It was the sound of shuffling that roused Kíli from his sleep.
Kíli opened his eyes ever so slightly, his mind foggy with exhaustion, and peered across the smoldering fire. Fíli was creeping away, his pack thrown over his shoulder, and Kíli's stomach clenched. He had fallen asleep—he had let his guard down. No. No, he cannot leave me. Not now. I've come too far.
"Stop!" he cried out, sitting up with a jolt. Fíli immediately broke into a run, and Kíli moaned, his mind racing. He looked to his left and his right wildly and spotted his bow; as quickly as he could manage, he was on his feet with an arrow aimed just to the side of his brother.
"Fíli, if you don't stop, I swear I will shoot!" he called with a wavering voice.
Fíli stopped immediately and turned around, his eyes aflame. Kíli kept his bow aimed slightly to the side and took a deep breath.
"Come back," he said.
"What are you going to do?" Fíli sneered. "Shoot me?"
Kíli let an arrow fly, and it stuck into the ground just to Fíli's right. Fíli jumped to the side, his eyes wide; he looked up at Kíli, then back down to the arrow.
"Don't question me," Kíli said, forcing his voice to be rough. "You said you would come with me. Please, Fíli—don't do this."
Fíli's fine features distorted into an ugly scowl, and he began to walk back towards his brother. Kíli lowered his bow with trembling hands and took a step backward; Fíli was gaining speed, and he was reaching into his coat. A cold chill of horror shot down from Kíli's head to his toes, and he looked around frantically for the blade of Fíli's that he had brought. Fool, he told himself. You left it in plain sight!
"Fíli, no!" he said, reaching for his own blade, thankfully still on his person. "Don't—I don't want to hurt you—"
"I just want to be left alone! Why can't you leave me alone?" Fíli said, his voice cold and venomous. "You have to meddle—you have to be insufferable—"
"Stop!" Kíli shouted. His brother was almost upon him. "Fíli, please!"
But Fíli did not stop. He charged at Kíli full speed, knife brandished, and Kíli dove to the side deftly, missing the blade by far too close a margin. Fíli turned again, and Kíli ducked as Fíli swung at him. Fíli stumbled, and Kíli dove forward, reaching for the blade, but it was just out of his reach. He grabbed Fíli's arm and drove an elbow into his chest, buying himself a moment of time as Fíli gasped. Fíli swung with his other arm and hit Kíli square in the left side, and he dropped with a silent shout as pain radiated through his ribs and lung. Breathless, he looked up at his brother, who smirked dangerously.
Kíli shot out with his feet and caught Fíli's ankle, maneuvering just so to bring Fíli to the ground next to him. He swallowed and coughed, then forced himself to roll over onto his brother and grab his arms.
"S-stop," he wheezed through gritted teeth, but Fíli merely snarled. The brothers wrestled violently for a few moments, and somehow, Kíli came out the victor; in a flash, he had Fíli's knife in his own hand, and he held it against his brother's throat.
Fíli stiffened and looked up at Kíli with cold eyes, his teeth gritted and his breath coming in quick gasps. Kíli kept the knife at his brother's throat and fought painfully to regain his breath.
"Do it," Fíli hissed.
Kíli blinked and furrowed his brow. "What?" he croaked.
"You could never," Fíli spat. "You could never actually hurt anyone, could you? Weak and pathetic, that's what you are. Can you make that knife break the skin?"
"Shut up," Kíli said, feeling a lump develop in his throat that only further impaired his ability to breathe. "Shut up. Just shut up."
"Could you do it?" Fíli said.
It felt like an eternity, those few moments in which Kíli knelt over his brother, a knife pressed to his throat. The knife felt heavy, heavier than it should have been, in his hand, and he struggled to hold it in place, so strong was his desire to let go. Fíli stared up at him, his face set in a snarl, but his eyes shining with terror.
He thinks I would do it. He thinks I would kill him.
But Fíli was right. He couldn't hurt his brother. He wouldn't.
With a sob, he rolled off and tucked Fíli's knife away. He drew his knees up to his chest and dropped his forehead between them, covering his head with his arms; his face grew warm and the lump grew until he couldn't take it any longer. He let go of his inhibitions and his body shuddered with sobs, each one causing pain to stab into his side. Let him kill me, then, he thought. If this is how he feels, then so be it.
But death did not come. Instead, there was silence as Kíli let tears fall; he wondered if his brother was still there, but he could not bring himself to look. He felt as if his heart had shattered into a million pieces, and each piece sank slowly to the ground, leaving him empty and in agony—a horrible, familiar feeling, one that he thought he had done away with that day on the floor of his home in his mother's arms.
"You didn't kill me," said Fíli.
Kíli hiccupped and looked up and to his left. To his shock, Fíli had not moved, save to sit up; he was staring at Kíli with the most curious expression, and Kíli stared back.
"Why didn't you kill me?" Fíli said.
"Because you're my brother, you idiot!" Kíli cried. "How many times do I have to tell you—I'm not lying! You are who I say you are!"
