The Price of Brotherhood (8/8)

Twelve months had passed since the Company of Thorin had passed through the goblin tunnels threading the inner recesses of the Misty Mountains. One year since the stone gate had shut, cutting off all light for two brothers. Eleven months since a lost member had been reclaimed, if in body only. Ten since Thorin had let go of his grudge and asked for help. Eight since the journey had been made to the wood of Lothlórian, where many things had been mended.

Standing at the edge of a platform high above the ground, Thorin looked out at the new growth of spring on the delicate silver branches, and felt no greed seeing the soft golden buds. A gentle rain had fallen, and beads of moisture were strung like veils of diamond over every surface. Thorin listened to the quiet sounds of morning, the cool light under the forest eaves, and his heart was at peace.

"It is still strange to me, seeing a dwarf so composed in the trees."

Recognizing the voice, Thorin turned to Elrond, who had approached with the silent footsteps of all his race. When the dwarf inclined his head, the elvish lord joined Thorin at the rail. They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, accustomed to one another by now, for Elrond had passed over the mountain as soon as the pass thawed.

Thorin, who now knew the perils of that journey very well, had struggled to express his gratitude ever since. "I have not thanked you for what you've done, not well enough."

Elrond possessed dark eyes. They were a little easier to read than the ethereal stare of his Silvan brethren. Now they softened, not with satisfaction to win these words, but with compassion. "How could I not come? When your message arrived, my sons would accept nothing else. Your nephews made a great impression on them, and they were remembered well. Elrohir and Elladan were grieved to know that they had come to such harm."

"Yes," Thorin grunted.

Elrohir had been another blessing. While his twin had stayed behind to steward Rivendell, he had traveled with his father. No other had been able to coax Kíli from the infirmary, or convince him to take rest, or to ease the strain that he bore with his whole heart and soul bent on his brother's recovery. Even now, Thorin often saw them, two dark heads walking among the quiet paths of Lothlórian. It was yet another debt he owed.

Something of the darkness in this thought must have touched his brow, for Elrond spoke quietly, "You owe me no greater measure of thanks than I owe you, Thorin. Azog is a terrible foe, and no less dangerous to our people than yours. We found the remains of his camp on Weathertop, very near my home. And now he is abroad in the lands surrounding the Auduin, between the two great elven nations. Your warning may have saved many lives."

"I wasn't thinking of that," Thorin admitted. He remembered holding his broken nephew in his arms, and thinking that he wanted no treasure apart from his life. That no grudge he bore was worth holding, if he might be well again.

Elrond nodded. "Perhaps not. Yet you acted as a friend, and you gave up your quest. It isn't something that I though you capable of before. But things are different now."

Thorin's head came up sharply. "Different?"

"I did not support your quest," said the Lord of Rivendell. "Even Gandalf's certainty could not convince me. I looked into the future and saw great death and sorrow in the reclaiming of your mountain. The gold-lust of dwarves is well known among elves – perhaps even exaggerated. I admit I felt you were obsessed, and that obsession brought me concern."

Obsession. Thorin had been obsessed with Erebor since the moment he had been driven out of it. Even in flight, he had looked back at the Lonely Mountain and made an oath to take it back. Sometimes, in his dreams, he still believed he had made a different choice and gone on to reclaim the throne of his grandfather. Always in those dreams he left behind a corpse with blue eyes and woke up panting, dripping with sweat.

Haunted, uncertain why Elrond was speaking of these things, he said, "You doubted me before. Today you don't. What does it matter now?"

Elrond continued, "My people may not understand the love of precious metals, but I have been speaking with Mr. Baggins, and he has helped me understand some things that I did not see before." A small smile graced his lips, and his eyes grew fond. "A strange race, halflings. They love simple things, yet maybe it gives them a particular gift for seeing what others overlook."

Perplexed, Thorin just stared, waiting.

Elrond went on, "For we do understand the longing for home, Master Dwarf, and the need for a homeland. Moreover, you have proved that your family is more important to you than gold or a desire to rule. And so we are willing to come to your aid."

Thorin could not help but raise his voice. "Aid!"

