**New A/N: Hello all! In this tale, Fíli and Kíli are the dwarven equivalent of human children aged 14 and 12 years old; their 'actual' dwarf ages are 20 and 15. When I refer to their ages in-text, it'll be their 'actual' dwarf ages. I provide the human equivalent in notes only so you can better picture the mental/emotional/physical maturity of the characters. If you need any further clarification on this matter, please take a look at the chart and explanation on my profile.

Enjoy!

Chapter I

"Know thou the secret of a spirit

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

O yearning heart!..."

- Edgar Allan Poe, "Tamerlane"

The heavy thud of the door reverberates around on the stone walls and the murmurs of conversation come to an abrupt standstill, like the crash of a cymbal marking a dramatic climax to a scene in a play that causes the audience to fall into a great hush.

This is no play, however.

Lingering luscious scents of Mother's delicious cooking waft in the air and find their way to my nostrils, but the tabletop is void of food; I am late. Dinner has already ended. In the days of old the aroma hanging in the kitchen air would have stirred great roars of hunger within me; now it only increases the churning in my stomach, the sickness that never seems to leave me.

Three pair of eyes look up at my arrival. I cannot bear to meet their gazes for I already know what I will find in them; hers, first shining with surprise then alarm, to be replaced with worry before descending into bitter disappointment and a hint of anger. Brother— his blue eyes will have dulled, directed attention elsewhere, anywhere, rather than look upon me; he is filled with guilt, I know; so torn is he inside. This weighs upon me as well.

Finally, his eyes: grey-blue, smoky with righteous temper. They darken, ever darken as they take sight of me. The storm cloud covers his face and the unmistakable look of disgust and disapproval washes over him. If he were capable of shuddering he probably would do so.

I don't need to look up to see all these emotions play out. I've seen them all before. Nay, I don't need to raise my head to see their gazes tracing over today's new and yet familiar additions to my appearance: the black eye, the split lip, the various bruises here and there and everywhere... and they are everywhere, for even though I am fully clothed I sense my mother's eyes studying me from head to toe, wondering at the full extent of the unseen damages. The only thing I wonder at now is who will be the first to remonstrate me this time.

"Kíli." It is Mother. She breathes my name in a sigh, a weary statement that speaks a bundle all on its own. There is a long pause before she continues. "Where have you been?"

A ridiculous question, really. They all know the answer already— at least, the general answer that I always supply. It seems pointless to give it again. She knows and she is disappointed.

"He's been brawling," Uncle Thorin growls in that dangerously deep voice of his. Apparently he too feels that my response is unnecessary. "End of story."

I hear the loud scraping of a wooden chair against stone and I look up; Thorin has risen to his feet and he casts a disparaging glare of muted fury at me before he turns heel and walks away. "No prince is he," I overhear him mutter aloud in an irate tone, half to himself and half to no one in particular. He cares to listen to nothing from me. As the click-clack of his metal-toed boots echo and fade down the hall I am forced to swallow the lump in my throat that seems to have taken permanent residence there. He believes I have dishonored him.

Silence reigns for a good minute before Mother speaks again.

"I will clean you up," she says in a clipped voice.

I am not even granted the privilege of looking after my own wounds. Even that small thing is denied me... but then, I am only fifteen winters, just a boy, and mothers always want to fuss over their young ones. Already resigned to my fate I follow her beckoning finger and clamber up on the high stool while she gets a cloth.

His face is riddled with pity and confusion and grief, an almost tragic look in his eyes.

"How much longer are you going to keep this up, Little Brother?" Fíli demands of me, grabbing me by both shoulders so I am forced to face him, forced to meet his gaze and acknowledge the torment I am putting him through. "When are you going to tell the truth?"

At twenty years of age Fíli is not a liar by nature. Oh, sure, he has always been the greatest mastermind when it comes to our pranks, and he is skilled in the art of "storytelling"—as he would put it— to weasel us out of any subsequent trouble, but not when it was something truly serious. That's different. This is serious, and he does not enjoy seeing me end up like this every time. Even he is disappointed in me.

