Something in his pack was being annoying, jabbing him in the spine with every step he took, and he couldn't stop to fix it because he just knew if he let them out of his sight they'd be gone. Hoisting the pack higher in the hope that would help temporarily, Gimli trotted along after his longer-legged cousins. Didn't matter. He'd fix it when they were safely over the wall. His heart thrummed with excitement and his fingers were slippery on the haft of his axe.

"Gimli," said Fili, sounding exasperated. Stopping so suddenly that Gimli almost headbutted the swords strapped to his cousin's back, Fili spun on his heel. "I'm not going to tell you again. Go home."

"We'll bring you with us next year," added Kili, looking down at him. "I swear it, and Fee's already promised you. Isn't that right, Fee? Next year we'll all go."

Fili snorted. "If he behaves himself between now and then."

"But that's not fair," said Gimli. At Fili's glower, he lowered his voice and tried not to roll his eyes. What was the point of whispering and hissing at each other? Behind them, out on the streets of the settlement and in the passageways of the mountain, the celebrations were in full swing. Even here, out on the outskirts, they could hear the singing. Drunken singing. He and his cousins could be screaming at each other and no one would care.

Well, maybe the guards would care about screaming. A little.

"It's not," he continued in a whisper low enough to keep his big cousin happy. "You didn't say anything about behaving myself, and you can't go about changing the conditions after we'd already agreed on the terms." He crossed his arms as best he could with his axe. "That's a breach of trust."

Kili snickered. "He's got you there, brother."

"At least he listens to Balin." As Kili's eyebrows lowered, Fili added, "Go check we've got a clear run. No, not you."

With Fili's fingers hooked in his collar, Gimli wasn't going anywhere. He watched Kili stalk to the end of the alleyway and slide around the corner and out of sight—a soundless shadow. He tried not to feel jealous.

Another few years and he'd be able to sneak about every bit as quietly and easily as Kili could. Dwalin had said so. He'd said he had a natural talent for it.

"I'm not changing any terms," said Fili, giving him a light shake. "But I'm not changing my mind neither. So look at me, and listen well. If you don't turn around right now, run back to your bed, and stay there then I swear to you that you can forget all about—"

"No."

Fili raised his eyebrows.

"It's not fair. I'm nearly fifteen, and—"

"And next year, when you're fifteen outright, a little taller, a little more trained, then you can come with us." Letting go of Gimli's collar, Fili placed both hands on Gimli's shoulders, looking him firmly in the eye. "Exactly as I said."

It wasn't fair to bring his height into it. And he was in the middle of another growth spurt anyway. Likely, he'd be up to Fili's shoulder proper in another week, and bypass him entirely by the time spring's first wildflowers pushed their way out through the snow. By this time next year, he'd probably be caught up with Kili. Maybe even Dwalin. Gimli gripped his axe tighter. "But, Fili, I am trained. Dwalin said that I—"

"Go on. Off to bed with you, before Gloin comes home and finds you missing."

Gloin wouldn't be able to see past the end of his own nose. Not tonight. Even if his parents swung open his bedchamber door to check on him, to call in and wake him up with their 'goodnights' even if it were pushing toward dawn, they wouldn't notice whether he was in the bed or not. He could have left an orc in there, or a pony, or anything at all, and they wouldn't notice. Not tonight.

He snickered, imagining Gloin calling out ale-fuelled goodnights to a pony. "But what if Dis comes home and finds you missing?" he asked. "Or what if Thorin does?"

"Uncle Thorin won't see his bed until dawn, and likely not Amad either. Anyhow," said Fili, clapping Gimli's shoulders, "us being out and about this time of night won't start a whole uproar."

He could point out that, if that were anything close to true, then Fili wouldn't have a coil of rope over his shoulder, and Kili wouldn't be creeping about to check that the guard patrols weren't close by. Gimli pressed his lips together. He could also point out that, if it wouldn't cause a uproar, then why go to the trouble of bothering with the wall at all? Why not simply walk up to the gates and ask the guards to open them?

But, he was fourteen now. Older and wiser than he'd ever been before. Through his years of bitter experience, he'd finally realised that using logic and good sense with Fili in this matter, or any matter, wasn't going to convince him. Not one bit. It would only make Fili dig in his heels harder.

His cousin could be very stubborn when the mood took him.

"Not to mention," added Fili, "we're not dwarflings."

Gimli pressed his lips together harder. His cousin could also be cunning. But not half as cunning as him, for he knew that rising to that very obvious piece of bait would also not convince Fili to take him along. Any hint of a tantrum on his part—no matter how justified—would only reinforce Fili's belief that he was correct to leave him behind.

