hated being reminded of it.

"Well, for your mind, then," Thorin countered. "You need to set it on something else for a while, lad."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Kíli said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "I'm just sitting around—"

"Go find something to do, then," Thorin snapped. Then a moment later he sighed and looked at his nephew apologetically. "Forgive me. I am not angry with you. I understand your frustration, Kíli."

Kíli allowed a moment to pass. "Well, what have you got so far?" he said.

"Mahal, Kíli, please," Thorin said. "I will let you know, but stop asking. This is difficult enough as it is. I feel like I'm researching children's stories."

Kíli blinked at the transparency with which Thorin spoke. Usually, his uncle tried to appear as if he had all the answers and knew exactly what to do. If he ever expressed doubts, he told Fíli, not Kíli, and they would come to a solution before Kíli ever became involved. Kíli tried not to be jealous when Fíli was called into their uncle's counsel, but now he understood that it was not necessarily a matter of favorites. Knowing their unshakable uncle was actually shakable was disconcerting.

"Y-you know they're not, though," Kíli said.

"Yes, I know that now," Thorin said wearily. He started to rub his temples, staring again at the papers and books in front of him. "Unfortunately."

"You're sure there's nothing I can—"

"For the love of Eru, Kíli!" Thorin said, turning a stormy gaze onto his nephew. "Leave me in peace just for a little while! Get out of the house if you must. Go visit someone. And not Fíli, before you ask. Just find something else to do."

"Sorry," Kíli said meekly, ducking his head. He turned away, tapping absentmindedly on the wood, and then he left his uncle alone.

Not Fíli. He was still banned from seeing his brother, then. Not that Fíli would want to see him, anyway. You shouldn't even want to see him, his mind said. He tried to kill you.

Fíli wouldn't do that, another part of him immediately replied. He didn't know what he was doing. But Kíli knew that wasn't exactly true. Fíli knew exactly what he was doing when he pushed Kíli into the water; he just didn't know who Kíli was. If Fíli had known, he never would have tried to kill him.

Right?

No, he told himself adamantly. Fíli was his brother. Fíli loved him. Fíli always said that Kíli was his favorite person in the whole world. Why would he want him dead? Kíli dismissed the thought as quickly as he could. Something deeper had happened to Fíli than had happened to Kíli. He hadn't just forgotten; he had changed, and not for the better. He leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes tight, trying to take in calming breaths. His left side ached.

"Kíli?"

For a moment, Kíli ignored the voice, but then a large hand landed on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Thorin's worried gaze looking down at him.

"I meant what I said. Take your mind off your troubles for a while."

"But Uncle—"

"Don't argue," Thorin interrupted. "Do as I say."

Kíli sighed and nodded in resignation. "Where should I go?" he said.

"How about going to see Bofur and Bombur?" Thorin suggested. "If anyone can… cheer you up… it's them."

A hint of a smile played on Kíli's lips. "I suppose," he said. "All right. I'll go."

Thorin nodded gratefully. "Thank you," he said. "And Kíli—remember what I said. Try to relax. Don't make yourself sick."

Kíli glanced up at Thorin's eyes then with a flash of realization. Thorin was worried, deeply worried about him, worried that he would get sick again and be lost forever. Kíli understood now. He had never thought about just how afraid Thorin must have been; he had never thought about Thorin being afraid at all, really. But the almost imperceptible shine in his uncle's eyes spoke volumes, and for a flash of a moment Kíli sensed the depth of love that Thorin held for him. It was comforting and embarrassing, and he looked down and swallowed.

"I'll remember," he said quietly.

Thorin cleared his throat and said, "Good."

"Kíli!" said Bofur with his eyebrows raised. He looked the younger dwarf up and down. "Should you be out and about?"

"I'm fine, Bofur," Kíli said good-naturedly, slapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. "In fact, I'm doing so well that Thorin kicked me out for a while so I'd stop bothering him." He offered Bofur a toothy grin.

The worry in Bofur's face dissipated, and he returned the grin. "Well, come in then, lad!" he said. "You can have a pint and some food with us. Bombur! We've got a guest!"

"Just one pint?" Kíli said as Bofur enthusiastically ushered him inside. "That hardly sounds hospitable."

"You help yourself to as much as you want, lad," Bombur said, gesturing to a barrel in the corner. "We'll make no judgments."

"Well, I was rather hoping you'd join me," said Kíli. He took a seat at the table; his mouth was already watering from the smells of Bombur's cooking.

"Aye, I can do that," said Bofur with a hearty laugh. Taking down three pint glasses, he got a drink for each of the three and set them at the table. Kíli immediately started on his, and Bofur joined him.

Before long, the three of them were joking and laughing, their heads and stomachs heavy and their spirits light. With great energy, Bofur and Bombur entertained their guest with songs and tales, and Kíli felt happier than he had in a quite a while; he forgot for a while about fey spirits and hateful sneers and all the events of the past weeks. Kíli drank slowly and laughed often, but his hosts were free with drink, and soon Bofur's speech slurred and Bombur's eyelids lowered.

They relocated to the living room with another pint each—that is to say, they stumbled in and crashed on various pieces of furniture. Bombur landed on the couch, which creaked under his girth but stayed standing; Bofur clumsily perched on the arm next to his brother and immediately fell off, prompting uproarious laughter from both Kíli and Bombur. Kíli, his sides and cheeks aching in his mirth, dropped into an overstuffed chair, spilling ale across his tunic.

"Maybe you should try somewhere less precarious, Bofur," he said, still giggling as he wiped fruitlessly at the dark wet spot on his chest.