"When, you ask? When I can walk through that door with my head held high and victory to claim as my own," I tell him in a stubborn voice. He knew that's what I was going to say and he clearly is not satisfied. He shakes his head firmly, golden hair flying from the force of his movements.

"And when will that be?" he demands, anguish in his voice. "When you've had every fool bone in your body broken, maybe? Or maybe when you've made all of Mum's hair turn to grey?" Fíli releases his grip and he turns away, upset, crossing his arms tightly against his chest in frustration. "This isn't fair. It isn't right—and all because of your stupid pride. It's all so ridiculous, Kíli. What have you got to lose by telling the truth?" He thinks it's because Im a coward.

"Uncle's respect," I respond in a bland tone.

"You've already lost that by going about it this way," he answers with equal blandness.

"I'd rather he think of me as a fighter than a weakling," I counter, "T'is better this way.

"Is it? Is it, really?" Fíli replies bitterly. He turns to me scowling, but even the blackest of frowns could not have disguised the glistening water swimming in his eyes. "I hate this, Kíli. I can't stand it anymore. I want it to end."

"Don't you dare rat out on me," I hiss suddenly, lip curling. I step a few paces closer until I'm almost nose-to-nose with him. "This is my problem, so let me handle it my way."

He breathes out a harsh sigh, exasperated. "But you're not handling it. Nothing's been solved. If you just told him everything he would understand, and he could put an end to it; he could—"

"I don't want him to put an end to it!" I exclaim, equally exasperated. We've gone over this before, Fíli and I; this is old ground. "I want to put an end to it myself, and until I can do it without someone's help then it's not going to end. I need to prove myself!"

Fíli's temper grows visibly short. "This is no way to prove yourself to Uncle Thorin."

"I'm not trying to prove myself to just him, Fíli," I gasp, gesturing helplessly. "I'm... I'm trying to prove myself to me."

I've never verbalized it quite like that before, and now my brother stares at me, eyes narrowing. "And just what are you trying to prove?" he queries.

I meet his gaze once before looking away, my passion seeping away like smoke at his scathing look. I can only shrug. "Everything," I mutter. Whether or not I'm worthy of the family name.

Fíli would have pressed me further except that Mother's approach is hearkened by the sound of her footfalls. We have been standing in front of her bedroom door, me awaiting her arrival. My brother turns to me once more, his voice pleading.

"Tell her," he says simply. "Just... tell her." His voice cracks. Good ol' Fíli. He's the mature one but it turns out he's only a child after all.

Tears pinprick the corners of my own eyes but I set my jaw resolutely and shake my head. He looks at me hard, his distress plain. I have let him down.

Fíli bites his lip and turns abruptly away, walking quickly down the hall just as Mother turns the corner and appears before me, the dreaded willow switch in hand.

"Come, Kíli," she says simply, authoritatively.

My voice is too strangled in my throat for me to speak, and my vision clouds as I follow her into her chambers. She thinks she's the one punishing me, but in reality I am punishing myself.

With silent, secretive footsteps I tiptoe to the door, fetch my cloak from where it hangs on a wooden peg on the wall and lay my hand on the door knob.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Aulë preserve me, I think I would have screamed like a girl if the voice had belonged to anyone but Fíli. As it is I still flinch, badly startled, then roll my eyes at the absurd nature of the question.

"Oh, I don't know," I reply, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I have this quiver on my back, and it's full of arrows; I have a bow over my shoulder, and—oh, look!—there's a sparring rod in my hand, gee—"

"I thought Mum banished you to the house for the next few days," my brother interjects seriously, ignoring my snarky attitude.

"Yeah, well." I shrug a little, feeling slightly embarrassed for having spoken to him as I did but still too annoyed to apologize. "I'm bored and I need air."

Out of all the clever excuses I could have offered him it is a fairly lame one, and I know it. I don't expect for a moment that Fíli will believe it and the expression on his face confirms that thought. However, he surprises me by not chiding me, or grabbing my arm and trying to force me back to my room before someone catches me in this act of disobedience, or otherwise trying to act like the responsible big brother as he usually does in these types of situations. Instead he plasters on a small grin, apparently trying to lift my spirits and offer me moral support by lightening the situation. Really, he's given up on me.