"Yes," Elrond said. "Celeborn had agreed. When the time is right, a contingent of Lothlórian guards will escort you to the Forest River at the edge of the Greenwood. As it turns out, the Old Forest Road is encumbered – the marshes on it's far edge have expanded and become impassable. Had you gone that way, you might have remained lost forever, or starved. The river is the only sure path now, and Thranduil has granted you safe passage."

Dazed, Thorin leaned against the rail. "Thranduil."

A sadder look passed over Elrond's face now. "Yes. I believe that for many years he has regretted his choice in turning from his dwarf allies when Smaug attacked. However, you would have waited a thousand years before he corrected that wrong. I'm afraid some Elves are no less subject to pride than those of any other race." This, he said with a keen look at Thorin himself. "Yet, I think it humbled him that you, of all dwarves, made the first move toward reconciliation – humbled, and shamed him. He has granted you all rights to travel through his domain, and he has promised that his forces will join your company and any others you're able to raise. There has also been word from Lake Town. They will help you take back your home, Thorin."

Impossible. Unimaginable. Thorin's hands twisted around the Lothlórian balcony. He thought that he had lost all hope of Erebor when he had abandoned the path to Mirkwood and retreated here, at the mercy of those he hated to save his nephew's life. That it might be reclaimed…

Yet there was one thing that this unexpected blessing could not mend.

His throat closed almost past speech, Thorin asked, "What of Fíli?"

There was a shift in the silken garment as Elrond moved. "You know that the gravest wounds have long since knitted," he answered. "And he has a strong heart. His love for you and his brother is powerful. I have hope that he will be, if not whole, than at least as well as any who have passed though darkness and survived to continue living."

"He'll still be a warrior?"

Elrond nodded, "Perhaps not as before. The scars, and the old pains, will make some ways of fighting difficult for him. But he will learn new ways. And he will live, Thorin."

The dwarf lord, destined from his birth to be King Under the Mountain, bowed his head. Finally, his home stood within reach, but the price had been so high.

"Do not despair, Thorin. It seems to me that you were meant to pass this way."

"Do elves believe that fate can be so cruel, and demand so much?"

Elrond answered, "We believe that great good can sometimes come from great evil. Do you not?"

Thorin considered what he believed, tracing in his mind the long road from the door of Erebor to the field of battle before Moria, then to the West and the first time he had wrapped his hand around those of his nephews. To the Blue Mountains, and exile. The heat of a forge, and finally, a fading but still smoldering hope which Gandalf had enflamed. To a comfortable hole in the ground, with smoke rising out of its chimney in a gentle curl, harboring the unassuming soul who was destined to become their fourteenth – destined to save his heir, and destined to be his friend. To the Misty Mountains and that great loss. The horror of rediscovery, of recovery, of despair in a broken body and a broken heart. To this new allegiance, this new hope. Allies and sword arms and resolve to bring his people home – Home.

Thorin swallowed, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes. He did not say anything, but his heart spoke the answer, and Elrond knew.

Kíli looked up, hearing the sound of footsteps moving on the floor above. A slow, measured tread to the left, where the dresser was, then back again to the bedside where boots had been laid. Quiet as they were manipulated, fumbled, mastered. Kíli listened until the sounds reached the staircase, and then he went and stood at the base of it, though in this case his help was not needed. Fíli reached the bottom unaided, and when he found Kíli's eyes, he smiled.

"What? Have you nothing better to do than watch me creep down a flight of stairs like an invalid?" he asked, and Kíli thrilled to hear the easy, teasing note in his voice, which had been absent for so long.

Ignoring the sour look his brother threw him, Kíli reached out and straightened the shoulders of the tunic Fíli wore, easing a clasp in place that had not quite been managed. It was the small things that remained difficult, mostly. He raised an unimpressed brow when Fíli huffed. "Did you not do the same for me, once?" he asked. "I seem to remember you rebraiding every plait I ever made until I finally gave up the art all together, to say nothing of boot straps and buttons."

"It's a wonder you're able to get up in the morning, sure," Fíli answered. "But you cannot blame me for the braids. You've been stubborn about it since the day you were old enough to squirm."