"I just—I can't…" Fíli began, but he fell silent. Kíli wiped away the tears running down his face and sniffed, and Fíli stared out into nothing, his brow furrowed and his gaze fixed on the air in front of him. Then his eyes strayed to where Kíli had stashed his knife, but Kíli laid a hand over it.
"Don't," he said. "Just—don't."
Fíli looked away from Kíli's hand and back to his face and studied him carefully. He seemed to be deep in thought; then, suddenly, he stood to his feet. Kíli pushed himself up as well, but his side pinched, and he gasped and staggered forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fíli jerk forward, and then his hands clenched at his sides and he stepped backward. Kíli pretended not to see, but his heart filled with both warmth and dread; even the smallest hint that Fíli cared brought him joy—but not like this. Fíli could never know what kind of damage he had done so many years ago. Kíli wouldn't allow it.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just don't do that again."
Fíli cleared his throat and looked away; his right hand found his left arm, and he stared at the ground uncomfortably.
"I don't… I can't believe you," he said. "I can't." He turned away and walked over to the coals of last night's fire, his head hung low, and sat down and dropped his face into his hands. Kíli looked after him plaintively.
"Why not?" he said softly.
Fíli followed Kíli throughout the day, never once opening his mouth to speak. To Kíli, the silence was painful; he longed for nothing more than to be able to at least speak to Fíli without getting venomous, angry comebacks in return, but he knew that it was all he would get, if he were lucky enough to get a response at all. So he remained silent as well, hoping for a single word—a kind word—from his brother, but nothing came forth.
Kíli refused to give up hope.
Ever since the incident that morning, the gears had been turning in Kíli's head. There had to be some way to convince Fíli that he was telling the truth—that he meant no harm, and that he actually was his brother. He had spent the better part of the day thinking on it.
They stopped for a late lunch in the shade of a small grove of pine trees. Kíli brought out dried meat and fresh bread, and the two ate quietly; several times, Kíli looked up to find Fíli looking at him, and he quickly averted his eyes. Those eyes didn't seem to belong to his brother. For over sixty years, those eyes had looked on him with care and love and understanding, blue like the sky above them on a warm summer day like today. But somehow, though Kíli could not figure out how, they were different. He had noticed it, of course, when Fíli first awoke, but he had not paid much attention at that point, and in the dark of the jail, he could not clearly see his brother's face; but now, in the light of the noonday sun, Kíli could clearly see that something was different. Instead of the warmth he had previously seen in his brother's eyes, they seemed somehow more like ice than the summer sky, though their hue had not changed as far as he could tell. From the depths of Fíli's gaze there seemed to be a flow of darkness and coldness—the same that Kíli had felt when he had encountered the creature in the cave, that had permeated his soul and left him terrified and alone. The ice had melted in his own heart, but it held Fíli captive, and Kíli could see it in those few moments when he dared to look his brother in the eye.
Fíli was not gone. He was trapped.
Kíli finally began to understand. He knew from his own experience what it felt like—cold, lonely, everything hidden behind a wall that he could not take down on his own. It was worse for Fíli, he knew. But that was where his brother was—behind that wall. Everything he had known, everyone he had loved, his childhood and his memories and his cares and worries lay hidden from his sight, and he could not access it. Instead, all he knew was the fear caused by that creature in the cave. Kíli cringed as he recalled the first thing Fíli had seen when he awoke: Kíli himself, holding him down as his mind was filled with inexplicable terror. No wonder his brother was afraid of him—he was merely a continuation of the nightmare in which he had been trapped.
Wordlessly, Kíli cleaned up and packed away everything, and Fíli followed suit. He had been surprisingly cooperative since Kíli had threatened him with the bow and the knife. While Kíli appreciated the cooperation, he hated how it had come about. He would rather have Fíli's trust than his fear. Still, it was better than nothing.
"How much further?" Fíli said.
Kíli nearly jumped out of his skin, he was so startled, and his head whipped back to look at his brother. Fíli mounted his pony and looked down at Kíli, his visage completely expressionless.
"If we don't make it to the Lune by nightfall, I'll be surprised," Kíli said. "We've made good time."
"And are your kin on our trail?" said Fíli.
"Our kin," Kíli corrected. He looked back from where they had come. "I doubt it," he said. "Do you remember coming this way?"
"Why would I?" said Fíli.
Kíli sighed. "Typically, when we go this way, we take an established road further south that crosses the Lune just before it widens and splits into the Gulf," he said. "It leads right into the Great East Road, which goes through the Shire. We're not taking the Road. There is another bridge a little north of here that you and I took once. It was part of a trade route between the Dwarves of Ered Luin and the Men of Annúminas long ago, before the city was abandoned, I think. The bridge is still stable, though. Made by Dwarves."
"And your kin will not suspect that road?" said Fíli.
"Our kin, Fíli. Our kin," Kíli said again. "And no—I don't think so. They don't even know where we're going. I told no one."
Fíli looked skeptical, but he said no more, and Kíli mounted his pony. They traveled in silence for the next several hours; eventually, the smell of river vegetation reached their nostrils, and Kíli looked up at the sky. The east was already deepening to a dark blue, and behind them, the westering sun was halfway behind the mountains, still looming high in the distance. They were blue as their name suggested against the fiery reds and oranges of sunset, and Kíli stopped, admiring the view.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said to Fíli, enchanted.
