Set in an AU where nobody's dead in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies.

(I really need to start writing shorter oneshots.)

lethe: nothingness, oblivion

—-—

Kíli has never been more terrified than he is now, as his gaze flashes desperately across the ground in the wake of the horrific battle. He is fine—a few gashes here and there, a dislocated shoulder and what feels like a badly sprained knee, but nothing he can't handle—but Beorn has just carried a bloody and unconscious Thorin back toward the mountain…and Fíli…

(He knows he heard the crunching of bone in the midst of battle, heard his brother's gurgled scream, but he had no time to look around—not when he had to protect his injured uncle with everything he had.)

But Azog is dead, now, for certain—ripped near in half by Beorn's enormous claws—and his guards have fled with the rest, and now all that remain are the fallen and those searching desperately for survivors.

Kíli does not know where his brother fell, how severe his injuries are (or whether he is even alive), but he continues searching, his breath coming quicker and quicker as he sees nothing surrounding him but the bodies of the dead.

Fíli can't be—he just can't, because his older brother is indestructible, isn't he? He's been through hell and back—both of them have—and surely they've lived through worse than this—

But they haven't, now, have they? Neither of them have ever seen a true battlefield before this quest began, not when they grew up sheltered and happy for most of their lives in the Blue Mountains. Adventure and glory have always been distant, abstract concepts—things they always claimed they would happily die for…

Now Kíli knows better; he discovered today that the only thing worth dying for is his family—his king and brother and Fíli just can't be dead, he wouldn't have died today, he knows I need him because oh Mahal he's my brother, if he's—

There's a flash of gold on the ground several yards away and then Kíli is there, favoring his injured leg and squinting through the blood in his eyes to try and focus. And yes, that's Fíli, lying on his back with his eyes scrunched shut, pulling in short, harsh breaths between his teeth, his light hair matted with black and red blood but thank the gods he's still alive—

Kíli wants to cry with relief, half-reaches down and offers a hand as if to pull his brother to his feet… But then his gaze travels lower, toward the beautiful steel and ruby armor Thorin gifted to him in the mountain, and his own breath stutters to a halt.

It's so clear, now, what the horrible crunching noise was in the heat of battle. The breastplate—once proud and strong, designed to withstand any force thrown at it—is a mangled mess, carved and ruined and bloody, now, where parts have dug into his brother's skin. And his chest is surely grotesquely deformed along with the armor, jutting out where it shouldn't and caving where it shouldn't and that is not good oh Mahal his ribs—

Kíli finds himself falling to his knees, pain lancing sharply up his left thigh but he doesn't care, not right now, not when his brother is likely on the brink of unconsciousness (not death not death he can't die he's my brother) from the pain and oh gods Kíli's going to be sick—

He turns his head just in time, retching onto some unfortunate corpse's legs, but he wipes his mouth clumsily with his good arm and turns back to his brother quickly, trying to assess the damage through the thick tears now forming in his eyes. He's still—he's still breathing, and that's good, right? And he's awake, too, because when Kíli grabs him by the hand, his eyes twitch and his mouth opens a bit more.

When he tries to turn his head, though, Kíli makes clumsy shushing noises (he's never been good at that, it's always been Ma and Fíli who brought so much comfort) and says in a choked voice, "It's—it's gonna be all right, Fee, the healers will be able to fix you right up and it's not even that bad, right? You're gonna be fine—there are elves here and Bilbo always says that they're the best at making people better so you just sit tight and we're gonna—gonna—"

His voice chokes off as the tears finally fall from his eyes, landing on Fíli's face as Kíli leans over his brother. Fíli frowns as they do so, and makes a clear effort to open his eyes—and when he finally succeeds, Kíli sees that they are full of agony and oh Mahal maybe he really is going to die what if they can't save him—

"K—K—"

"Shh, it's all right," Kíli says again, pulling his right arm free to thread through Fíli's hair, his injured left hand still holding his brother's. "Don't try to talk, it'll be all right—"

His brother's brows furrow—maybe in pain, maybe in confusion—but he listens to Kíli and does not try to speak again. His breaths are worrying, though: short and wheezy and full of agony—

Kíli wouldn't dare try to carry him, even if he himself were not injured—because he knows enough about medicine to realize that moving his brother right now would be nothing short of killing him. Heart and lungs and liver and oh Mahal there are so many things that could go wrong, even now, even lying, unmoving, on the ground as his wounds bleed sluggishly and his breaths are so so wrong and maybe he's dying and what if—