Fíli's own hair was just now becoming long enough to be woven properly again. He still had yesterday's slightly mashed plait trailing behind one ear. On the other side, the skin had healed, but the new growth was still very sparse and soft. As was the fair, golden beard just beginning to fill back in on his mostly smooth face. In a year or so more, he would look almost like himself again, except for the scar. That remained as before, still pink and raised.

Fíli reached out and smoothed his thumb over Kíli's brow. "You're going to look like an old man before your time," he reproached. Then, his voice softening, he asked, "Try to think of kinder things."

However much he tried, Kíli wasn't able to mask all of the sorrow that lingered, but it was tempered by the warmth he felt when the two of them were together. Taking his brother by the arm, Kíli tugged him toward the window. He said, "It's a nice morning. Let's sit in the light."

Taking back up the leather journal Ori had given him to read, Kíli glanced over the words their cousin had written. It had begun as an epic history, but more recently bits of poetry and airy prose had worked their way in. Ori was much in awe of the elves, and their songs seemed to be going straight to his head.

Near to him, he watched as Fíli reached for a long slender shaft of wood, letting his scared fingers caress the stick. On the table beside it, a beautiful, delicately wrong fiddle sat – or something like one, as it resembled the dwarvish equivalent in the essentials only. It had been a gift from one of the people here, who had seen Fíli's rapt face as it was played, back in the times when he still barely spoke.

"Do you like it?" the elf had asked when Fíli had touched the body, the strings. He was very tall and wore a sword, and though Kíli did not understand their society well, he believed that this was a soldier.

Kíli answered for him when Fíli did not respond, saying, "We used to play. However, such things aren't much use on long, dangerous journeys. We left ours behind."

There had been sadness among the three of then, as though it was something they all understood very well. Then, without preamble, the elf had pressed the fiddle into Fíli's surprised arms, passing the bow into his other hand. "Perhaps it will give you some peace," he said. "A piece of home. Take it with my blessing."

Now, as Kíli watched, the lines went out of Fíli's face as he carefully picked up the instrument and set it under his chin.

The notes were basic, limited to simple melodies as Fíli worked his way around the unfamiliar grip with only three fingers. But slowly the stiffness faded, and the sweet, true tone found it's way to expression, in spite of all obstacles. Kíli listened and let the music wash over him, calming his mind, and soaked in the joy of seeing his brother so content. Not very long ago, even this would have been impossible, yet things were improving and Fíli came back to him a little more every day.

The song came to an end, and Fíli paused, sighing. He stretched his fingers around the neck of the instrument. "It's getting a little easier."

Kíli didn't answer. There had been dark days, and darker nights, when neither of them had been able to believe things could get easier. Even after Elrond had come, and Kíli had finally begun to see his brother reflected in shadowed blue eyes, it had been so. There had been tantrums, and there had been tears, and several times, there had been despair. He answered, "I'm glad."

"I'm glad too," Fíli said, looking contemplatively out the window to where the Golden Wood stretched beyond. "I'm glad we came here. I'm even glad...glad for what happened."

Kíli's head snapped up. "You don't mean that."

But his brother had put the bow back against the fiddle, sliding it across to make a long, mournful sound. Then he stopped and said solemnly, "I've been having dreams, Kíli. Of battle, and corpses. Dwarves, men, and elves. And orcs. I'm looking for you, but when I find you...I think we died."

Kíli said, "I didn't know you were having dreams again."

For a brief moment it was the exasperated older brother who shot him a look, but then he grew solemn again, and Fíli said, "They're just dreams, but they make me think...maybe this is the way it had to happen." He pressed his hand to his chest. "For the first time, I think I believe that we'll survive this quest. Both of us."

Disquieted, Kíli searched for something to say, but before he was able to, there was a sound at the door. Boots in the hall, and then Thorin came in. His face was guarded, but Kíli could see that he brought good news. His knit brows could not hide the fierce light in his eyes. Kíli hadn't seen that fire in his expression for a long time, and it caught his attention immediately.

Fíli, too, sensed that something had changed. Carefully, he laid down the fiddle and walked around the table. "Uncle Thorin?"