"I feel like singing!" Bofur slurred, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I learned this one from a top fellow down by the Shire. Didn't do much but sing, it seemed."

"Here we go again," Bombur muttered, closing his eyes.

Ignoring his brother, Bofur began to sing.

Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!

Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.

Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,

Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight—whoa!

The last word was shouted, not sung, as Bofur's attempt at dance ended in disaster, sending him once again to the floor. Kíli nearly fell out of his chair in laughter, and Bofur chuckled, trying to lift himself back up to his feet.

"Say, Bofur, where'd you hear such nonsense?" Kíli said.

"I'll tell you, if you let me finish my song," Bofur replied. He swayed on his feet, but he remained standing as he continued, and Kíli clapped along gaily.

There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,

Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.

Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing

Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?

Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o!

"Tom Bombadil!" Kíli exclaimed. "I know that name!"

"Aye," Bofur said breathlessly. "I might've told you stories before."

"No, I don't think so," Kíli said, "but Glóin has. I didn't know you'd met him too!"

"Indeed," Bofur said. "He's a nice fellow, and his wife is as beautiful as a woman can be without a nice beard."

"When did you meet him?" Kili asked. He always loved Bofur's stories, and he was surprised that he had never heard this one before.

"They housed me and Bombur here for a few days once when we passed through from the East and had a fright on the Barrow-downs," Bofur replied. "Nasty place. Long time ago now."

"The Barrow-downs?" said Kíli. He had heard of them before. All he knew was that they were a place no one wanted to go and something about barrow-wights, ghost-creatures that liked to ensnare travelers to their graves. "What were you doing there? What happened?"

"We didn't mean to go through them," Bofur said, settling down on the thin slice of couch not occupied by Bombur. "But someone"—he slapped his brother's leg; Bombur responded with a snore—"got us turned around, and we ended up in that cold, dreadful place. Takes all the warmth out of your bones." He shuddered.

Kíli shuddered, too. He knew the feeling all too well.

"We didn't see any barrow-wights," Bombur continued, "but we heard one. It had a high, reedy voice that you just knew wasn't right… and then came old Tom over the barrows, singing.

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.

"And then the old thing must have left, because we felt warmer—more wholesome—after that."

"He scared away the barrow-wight?" Kíli said incredulously. Gears began to turn in his mind, but he said no more, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"More than scared it away," Bofur said. He paused to whack his brother, whose snoring had grown quite loud. "It was like he had power over it. I've never seen anything like it. Then he let us stay in his home right on the borders of the Old Forest, him and his lovely wife—my, she was a tall lady!—and they gave us food and drink to rival the best inns west of the Misty Mountains. I'll never forget it."

"Hm," was all Kíli said in response, but he was barely paying attention anymore. His mind was racing as things clicked into place. This Tom Bombadil had power over the barrow-wights… if he had power over them, surely he would have power over something that seemed so similar as what had attacked him and Fíli in that cave. He blinked several times quickly in succession as the beginnings of an idea formed in his mind. He could take Fíli to Tom. Maybe he could do what others could not—maybe he could make Fíli's mind whole once again. In the darkness of the past days, the idea was bright, a light at the end of a very long and very trying tunnel. He hid a hopeful smile behind his hand, faking a yawn. He couldn't give a hint as to what he was thinking—not yet. He had to make a plan.

"Kíli, I need to tell you something," said Bofur, suddenly serious. His head wobbled drunkenly.

"What is it, Bofur?" Kíli said. He looked up at his old friend and was startled to see sudden tears in his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably and waited for him to speak.

"I'm sorry, lad," he said thickly.

Kíli furrowed his brow. "What on earth are you sorry for?" he said.

"I told you it would be a good idea to talk to that thing," Bofur said. "I shouldn't have said that—I shouldn't have said anything."

"It wasn't your fault," Kíli said. "You know me. I'm reckless. They all say so." He forced a laugh, but Bofur wasn't convinced.

"No, I should have known better. I should have gone with you—or told Thorin, or something… and another thing. I'm sorry—sorry I didn't come sooner."

Kíli's heart dropped like a pit into his stomach. He knew what Bofur was talking about. Thorin had told him what had happened. He remembered the agonized look on Bofur's face as he held Fíli back; he had thought it was grief because of what Fíli had done. He had never considered that Bofur would feel guilty about anything.

"You couldn't help that," he said. "You saved my life."

Bofur let out a halfhearted chuckle and didn't meet Kíli's eye. "Barely," he said.

"But you did," Kíli said fervently. "And I am grateful, Bofur. I really am. It's been—it's been hard, without Fíli." He swallowed and looked down. "I was in a bad place. I didn't know what to do with myself. I still don't, in a way… but I have hope. And I'm alive, thanks to you."

No reply came from Bofur. When Kíli looked up at his friend, a chortle escaped him. Bofur had fallen asleep, his head resting on his brother's enormous stomach.

Then he frowned. He thought of how often he had fallen asleep resting on his own brother, and how impossible that would be now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Don't lose hope, he told himself. Now he had a lead, a possible clue on how to proceed. Bofur's story had awakened something in Kili that he hadn't been sure he would ever feel again. For the first time since Fíli had tried to kill him, he saw a real, true ray of hope, and he clung to it desperately. Perhaps this Tom that Glóin and now Bofur spoke so highly of would have some answers. Perhaps he would be able to get Kíli his brother back. He had to try.

He tried to formulate a plan, but in the fuzziness of his mind brought on by good food and too much ale, nothing came to fruition; soon his mind wandered into strange shapes and colors and sounds, half-memories and momentary dreams, and Kíli drifted off to sleep.