"Another year," said Fili, squeezing Gimli's shoulders, "that's all. The blink of an eye or the beat of a heart. No time at all. And then, every year after that, the gaps between us will only get shorter and shorter. But I can't take you with us. Not tonight. It's too dangerous."

"Kili's only fifteen years older than me."

"Which for you, right now, is an entire lifetime. In another fifteen years, fifty years, it won't be nearly the same, will it?"

Gimli tried not to roll his eyes. This was exactly the same nonsense he heard from Uncle Oin, and from his parents. From everyone. 'You'll catch them up in no time.' 'Be patient, lad.' 'Don't go wishing these years away.' As if any of that made up for being left out of every single proper adventure.

"Fee," hissed Kili, poking his head around the corner. "If we're going, it's got to be now."

"We're going," said Fili.

The hair ruffle was an insult. And so was the slight shove back in the direction of the main streets. And, if Gimli were counting, which he was, then so was the complete disregard of him, as if he were already toddling off home like a good little dwarfling. He scowled, watching Fili and Kili shrug off packs and rifle through their pockets, discussing in a mix of low voices, and too fast for him to follow iglishmêk, their—probably idiotic and full of holes—plan

Not that he had a better one. He hadn't thought he'd need one for this part. He'd thought having his things all packed, and tracking his cousins through the streets and alleyways, would have shown more than enough initiative without having to think of a practical escape plan for them all as well.

But, he grudgingly supposed, here, where the silent yards behind the last darkened houses stretched almost to the outer wall, where they were cast into shadow, hidden even from the stars above, by the high alleyway walls, was as good a place as any to clamber up. And his cousins were both prepared for and practiced at making their escapes. They'd had years of experience under their belts. Even he had to admit that much. But he had to have something to offer them?

Hope wasn't lost. Not nearly. Not yet. If he were useful, and showed Fili how grown up and dependable he was, then his cousin would realise his mistake and change his mind. Gimli was certain of it. Maybe Fili would even apologise? Although that was likely too much to hope for.

There was a glint of silver in the starlight as Kili handed Fili something. What was that? "Will I hold the packs?" he asked, sidling closer. "I can toss them up to you?"

And he could withhold tossing them up as well—if his cousins decided not to behave themselves.

Had he said that out loud?

He didn't think so. But they were both looking at him, Fili with an eyebrow raised and Kili with a knowing smile tugging at his lips, as if he had. Gimli smiled too, showing all his teeth.

"Why are you still here?" Adjusting the rope looped about his shoulders, Fili nodded at Kili. "Go."

As Kili ran for the wall, Fili turned his attention back to Gimli. "Bed. Now. I mean it, and you had better go straight to sleep the moment you get there. Dwalin won't be the one in charge of your training tomorrow, remember?"

Of course, he remembered. He was fourteen, not four hundred and senile into the bargain. He knew that Dwalin, and half the settlement, would be nursing ale headaches for days, exactly the same as every year. So there was no need for Fili to threaten him. And anyway, he liked training, and Fili was always a thousand times easier on them than Dwalin. He tilted his chin. "What's those for?" He nodded to the metal pegs that Fili was sliding onto a ring on his belt.

"Home," said Fili. Then, without another word or a final glance, he was gone, racing across the open space between alleyway and outer wall. Kili was there to meet him, boosting him upwards in a move that they must've practised—without Gimli's help—a thousand times.

Gripping his axe, Gimli tried not to be impressed as Fili stabbed a peg into a gap between the stones. Swinging from it, he freed another from his belt and wriggled that into the wall too before placing a boot onto it.

So that was how they did it.

Barely daring to breathe, and with his heart pounding in his ears, Gimli crept forward until he was standing beside Kili, the two of them staring upwards at Fili's shadow outlined by the stars.

It was a long way up.

A very long way up.

Kili wasn't breathing either, nor blinking, and Gimli wasn't sure who moved first, but then his fingers were securely wrapped up in long, sword-and-bow-calloused ones, and he felt a lot better.

"He knows what he's doing," said Gimli, not sure who he was trying to reassure.

Kili glanced at him, giving him a ghost of a smile before his attention snapped back upwards as if he could hold Fili to the wall by sheer force of will. "Course he does. He's done it a hundred times. A thousand."

"He's never fallen?" whispered Gimli.

There was a metallic scrape from the shadows above and Kili sucked in a sharp breath, shoving Gimli backward so hard that he stumbled. A bent peg pinged off the cobblestones where their boots had been. And Kili's body was more than just a shield, it was a wall. As he peeped around his cousin, Gimli clung tighter to Kili's hand, but nothing more followed the peg down from above—apart from muffled swearing.