They had gone so long without hearing his voice utter anything but noises of fear that whenever Thorin heard Fíli say his name, he looked at him with such affection that it could not be veiled. Kíli watched his uncle and understood. It was another thing that had changed. The tiny fear of abandonment that he had carried around with him since his childhood days had passed; the seedling of bitterness and guilt had been pulled up by the root. He had always loved his uncle, but now he trusted him.

Thorin put out his hands, one on each of his nephews' shoulders, gazing between them both. "I have news," he said.

Thorin laid his foot down the on stone ledge, the sandy stones crunching under his boot as it came to rest on the shore of Esgaroth. The River Celduin wound up to the north and out of sight, and following it with his eye, Thorin became eclipsed under the shadow of the great Lonely Mountain, his home, with a tendril of smoke wafting from it like a thin black cloud. But even that sign of the battle still to come no longer stirred his heart with fear. Thorin looked upon Erebor as though he owned it already.

The wind blew, bringing with it the sound of an entire camp. An army of three nations, the dwarves and their allies, old and renewed. Hearing them, Thorin stood straight as a king. But no more straight for that than for the presence of another sound – laugher and shuffling as two dwarves made their way up the rock face, jostling one another like lads before they reached his back and made some attempt to act as though they were warriors and not children.

"Everything is ready, Uncle," Fíli said, and Thorin turned to face his nephews.

They stood there, side by side, one looking at him with shinning black eyes, his disheveled hair unwilling tied into some order, undoubtedly by another's hand. And the other... Fíli bore the scar that would never leave him under laughing eyes that no longer looked so distant and hollow. Though a faint shadow still crossed them at odd moments, he looked steady and alert. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword – only one now, but a one that he wielded as well as before – and cleared his throat.

"Are you ready?" he teased. "Or are you thinking better of this? Bofur has already taken bets on how many people will be eaten before we slay Smaug."

Kíli grunted, unimpressed. "Bofur speaks of nothing but calamity, and I think he enjoys it. I thought he was going to make Bilbo weep this morning. Gandalf knocked him on the head with his staff."

Fíli snickered. "Our poor little fiend; he went white as a sheet. I think he's nervous. It's no small thing to sneak in upon a dragon."

"He will not be alone," Thorin said.

He was still amazed at all those who were here. Not one member of the original company had chosen to return to the Blue Mountains. They were as true as they had been when there was only fifteen souls in the world who thought this day would come, and look at them now.

His gaze went beyond, to the rows of tents, the lines of men from Lake Town with their bows, the elegant shapes of the elven train, and the dwarves sharpening their weapons. The sun bathed them with orange light, making the gathering seem almost unreal. Yet Thorin would never forget those who had followed him from the beginning.

Nor would he take them for granted, he thought, drinking in the sight of Fíli and Kíli. Turning, he faced the mountain once more, feeling his nephews as they came up on either side of him, just as he had desired they would. He braced a hand on either shoulder, thanking Aulë that he could do so.

They were almost home.

All that stood between them now was one small dragon.

Author's Note: I never intended this story as a "fix-it" for the cannon deaths. In all honesty, the scene where Fili pushes Kili to safety in the goblin tunnels just sprang forth full-grown from my forehead. After that, it was like rolling downhill – a little heady, but not without its bruises. It took some considerable management to get the company full circle after such a detour, thus the "corrections". Besides that, I was simply tempted to use all the combined resources of Tolkien and Peter Jackson – Beorn and Bilbo's ring from Tolkien; Azog and Nori the bandit from Jackson. I also have to give special shout outs to all the actors for making each dwarfs distinct in big or little ways, and to the reviewers who made me much less lonesome.

To: Aleks, ChaiGrl, chestry007, Horserida, jenthehen, leetha, makaykay15, Nalbal, Nargil, NerdoOfTheFiction, OnPg9, ShadowSweeper, TheLandOfIce, Traya001, tricksters apprentice, Twilightmoonstar, volvagia09, Xeia, and yesterdaywillcome, a very special thanks you for your repeat reviews, for indulging me by copy-and-pasting lines, and for leaving such wonderful comments.