He can't carry his brother but he doesn't dare leave him to find a healer, doesn't dare leave him because what if Fíli is beyond help, and he is gone when Kíli comes back? (No it won't happen it won't it won't it won't) He can't carry him and he can't leave but he can't fix him himself (stupid useless idiot of a brother what good are you, then) so he has no idea what he's supposed to do—this happens to other people, people like Balin or Óin or Dori or someone older who can handle this, who is so much smarter than him and who would know what to do—Kíli is only a child and he knows he can't do this but what else is he to do, when it's his older brother lying here (not dying he's not) with his chest crushed to pieces in the middle of a battlefield—?

"K—ee," Fíli's voice is choked and wrong and barely more than a whisper, but Kíli's eyes lock on his brother's, tear away from the mess that is his chest—and he wills his brother to live. "S'okay—"

And Kíli laughs through his tears, a short, barking, humorless laugh, because even now Fíli is playing the older brother, the protective sibling who'd die for the younger without a second thought, would throw away his own life if it meant saving his family's—and Kíli has always loved that part of Fíli but he'd give anything to make him lose it now. There aren't many weapons that would make a wound like this, and Kíli knows Azog's mace is one of them—he realizes, sickness pooling in his gut again, that Fíli likely threw himself between that monster and their king in a last-ditch effort to save his life—

He's in unimaginable pain but still he tries to comfort his younger brother when he knows he may not himself survive; his fingers, previously limp in Kíli's shaking grasp, twitch slightly as if trying to grip him tighter, and his bloodless lips curl up into what's clearly attempting to be a smile. "I told you not to talk," Kíli says, and though the words are harsh his voice cracks and fresh tears roll down his face. (He doesn't know what to do.) "Just—just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing for me, you can do that, right? I'll find you a healer and they'll fix you right up and everything will be all right—"

Fíli's fingers twitch a bit more when Kíli mentions finding a healer, his lips and brows pulling down into a frown, but Kíli has no intention of leaving his brother's side. His uninjured arm continues stroking Fíli's hair softly, and his left hand tightens around his brother's (the pain, lightning bolts from his shoulder to his neck to his elbow to his wrist, barely registers in his mind) as he settles onto the bloody ground, looking up and around and trying to figure out what to do.

Banners and weapons and bodies are piled everywhere, horrible sigils of the carnage wrought to gain back their homeland, and Kíli can see no one still standing. They are far-flung on the battlefield—for Thorin chased Azog with single-minded determination, and the two of them had no choice but to follow—and now Kíli can only see death. His breath starts coming faster again, his throat closing in and his vision blurring as he realizes that there is no one to help them—what if the rest of the Company died in the battle, what if the orcs won, what if the elves and men have turned on them, now that the common enemy has been eliminated—

He feels his brother's fingers twitch against his tightening grip and he looks down again, his wide eyes taking in Fíli's bloody face and pale lips and calming eyes. "S'okay," Fíli says again, a smile trying to form again, and then his eyes start to close.

"No!" Kíli's voice is loud and desperate, and Fíli's eyes snap open again, blinking a few times before refocusing on Kíli's terrified face. He feels his grip tighten in his brother's hair, probably hard enough to hurt, but he pays it no mind as he continues, "Don't you dare let go, Fíli, you can't—you can't leave me here—"

Fíli only makes a soft noise in the back of his throat in response, but his hand tightens a bit more and he's clearly doing his best to keep his eyes open.

Kíli lets out another sob, turning as far around as his aching back will allow, searching desperately for any sign of life. There has to be someone—the gods would not be so cruel as to let his brother die, not after they have sacrificed so much to get this far—

And then he sees them through the gloom, two figures walking several yards behind him, and he'd recognize that imposing profile anywhere.

"Thranduil!" he calls, his voice breaking, and the elvenking does not turn. "Please, King Thranduil!"

The elf and his companion pause then, turning slightly as if attempting to discern the origin of the call. "Please, over here—" Kíli yells, his ruined voice as loud as he can make it, and he carefully removes his hand from Fíli's hair to wave it around, for he doesn't dare release his grip on his brother's fingers to stand up. "Help me, please—"

The other elf, shorter than the king, seems to murmur something in his ear, but Thranduil only shakes his head before walking toward Kíli, his head tilted ever so slightly in question as he comes upon the two dwarves. He's at least two feet taller than Kíli even when they're both standing; now, Kíli has to crane his neck back painfully to make eye contact with the elf. It doesn't matter, though—not if it means saving his brother's life.