"Fee?" called Kili, the beads in his beard clinking together quietly as he tipped his head further back.

"I'm fine, brother. Almost there."

Whose hand was sweating? Was it his?

At a soft, slithering sound from above, Gimli's heart lurched into his throat. A whimper escaped before the more sensible part of him kicked in. That hadn't been Fili falling. He'd have hit them or the ground already.

The thought made his stomach turn over.

"Only the rope," said Kili, letting him go. They both wiped their clammy hands on their tunics, grinning at each other, before Kili leant down and pressed his forehead to Gimli's. "Go on. Home with you, just like Fee said. We'll see you in the morning."

Kili could do it.

Gimli's heart pounded. How had he been so much of a fool? He'd gone about things all wrong, for the only dwarf who might ever be able to change Fili's mind on anything was Kili. As his cousin straightened, Gimli said quickly, "Let me come with you, you'll not know I'm there, I'll not even speak, not a word, and I'll keep up, and I swear that I won't—"

"First thing," said Kili, gathering up the packs from the alley and then the dropped peg. He swung one pack and then the other over his shoulders, swearing under his breath when arrows rattled together in his quiver. "Fee," he muttered. "Honestly."

"Stop complaining about my pack," called Fili.

"You'd swear we were going for weeks," said Kili. He raised his voice, "It's not even one full night."

As Fili's laughter drifted down, Gimli watched Kili frown as he tried to work out how best to carry both the packs and his weapons. Honestly, how did his cousins ever manage to get anything done?

"Do you need some help?" he offered when he could stand by and watch quietly no more.

Looking up, Kili smiled as if surprised to find Gimli still there. "No, all under control, thanks." Elbowing one of the packs hard enough into position that Gimli was certain he heard something crack, Kili grabbed the rope. "What was I saying? Yes, first thing tomorrow, I'll come rap on your window, and you can climb out that way. We'll not disturb Gloin when he's sleeping off his ale."

As Kili yanked the rope tight about himself, Gimli tried to resist the urge to smack his hands away and check the knots. And cursed himself for not thinking to check the rope for any nicks or frays, because he'd put coin on neither of his cousins having had the wit to consider such things. He looked up at the wall stretching away above their heads. "How many times have you done this, Kili? Truly? Where did you get the rope? What was it being used for?"

"We'll make ourselves pancakes for breakfast," Kili said, ignoring him. "How's that sound?"

That did sound good. But he wasn't a little dwarfling to be pacified or distracted with promises of sweet things. He'd much prefer to have his important questions answered.

But, on the other hand, Kili did make the best pancakes.

"There's even some of that blackcurrant jam left that you liked," added Kili, giving the rope a sharp tug. "I hid the last of it away as a treat for us. Go on, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

He'd be a fool to pass up the offer. Gimli sighed. "I suppose so, but you haven't answered my—"

"Enthusiasm." Kili grinned, reaching out to ruffle Gimli's hair. "You wear it well, like a fine cloak, and we're agreed. I'll see you in the morning, cousin."

"No," Gimli said. "We're not agreed. I was only agreeing to—"

But Kili was already gone, hoisted up quickly and already higher than Gimli could jump.

Gimli kicked at the cobblestones, watching Kili work a peg out from the wall and tuck it into a pack. The skins attached to the packs sloshed as Kili swung and stretched out for another peg, one foot brushing the wall, the rope creaking.

"Firewater," said Gimli, struck by sudden inspiration and trying very hard not to think of the stretching and snapping of rope fibres. Could he catch Kili? If it came to it? "Firewater!"

With a hand on the peg, Kili stopped, looking upwards.

"What's that about firewater?" called Fili.

"Uncle Oin always says that you can't do a toast without it. A mouthful at least. You did…" Gimli peered out around Kili, following the rope up, but Fili was partially hidden from him by the ramparts. He couldn't fully make out his cousin's expression, but he could guess at it. His cousin would be frowning, in the way that made him look a lot like Thorin—if you ignored the hair and the beard. And that frown meant Fili was thinking. Gimli could almost hear the wheels turning in his cousin's head.

"You did remember to pack some?" Gimli asked innocently. "Didn't you?"

The silence stretched. But it wasn't really silence. It was only silent for him. Listening to the distant sounds of the guards laughing down at the gates, and the singing of their kin from deep in the settlement, Gimli held his breath and waited for his cousins to finish their private, signed conversation.

"Keep talking," said Fili at last.

Inside Gimli's chest, his heart fluttered—as if it had wings that might sprout out through his ribcage and fly him over the wall. No questionable rope or fool cousins needed.

