Root to tip, root to tip.

Over and over, the gentle stroking kept going. It was a sign of earlier times, of more carefree days and the strength in those fingers as it threaded his hair forced the choking sobs in his throat to gradually slow. He tried to focus on that. The gentle motions, from scalp to tip. As he always had, Thorin would gently massage the scalp, for a moment or two before he would run his fingers down the brown hair. He would linger on the ends, letting Kili relax in the sensation. It had worked when Kili was a child and it still worked now, anchoring him to reality.

Hair was vital to dwarves and it was in no small part due to them possessing some minor nerves within it, with the most sensitive being near the tips, hence why lingering on the ends provided such comfort. Far as they knew, they were the only race with such an evolution. Why the Maker opted to include such a trait was up for debate but the overall consensus was that it helped them to know the air and stone within the mountain halls. Touch was vital to them; it ruled most of their lives. While elves depended on sight and hearing, hobbits on smell and men having a dulled sense of all five, it was touch that let the dwarves know stone.

As such, touch worked its magic here. There really was not a Westron equivalent for what it meant to stroke and linger in another's hair save to know it was full of affection. Not quite as strong as an embrace but a different kind of love all the same. It calmed hearts of fear, soothed pain and reestablished that connection that was essential between all dwarves, especially within families. It was their root to life, their families. That anchor had not dulled for Kili and when his uncle cast that anchor out, well, the young dwarf lunged for it like it was a savior in the ocean.

Kili lost himself in it. He lost himself in the closeness, in the smell, in the warmth of his uncle's arms. He was here. He was here and not lying limp and cold on the hard rock of Carrock, bleeding life all about him. He was alive.

Alive.

Digging his fingers into his uncle's chest, clutching to the furs and leather, he tried to calm his racing heart but it was difficult. He much preferred being angry to this terror. Now that his anger had started to cool, the fear that powered it had come to the surface. That was a thousand times worse because he could see all the things that might have happened. He saw his uncle bleeding out. He saw the pools of blood spreading like water, staining all those furs and leathers as the White Orc laughed hysterically. He saw those wargs ripping into his uncle's body like he was trash. He saw that blade come down, cleave, cut, snap…

"Calm."

Thorin's deep voice always carried authority with it but this command was given in gentleness. As he spoke, the Dwarf Leader set his hands back up to the boy's scalp, letting his fingertips massage gently at the roots of the hair before slowly sliding down the strands again. "Calm, Kili." He let his fingertips rest on the ends of the boy's wild hair and gently rubbed them back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. "Calm." With each word he said, Thorin felt like a piece of his older self returned. This position, comforting an upset Kili, was one he had been in several times and it was a bit like greeting an old friend, recognizing the needs without realization.

Opening his eyes against the warmth of his uncle's furs, the younger one turned to the side, slightly, letting his temple rest in that broad chest. The gentle up and down with each breath Thorin took because a hypnotic soothing, the strong and steady thump-thump-thump of the dwarf's heart pulsing from the leader's torso and through Kili's cheeks eased his sharp breaths. The deep timber of his uncle's voice was a pacifying balm as was the soft sensation of his uncle's fingers in his hair. It was a reminder, against all those horrible what-ifs that such a fate had not occurred, it had not happened. He was standing here, before him, without death wounds. He was not torn apart, he was not devoured, he was not…

Shifting his head upward, he locked eyes with his elder, reaching up to rub at his wet eyes but Thorin laid a simple hand on his wrist and shook his head.

"No." He said softly. "These tears are not shameful and you will not treat them as such."

Nodding simply, Kili stayed silent.

"You are wiser than you are given credit for, Kili," Thorin admitted, with a small smile to his eyes. "You are also so like your mother that it is quite a shock sometimes for me."

Allowing a faint smile, despite his tears, at the comparison (for Lady Dis was surely the strongest female of their race, naturally!) Kili nodded "You always said I was my mother's son." He remembered that. Fili was always called his 'father's son' whereas Kili had been called his 'mother's son.' As both of them grew, their mother had taken to reminding them that they were stubborn as if your uncle had sired you, the both of you! He accepted the compliment and lingered on the touch to his hair, as his uncle had yet to remove his fingertips from the ends.