"Please, my brother—his chest, I can't—I can't—"

He's mortified as he feels his voice choke off into a sob, but he does not move to wipe his tears away, holding eye contact with Thranduil in a desperate effort to convince him to help. He knows the elf has a dozen reasons to refuse him aid—the ages-old feud between their races being only one small part—but he will do anything, anything, to convince the elf to heal Fíli.

If he wants him to swear fealty—if he wants him prostrate before his feet—if he wants the whole damned treasury for himself, Kíli would readily give it to him. All that matters anymore is his brother's life.

Thranduil narrows his eyes ever so slightly, glancing past Kíli to take in the damage to his brother's chest. "Why should I help your brother when there are so many other injured soldiers—some of them my own men—who require similar assistance?" Thranduil asks levelly, absolutely no emotion on his face as he considers the two of them.

And Kíli knows he has a point—he has an excellent point—and he really has no reason at all, but he is so desperate and so beyond reason himself that he doesn't think before he blurts out, "He's my brother—please, I'll—I'll do anything you want, but I can't—I can't—"

Fíli's fingers are twitching again against his own, and he takes a slightly larger, rattling breath, as if about to say something; but then the other elf comes up beside Thranduil, his face taking on that same considering expression—and Kíli realizes this must be the king's son. "You are Thorin Oakenshield's heirs," he says suddenly, his eyes narrowing in recognition after a moment.

"Yes," Kíli says immediately, relief and hope rushing through him briefly because this makes Fíli important, doesn't it? It makes him stand out from all the other soldiers Thranduil should be tending to, so maybe—"Fíli's—he's the crown prince, he's going to be king someday, he—"

"Why should we trust you when it was your blood that spawned such madness?" the prince asks, his voice growing cold as he flings an arm out across the battlefield, as if trying to capture the carnage in one glance. "Your king is insane—were it not for him, we would have—"

"Legolas," Thranduil murmurs, effectively quieting his son even as Kíli feels the blood drain from his face. The elf is right, of course—but Thorin isn't mad, he was just—sick—and as he led the charge from the mountain gates, Kíli could see the clearness, the sanity in his eyes—

He has to be better; he has to recover from his wounds and become King and set things to rights because Fíli (and, Kíli realizes with growing horror, he, if his brother is beyond help) is not yet prepared to be King under the Mountain. Thorin spoke of Thrór and Thráin's sickness very rarely, in Ered Luin, and it was always with a tone of muted horror, of desperation and the ability to do absolutely nothing as those you love spiral away from you. The Thorin he knows never would have succumbed, never would have thrown away family and friends and allies in favor of gold…and he has no explanation for why he did exactly that only days ago.

(He can only assert—and, in his heart, wish fervently—that it will never happen again.)

"Please," he says again into the silence that has fallen between them, and his grip on Fíli's hand tightens. "It's not—Fíli's not—"

"If I were to ask for the Arkenstone in exchange," Thranduil cuts him off levelly, his face inscrutable, "would you give it to me?"

"You can have the whole damned mountain," Kíli says instantly, his voice turning hard as desperation and resolve war for dominance in his mind. "I don't—I don't care—he's my brother—"

Legolas stares down at them, clearly unconvinced, and Thranduil says nothing as the seconds stretch longer. Fíli makes a noise in the back of his throat, though Kíli cannot discern its meaning, and his fingers tighten a bit around Kíli's though the younger dares not turn around.

Neither of the elves say anything, merciful or damning, and Kíli cannot take this anymore. His nerves are so on edge, his brain is running so quickly and his body is so exhausted that he feels about to break down. But he has to do this—for Fíli, for Thorin, for everyone…for himself. So he pulls himself together, sits as straight as his injured shoulder and aching back will allow, and says in as strong a tone as he can muster, "If you would—if you would like a peaceful alliance with Thorin, I think this would be an excellent place to start. If you—do not help…I would not expect anything but hostility from the line of Durin for many centuries to come."

He feels his face settle into a scowl after delivering such an ultimatum (to hold back his tears, to keep his composure until he is sure Fíli will be all right), does his best to glare Thranduil down even as his face is somewhere around the elf's knees. He knows he has nothing more to offer, cannot truly offer Thranduil anything, as Thorin is the king… But he also knows he speaks the truth, that if Thorin learns that Thranduil willingly saved Fíli's life—some of that resentment, some of that mistrust might start to fall away.