"Aye," Fíli agreed. A change had come over his deportment; instead of the rigid position he had kept himself in, he seemed to relax, staring out at the mountains. Kíli turned his gaze from the spectacle to Fíli and watched him carefully.
"It's almost like…" Fíli said, trailing off. He caught Kíli's eye then and immediately resumed his rigidity. He turned his pony away from the mountain and looked towards the darkness.
"Like what?" said Kíli hopefully.
Fíli spoke softly. "Never mind," he said.
The sun finally set behind the Blue Mountains, and Kíli and Fíli stopped for the night in the cover of a small wood. They were surely near the river now, but Kíli was not fond of the idea of being too close in the cover of night with Fíli. Not in the state he was in. He still shuddered at the idea of being near the river at all, but he would deal with that fear tomorrow. For tonight, he had a different goal in mind.
"Can you start the fire?" Kíli said to Fíli as they tied up the ponies for the night.
Fíli blinked and looked at him curiously. "Aye," he said. "Sure. Of course."
Kíli watched his brother start the fire with relative ease before he spoke again. He pulled out food and his pipe from his own bag, and once the fire was burning bright, Fíli did the same; for a while, they ate in silence, and then Kíli lit his pipe and sat back, puffing quietly. Fíli lit his own and sat across the fire, leaning against a tree. He stared straight ahead and ignored Kíli's gaze.
"Do you remember who taught you to make a fire?" Kíli said.
Fíli dropped the pipe from his lips and sighed as his head fell back against the tree trunk. "No," he said.
"But someone taught you," said Kíli. "Our uncle. Thorin. He taught both of us how to make a fire."
"Stop trying to make conversation," Fíli snapped. He glared at Kíli angrily, but Kíli continued, unperturbed.
"You burned your thumb the first time you lit a fire," he said. "I remember because you tried so hard not to cry, but you'd burned it pretty badly, actually. I was afraid to try on my own after that."
"I don't know why you keep trying to do this," Fíli said. "I don't believe you. I won't believe you."
"What about that pipe in your hand?" Kíli said. "Do you remember who gave it to you?"
"You did, just yesterday," Fíli said. Even in the low light, Kíli could see him roll his eyes.
"No, I gave it to you years ago," said Kíli. "Take a look at it. Really look at it."
Fíli sighed, but he pulled it up close to his face and inspected it carefully. "What about it?" he said.
"You don't recognize it?" Kíli said. His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. Don't, he told himself.
"What am I supposed to recognize?" Fíli said, rolling his head to look at Kíli again.
"I-I carved that," Kíli said meekly. "I made it for you."
Fíli looked from Kíli to the pipe and frowned. As he studied the pipe again, his lip curled in disgust; then he looked back up at his brother with those cold eyes and tossed it into the fire.
"Fíli, no!" Kíli exclaimed, leaping forward to rescue the pipe from the flames. He took a stick and knocked it out from among the firewood, picked it up, and returned to his own seat. He gently cleaned the ash off it and looked it over; one part on the right side was charred, but not too badly. He could fix it.
Subdued, Kíli remained quiet and pulled out a small whittling knife and set to work fixing the intricate design on Fíli's pipe.
This pipe is one of your most treasured possessions, Kíli thought, daring a glance at Fíli. He would keep it for him, then; if Fíli could not appreciate it now, he certainly would later, and Kíli knew that he would be distraught if he realized that he had tossed it in the fire when he came back to his senses.
And he would. Fíli had stayed with him this far, and Kíli held hope that he would remain with him all the way to the Old Forest. He thought back to Thorin's words: We are not dragging Fíli all over Middle-Earth in his state. It's far too dangerous—for him and for us. Yet here Kíli was, and save for one quickly-resolved mishap, Fíli had been cooperative. Maybe—just maybe—it was because somewhere deep down inside, Fíli knew that Kíli was right. He knew that Kíli was his brother. He had seen that jerk forward when he had stumbled. It had to mean something—Kíli was sure of it.
Maybe the creature's magic is wearing off, he thought. He glanced across the fire at Fíli; the blond was hunched over, his hands on his drawn-up knees and his chin resting on his arms. He stared out into the darkness, and Kíli saw in his eyes a hint of his brother—the brother he knew. Instead of the cold, angry glare usually reserved for Kíli, Fíli looked sad, wistful, like there was something that he missed.
There was something that he missed.
"You all right?" Kíli said gently.
Fíli jumped and glanced briefly at Kíli, but he said nothing. With a huff, he turned so that his back faced his brother and leaned his head against the tree. A moment later, he wrapped his arms around himself. Kíli longed to step around the fire and sit next to him, to talk to him, to be the brother he always had been—but Fíli would not accept him. Fíli did not remember him. He thought of him as an enemy, a problem, someone to be feared and hated. But Kíli knew that Fíli was still in there somewhere.
He stared sadly after the blond for a long moment, and then he returned his attention to the charred surface of his brother's pipe.