"Aye, you are. Fitting." Thorin remarked, stating, "Your mother was always the one talking sense into your Uncle Frerin and I. Or attempting to in any event. It makes sense that she would pass it onto you." He didn't say as much but Kili may have sounded like Dis but he looked like Frerin. So full of energy and spirit that it almost burned like a fire. Right down to the wild hair that never could be restrained very well in braids, much as he often tried and his older brother attempted to contain them. The same passion that Kili had embodied in every word of his speech reprimand at Thorin, the dwarf king had grown up watching that beautiful fire only for it to be snuffed out before the gates of Moria. "Make no mistake, Kili…you are right."

Shock took Kili's heart. His uncle, prideful as all dwarves were, never liked admitting when he was wrong, even when it was blatantly obvious. Blinking at his uncle, "You…you're not mad at me?" He dared to ask. For as much as he had meant every word he said in that emotional explosion, he also well knew that the way he had phrased it had not been the best. Politics had never been Kili's strong point. Fili would often joke that while Kili would have the kingdom's best interests at heart, his ability to communicate them without offending someone was near non-existent. To which Thorin had always laughed around his pipe and remarked that it was for that reason that they were strongest together.

Now, while there was not a laugh in his uncle's eyes, there was that old familiar warmth, "I was, at first, I will admit. You know better than anyone that my temper will flare easily as flame to hair."

Kili nodded. Growing up, as much as Thorin would try to maintain his cool and often succeeded at doing so, that did not mean that he or Fili had not been on the receiving end of one of his rants or emotional explosions from time to time (perhaps that was where he had learned it?) Yet, even when that happened, Kili only ever remembered being sad, being disappointed but never frightened. He may have not liked it when his uncle became so incensed but it never awoke fear in his heart. "I…I did not mean to raise your ire, Uncle. I just…" His voice caught again and he cleared his throat, rather noticeably "I can't…if Fili and I were to lose you, Uncle…I…" He fought the images in his mind but simply saying it made all the what-ifs arise again. He could still see the stains of red on his leader's clothes and oh, Mahal, were those tears in the leather from the warg's teeth…?

"Kili." Thorin stopped him in mid explanation and after a moment, the Dwarf king wrapped one of his own braids around his fingers and reached over, laying them over the wet tears and catching the few new ones that were leaking from the boy's eyes. Rather than casting them away, wiping them aside, he let the hair absorb it before moving to the next drop. It had been a long time since he had utilized such a gesture; it was quite rare for male dwarves in particular to use it as it was mostly mothers tending to their tiniest of ones that fell into the habit and even that was not routine. Closest likeness Thorin had seen among Men had been kissing the tears of the child away and he'd never seen a male of the race of Men do such a thing, only the women. Though, the Dwarf King certainly had no love lost for the race in general. "I am here, be calm."

If Thorin's memory served him right, Kili must have been merely up to his waist in height the last time he'd let his hair cool the tears. Throwing open the doors to his meeting chamber, where Thorin had been conversing with some of the other dwarven leaders, the tiny boy had rushed in, tears blurring his vision as he gasped and sobbed over "not bein' 'orthy of the line of Durin!" because of some cruel, petty individuals. Thorin had scooped the lad up into his lap and quickly set about absorbing those tears, the rest of the room seemingly falling into shadow. Though Thorin had never told the boy as such, that simple gesture had earned him the boundless loyalty of many a dwarf family line. Every leader had to have priorities and in that simple moment, by immediately seeking to dry his little one's tears and see what had troubled his heart, the Dwarven clans had no doubt that their exiled King knew all too well what was really important.

His sister-son responded just as he hoped he would though, closing his eyes and savoring in the closeness. The boy's breath steadied but Thorin didn't like the erratic nature of that steadiness. As before, when he was stroking his hair, the boy would calm then become anxious once more before calming again. It was a cycle, back and forth, despite the Dwarf King's efforts. His sister son was not anchoring as he had hoped. He was trying but…the boy wasn't anchoring. Thorin's heart ached. Why? Why, little one? I am here…