And Mahal knows that right now, an alliance between their kingdoms could bring about nothing but good.

Thranduil stares at him for a moment longer before stepping forward, dropping to his knees on the bloody ground and inspecting Fíli's chest carefully before unlatching the breastplate with fluid motions. Kíli nearly sobs in relief, moving slightly to get out of the way as the elf works but still not loosening his grip on his brother's hand. Fíli follows his movements with sluggish eyes before focusing on Thranduil instead, watching him with a half-delirious, mistrusting gaze…but he either can't or won't try to resist, and soon the mail and underclothes are lifted out of the way as well, revealing the extent of the damage.

Kíli has to force himself not to be sick again as he stares at it, for it's just as bad as it looked before; there are several clearly broken ribs, gashes where the armor tore through mail and cloth and skin, and oh Mahal what if the elves won't be able to fix him—

He doesn't realize that his grip on Fíli's hand is tightening again as he stares at his brother's mangled chest, not until Fíli makes a quiet, soothing noise and twitches his fingers against Kíli's. When he tears his gaze back to his brother's face, Fíli's lips are again curled into a smile, and he's clearly doing his damnedest to focus on Kíli even as Thranduil starts prodding gently at his ribcage in ways that can only escalate his agony.

Stupid brother—he shouldn't be focusing on comforting Kíli when he's the one still critically injured, shouldn't be wasting energy on convincing Kíli that he's fine when he clearly is not.

(But some selfish, childish corner of Kíli's mind welcomes such comfort from his big brother all the same.)

He shifts out of the way again when Thranduil moves to inspect Fíli's sternum (He vaguely remembers Óin's lectures—aim for the breastbone; if you shatter it, it'll go straight through the heart) and he shifts his gaze anxiously downward to try and determine the damage for himself. The elf has wiped some of the blood away, but the wounds are still bleeding (that's good, right?—because if his blood's still pumping then he's going to be okay), and to Kíli, the bones do not look any better off than they did before.

Thranduil observes Fíli's shallow breathing and pained face for a moment before simply holding a long-fingered hand over the dwarf's chest and closing his eyes. His lips are moving though Kíli cannot make out any words, and he watches the elf for only a moment before turning his attention back to his brother.

Fíli's eyes are sliding shut, his face going slack as his breathing slows—

"No! Fíli—!" Kíli leans forward desperately, hoping against hope that he will wake just as he did before—but Fíli's eyes do not open again, and Thranduil sits back slightly, silent and contemplative as he considers Fíli's chest.

"What did you do to him?" Kíli demands loudly, his grip tightening on his brother's limp hand even as pain shoots up his arm. "Is he—"

"Hush, dwarf," Thranduil says shortly, and Kíli would be offended were he not already so panicked by his brother's still form. "He is asleep. You will not want him awake while I work to set his bones so that we can move him." He looks up at Legolas, standing a few feet to the side—"Retrieve two able-bodied soldiers and two stretchers from the camps. I'm sure the dwarves will want their precious princes brought to them as soon as possible."

"Two—?" Legolas seems confused by this, his gaze darting around as if expecting another dwarf to pop out of the masses of bodies.

The Elvenking tilts his head toward Kíli slightly. "If you do not wish to injure that knee further, princeling, I would suggest you keep your weight off of it for at least a few weeks."

Kíli only blinks at him for a moment—in all honesty, he has forgotten about his knee entirely—before eventually, grudgingly, nodding, and watching Legolas walk swiftly toward the mountain.

Thranduil soon returns his attention to Fíli, and though Kíli thinks he trusts the elf not to further harm his brother, he still follows his every movement with eyes like a hawk's. He's speaking lowly in a strange tongue, his eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration as his hands rest ever-so-lightly on Fíli's chest. Kíli's not sure what he's doing, whether Fíli will be all right—but as desperate as he is for information, he does not dare interrupt the Elvenking in his work. So he only sits beside him, hand grasping his brother's tightly, and waits for something to happen.

After several minutes, Legolas has returned with two other elves not far behind; and though they prepare both stretchers immediately, Kíli refuses to be separated from his brother until Thranduil straightens up and declares him safe enough to be moved. The king and his son take either end of Fíli's stretcher (he's still out cold, and Kíli doesn't know whether he's grateful for this or not...especially after the horrible noises the healing spells were drawing from his chest) and carefully lift it, walking fluidly toward the camp.