"If you stay here, I'll help you pass the time by braiding your hair to look all nice and pretty like mine," he jokes weakly, reaching out and teasingly fingering my slightly disheveled tresses. "Maybe that's all you need." His laughter is soft. "The state of your hair reflects the state of your mind. Sort one out and the other might sort itself."

I cannot accept his humor. There is too much warring within me to allow me to laugh or even return a cheerful expression. I can only stare back at him solemnly as I make my reply.

"No." The word is short, blunt, and it is enough to kill the false smile on my brother's face. "I must practice," I continue. "There can be no rest for me. Not until—"

"We used to train together," Fíli interrupts in a quiet voice. He takes a shuddering breath and sighs deeply. "I see so little of you nowadays and now even in this we are separated." His tone is one so crestfallen and hurt that I wince at my own callousness; his words ring true. He and I have been joined at the hip since we were babes in arms, spending almost every waking moment together. We're well known for that. Folks around here usually refer to us as one entity—'Fíli-And-Kíli'—rather than individually, for we are so close that we practically exist as the living half of the other, unable to survive in separation. However, these past few weeks we've gone through each day passing one another like ships in the night as I have gradually pulled myself further away from him. Alas, time spent together is becoming alarmingly scarce and the fault is all mine.

There is a long pause.

"I'm sorry, Brother," I finally murmur. I quickly open the door and slip out into the evening's dying light before I can witness the suffering look in Fíli's eyes.

In this battle I must stand alone.

It is hours later when I eventually trudge back home under the cover of darkness and slink through a back door, every muscle aching from the work I have subjected my body to. Everyone has retired to bed so I am safe at the moment. I sit on the earthen floor before the comforting hearth that roars in the great room, kept burning by the servants in order to warm the stone halls in the chilly night, and I begin the assembly of new arrows as well as the repair of old ones.

I am focused diligently on my task and am lost in my own morose thoughts, so much so that I do not hear his approach or catch sight of his imposing figure. Whether he has stood there for some time or has just newly arrived I do not know, but he makes his presence known when he clears his throat sternly. Were I not so numb with fatigue I think I might have jumped clear into the fire from surprise at the sound.

I jerk my head up immediately. "U-Uncle!" I stutter, bewildered. I am not used to being the one snuck up on and spooked—usually the roles are reversed— and I would not have expected anyone to still be awake at this time of night, least of all him.

Thorin slowly makes his way towards me and into the path of the flickering firelight, his hands folded gravely behind his back and his face ever unreadable, with grey-blue eyes peering at me from beneath dark, bushy brows. He does not speak but instead regards me quietly for a while as he approaches the hearth; aoon he stands towering over me, still saying nothing and appearing placid enough. My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I stare up at him meekly, nervously, from my cross-legged position on the ground, arrows in my lap and arranged in neat piles all about me. I expect an outburst of fury, a caustic rebuke, a searing lecture of astounding proportions for which Thorin is famous . . . and am surprised once again when there is nothing. Is this the calm before the storm? I cannot translate this expression deep in Uncle's eyes; it is familiar and yet unknown to me.

"The hour is late," he eventually announces in that deep, rumbling voice of his. "Why are you not in your bedchambers?"

At any other time I might have very well asked him the same thing because he is clearly not dressed for sleep either; he still wears his day clothes and even his great fur coat. Thorin is a king, however— a fact of which I must constantly remind myself— and one does not question a king, especially if he is your uncle and guardian to boot. In any case I am in no position to be the one asking questions, what with my recent actions.

His expression tells me that I have delayed my answer too long.

"I... I could not... sleep," I finally say, awkward even in my own lie.

Thorin nods slightly, seeming to accept that explanation for the moment, even though I doubt he is truly fooled by my falsehood. He falls silent once more and his gaze travels from me to the crackling hearth; he turns his body away from me to face the warm blaze though I know he is not finished speaking with me.

"Your conduct of late is disturbing," he intones, "To say the least."

Not knowing whether I am supposed to supply an explanation or only to listen I choose to hold my tongue; it turns out that I was correct to do so for Thorin continues.

"I do not know to what end you expect your actions to lead but I can promise you that if you do not rectify the situation, there shall be regretful consequences."