Kili couldn't imagine what his uncle was thinking of him right now. Tears…he'd tried so hard to stay stoic and strong, as heirs of Erebor were expected to be. Yet, here he was, sobbing like a little dwarfling who had fallen and skinned his knee. Never mind that what haunted his heart was a thousand times worse than any physical injury. Never mind that he had never actually been in a real battle before this adventure. Never mind that his uncle should never look so helpless or bloodied or defeated. He was their King, he was a warrior, he was the great hero of Azanulbizar! "You're not supposed to ever look like that" Kili found himself muttering, even as he tried to re-establish himself in the present. Every time he thought he was settled, that the horrors of the previous clash with Azog were washed to the past to remain, something brought them back up again and he thought he was going to drown in the memory. "You're not supposed to look like that. Ever. You're not supposed to…" It was like he was back there again, seeing his uncle killed in front of him "Not ever, ever, ever…"

Thorin pulled his nephew close, wrapped his arms around him tight again. He'd seen this reaction before. Having lived through the Fall of Erebor, survived as they made their way through the mountains, attempted to take back Moria, and numerous orc, goblin and trolls assaults in-between, the Dwarf Leader had seen his share of horror. This reaction, while rare among dwarves, did happen. Should he really have been surprised though? Kili and Fili, while easily some of his finest soldiers, were barely of age and this was their first encounter with anything outside of wolves or an occasional scuffle. Was it so unexpected to see Kili's heart so lost? He'd seen it before.

But to see it on his Kíli...

Kili's reaction had been delayed but then, Thorin knew all too well that effects that the battle had upon the body. It could take hours for the survival high to fade. Now though, he wanted his sister-son to anchor. He wanted him to remember what was real and what had happened and what had not. Praying his arms would serve as a physical symbol of the emotional bond, Thorin pulled Kili as tight and close as he dared and began the ritual of hair stroking, root to tip, from the beginning.

"Calm."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

" Bring me the Dwarf's Head. "

Fili shook his head, pushing aside the flaming branches, trying to gather his balance. "No! Thorin, get up, get up!"

Smoke stung at his eyes and it was hard to see straight but he could still hear the harsh steps, crunching on the ground as his uncle labored to breathe. Stumbling, the elder heir of Erebor crashed into the ground, the fall knocking quite a few cuts and scraps along his forearms. Ignoring the sting, he was up, running as fast he could, his own pulse deafening in his head. Shouting behind him was like a faint echo. He couldn't even hear Kili right now, his eyes only on the fallen body of his relative on the ground. The dirt and broken stems had long since turned red from the bleeding wounds that damned warg had left in Thorin's chest.

"Thorin!" Fili shouted again, "Get up! GET UP!"

The orcs seemed to be taking great pleasure in his distress, laughing and chortling to themselves in Black Speech. Fili never stopped running and his feet were an endless drum, each beat seeming to just announce he was too far away and too slow.

"THORIN! UNCLE!"

For a moment, though a brief one, the elder locked eyes with him. Pleading dark eyes upon condemned blue ones. An orc blade against throat.

"NO!"

Swing.

"UNCLE!"

Cut.

Blood.

Oh, Mahal, so much…so much…blood.

Laughing, horrible laughing, as Fili's legs failed him and he crashed to his face, his arms awash in the fresh blood that left the stump that was his uncle's neck. It sprayed like some horrific fountain and there was so much of it.

"For the young Prince of Erebor."

Azog stood, arm held high, clutching at those braids that Fili had clung to so often in childhood, that had always brought him comfort. There was an ashen, pale look to the face that had always been the demonstration of strength as the Pale Orc opened his hand and the severed head of the Dwarven King fell into his weeping kin's arms….

Fili awoke with a jolt and nearly a scream, his heart racing and his breath caught. The sudden jerk made him realize he was still seated, against the doorframe. His neck muscles protested the sudden jarring but he couldn't focus on that pain right now. The visage of his nightmares still played behind his eyes. He could see it, hear it, smell it.

Eyes darting to and fro, he took note that his brother's bedroll was still empty and Thorin was still gone.

They're fine. He coached himself. Your mind is playing games from the battle. Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing more.

Why weren't they back though? What if Thorin's injuries were worse than they looked and when he went after Kili they reopened and now he was bleeding out somewhere not more than a voice call away?

You're being ridiculous, he scowled at himself. Stop it. They're fine. Thorin's fine.

So…much…blood.

Shuddering, the blond prince shook his head, violently, as if trying to shake such images from his mind. It didn't happen. Thorin's fine. He's his grumpy, grouchy, stubborn self but he's fine. He's fine, he's fine, hesfine,hesfinehesfinehesfine…

Pushing his chair aside, Fili left the house, silent as shadow.