"I know where to get some," he said, "the really good stuff too. From the south." Uncle Oin always said that even a sniff of it would make him go blind, but Gimli suspected that was just a lie to keep him away from it. Neither Gloin nor Oin had gone blind yet, and they'd certainly tried hard enough.

"Ah, said Fili. "Then you don't have it on you."

Why, in Mahal's name, would he be carrying his parents' hoard of very expensive firewater about? His cousin really was a fool. "Of course not, but I can show you where it is."

No. No. No. Kili was being pulled upward again.

"There's lots," said Gimli, trying not to sound desperate. "There'll never notice."

There was a scuff of boots against stone before Fili's voice drifted down. "Next time, Gimli."

"Good try though," added Kili, twisting to look down as Fili helped him clamber over the top. "You almost had us."

They weren't laughing. Not outright, not yet, but he could hear it badly hidden in both their voices. Gimli's fingers clenched about the haft of his axe, so tightly that he was sure he heard the metal creaking. Or was it his knuckles?

The snow-laden, stiff breeze that swept down from the sharp peaks of the mountains coursed over the top of the wall. It brought to him the zip of ties and straps being tightened on packs, and the muffled talk of his cousins. He could hear them discussing the weather and their likely route as they fixed rope and readied themselves to climb down to the outside world and into adventures.

They weren't thinking of him at all. He'd vanished completely from their minds—as if he'd never been here at all. As if he'd been tucked up in bed the whole time. Gimli sniffed, rubbing at his nose.

"I'll tell," he called.

Had they gone? He strained his ears, standing on tiptoe and staring upward.

Finally, the dark shadows of two shaggy heads appeared over the wall.

"What did you say?" asked Fili.

"I'll tell." This was it. His last chance. And it was a desperate play, but it was all they'd left him with. "I'll go to Thorin right now. I will."

"This is extortion, Gimli," said Fili.

"Means blackmail," added Kili. "Balin mightn't have covered that with you yet. Are you trying to threaten us?"

Could he hold onto the rope and his axe at the same time? Kili had been one-handed, but that was Kili. He'd rather not overturn on the rope and be dragged up feet first like a sack of potatoes. It would be undignified. They'd never let him forget it. "I know what it means," said Gimli. "Let the rope down."

There was a beat of silence before they started laughing.

"No," said Fili. "Of course, we're not letting the rope down. Behave yourself and go home."

Gimli glared up at them. "Fine. If that's how you want it, then I'll go right now. I expect Thorin will come himself to fetch you back, and then you'll be sorry."

"I expect we would be sorry," said Kili. "If you were a snitch."

"Lucky for us we know you're not," said Fili. "But to say such things, I now know for certain that you're overtired, cousin."

Gimli couldn't see Fili's dismissive shrug, but he heard it. And he heard them snickering quietly. His blood boiled.

"I'm not surprised," continued Fili, his voice merry and all amused with himself. "It's been a long, exciting day and you haven't had a chance to rest properly. Get yourself on home, and sleep well."

This time they were properly gone. Gimli hissed their names, over and over, stamping his foot against the cobbles, but they didn't answer. And—although he knew it was impossible—he was certain when he pressed his ear against the thick stone wall that he could hear the fading crunch of boots on snow.

"Gimli."

Blinking, Gimli jolted upright.

"I think you may have dozed off, lad." On the other side of the desk, Thorin glanced up. "Go on, I'm listening."

"I…" Beyond the thick door that separated the private antechamber from the main hall, Gimli could hear the fiddles, and a mournful song in the old Khuzdul that Balin had promised him he'd start learning when the year renewed. The rolling, unknown words felt like history, like a weight pressing down on him, as he'd felt the weight of curious eyes while he'd sneaked through the packed halls and passageways to track Thorin down.

He shouldn't be here. This was a night for the grown dwarves. It was a night for those with grey in their hair and sadness in their eyes. Those who'd been there and who remembered.

But here, in the snugness of Thorin's study, there was a comfortable quiet. Only the crackling of the fire and the scratching of Thorin's quill, as he annotated the long list of figures on the parchment in front of him, disturbed it.

But now the scratching had stopped, and Gimli was very aware that he was keeping Thorin back from joining the others.

This didn't feel so comfortable anymore. Why had his cousins forced him into this?

"You're busy," said Gimli, leaping up.

"I am." Setting the quill aside, Thorin leant back in his chair. He waved Gimli back to his. "But this is obviously a matter of some great importance. Important and pressing enough to bring you all the way here in the dead of night, on tonight of all nights."

Sharp, knowing, eyes held Gimli's and he tried not to squirm.

"So, now you've had a rest, and had time to think it over, I'll ask you again." Thorin smiled. "What did you want to tell me?"