This time I dare to speak. "I am working on it, Uncle," I quietly say.

He looks sideways at me. "Your mother is rapidly reaching the end of her wits," he replies, a little harshly this time. "And your brother is increasingly more troubled with every passing day. You two scarcely keep company together anymore—which is hardly a crime but it concerns me nonetheless—and I suspect that there is much on his mind concerning this matter. I believe he knows the reasons behind your actions yet for reasons of his own refuses to divulge them."

I almost say 'Fíli knows nothing,' but the look on Thorin's face turns dark as though in an ominous dare to offer him another lie, so I wisely say nothing and instead bow my head in a proper expression of remorse. There is another pause as he thoughtfully takes in my appearance.

"As a warrior I cannot tell you not to fight, but I can tell you to fight for the right reasons," he mutters. "You are of the line of Durin; you are of royal blood. While it is Fíli who stands to inherit the throne if we are ever to reclaim Erebor you are still a prince, his brother and advisor, and a member of the royal family. Your conduct must reflect this," Thorin says firmly, with emphasis on this last sentence. "There is a fine line between fighting with honorable cause and brawling like a common thug. Until you can discern the difference between the two, you must exercise the necessary wisdom to refrain from falling into these situations. Only a fool fights without cause." He gives me a hard look. "Do you understand me, Kíli?"

I have silently listened all this time but now I nod in response and solemnly answer him in a subdued voice: "Yes, Uncle; I understand."

He thinks I am a fool.

He nods again. "Good," is all he says. Thorin is a plain-speaking man who somewhat lacks natural eloquence when it comes to family and matters of the heart, and I know him well enough to understand that he deliberated long and hard on the words he just told to me. I know I would do well not to ignore them.

This apparently marks the conclusion of our discussion because he drops his gaze and turns away from me, heading towards his own quarters. However, he pauses at the edge of the firelight shining on the floor.

"Oh," he says, speaking as though in afterthought, "One more thing." His back remains turned to me as he continues. "Sneaking outdoors to train alone in the dark is not only a severe risk to your personal safety but an act of complete disregard for your mother's authority, especially when you were expressly forbidden from leaving the halls as a result of your misconduct. I have decided to say and do nothing regarding the matter... this time. But—" his voice deepens further, laced with a dark tone of warning; "—if you commit another act of such blatant disobedience and I find out about it, I assure you that I will not hesitate to take you over my knee and learn you myself. Hear me, boy?"

My eyes widen—a strong shiver of utter mortification running through me— and I blanch, then color, my cheeks flushing red with shame. It is quite rare that Fíli or I ever receive thrashings from our uncle, and though it has been a long while since I was last disciplined in such a manner, the memory lies painfully crystal clear within my mind. Suffice it is to say that it is an experience I do not care to repeat.

"N-No sir!" I exclaim with muted horror, frightened by my own flashback. "I mean, yes sir; I-I hear you loud and clear." I do believe my voice actually squeaked, confound it.

Thorin grunts quietly and nods a little, evidently finding satisfaction (and possibly amusement) with the extent of my reaction. He has made a definite impression on me and is content that his point has been driven home. It seems he is now ready to retire but he lingers still, having one more thing he wishes to say.

"And, Kíli?" Thorin turns to me ever-so-slightly and looks over his shoulder. "Make an end here and go to bed promptly. It is too late for you to be up and your mother would not be pleased."

"Yes, Uncle; right away, sir," I murmur, timidly glancing his way as I start gathering up my arrows under his watchful eye.

"Excellent. Good night, Kíli."

"G'night, Uncle Thorin. Sleep well," I add hastily, my gaze following his retreating back. The dwarf disappears into the soft darkness and I can hear his footfalls grow farther and farther away. I exhale suddenly, relief washing over me at my good fortune; I know I am lucky that Thorin didn't bawl me out in a torrent of fiery words and. . . well. His warning still stands. I must take great care from now on.

I can't help but wonder how on earth he had known of tonight's misdeed, and what he suspects of my admittedly strange behavior if anything at all. Not that it really matters; it doesn't change anything.

I still have yet to prove myself.

To be continued. . .

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