Kíli doesn't remember much of his own trip back—the other two elves carry him just as swiftly, just as smoothly, and soon enough, they are entering the dwarven camps at the base of the mountain. He peers around, lifting his head as much as the elves will allow ("You'll only hurt your shoulder more if you strain your neck," one had said shortly, pushing him back down by his uninjured arm) to see if he recognizes any of the faces around them.

"You—Kíli, what is the meaning of this?"

He'd recognize Dwalin's booming voice anywhere, and he turns in relief, twisting out of the way of the elf's reaching hands as he tries to push him back down. "Dwalin—!"

The old dwarf's face is murderous as he storms up to the group, not bothering with any sort of formalities as he snaps at Thranduil, "What are you doing with them? If you are—"

"Dwalin—Dwalin, it's okay," Kíli's able to get in before he starts to lift his warhammer, though his fingers are clearly itching to do so. "They—Fíli's badly hurt, they helped heal him—"

"What?" the old warrior's face transforms from furious to worried in the blink of an eye, though he still glares at the elves mistrustfully as he hurries to Fíli's side. (He's limping badly, and blood is trailing from his bald head into his eyes, but he seems otherwise uninjured.)

"He was protecting Thorin from Azog," Kíli explains, his gaze riveted on his brother's still-bleeding chest. The bones seem to be mostly back in their correct positions, but he knows it would be too much to hope for his brother to be fully healed already. "He—I think he put himself in the way of his mace —"

Dwalin swears colorfully under his breath before turning to Thranduil, narrowing his eyes up at him before saying, "Why would you work to heal him when he is not of your kind? Do you seek compensation? The King is in no shape to—"

"I seek nothing but good will," Thranduil interrupts shortly, "and an alliance between our kingdoms and that of Dale, especially if such goblin armies as these are amassing at our borders. Surely even you can recognize the wisdom in this."

Dwalin frowns harshly up at him but evidently decides that there are more important things to worry about, for he only gestures to a nearby tent, saying, "Thorin's in there—there's an extra bed, if you'd like to put him down. I'm sure our healers will be able to handle him from now on."

Though the older dwarf doesn't say anything aloud, Kíli thinks he can read some sort of grudging gratitude in Dwalin's features as Thranduil nods, carefully moving Fíli's stretcher toward the tent. "Are you all right, laddie?" Dwalin asks, falling into a quick step with the strange elves as they begin carrying him in as well. "Why aren't you walking?"

"My knee," he says quickly, dismissively, because he's really not the one they should be worrying about right now, "and my shoulder, but I'm fine. Is Thorin all right—what about everyone else—?"

"Thorin lives," Dwalin says, though a shadow passes over his face that tells Kíli all is not well, "but he has lost much of his blood, and Óin is not sure..."

He shakes his head even as Kíli feels his good hand clench convulsively, and quickly continues, "I have not seen many others, but nobody has found any bodies...and right now, that is all we can hope for."

Kíli knows he speaks the truth, knows that there are surely plenty of other reasons why Dwalin may not have seen anyone else...but he has felt so much mind-numbing terror today, so much pain and so much desperation that he's surely reaching his breaking point. He's never fought in a battle—not really—and after being a part of one like this...he feels empty. Defeated.

He can't find it in him to reply to Dwalin, so they arrive at the tent in silence; the elves shuffle their way in, maneuvering the stretcher carefully around the cramped quarters until Dwalin finally gives an impatient growl, lends Kíli a hand to his uninjured shoulder, and helps him hobble to his brother's bedside. The two elves and the prince hesitate a moment on the edges of the tent, but leave quickly at Thranduil's bidding, for the tent is already crowded enough.

Óin seems just as irritated as Dwalin about the Elvenking's presence, but after a few shouted explanations, he only huffs and asks what Thranduil would have him do with Fíli's chest.

"I have put the bones back into place and stabilized them," Thranduil says, looking down to examine his ribs once more, "but they are by no means healed. So long as he does not move for several weeks to allow them to knit back together, he should recover eventually. He was very lucky; his lungs were not punctured, and his heart is intact. Only ensure that when you wrap him to staunch the bleeding—"

"Yes, I know how to treat broken ribs," Óin says, loud and impatient, though relief radiates from his features as he moves swiftly around the bed. "It must have been quite a blow, to crack dwarven bones like this. This...is some impressive work you have done." He nods shortly to Thranduil, his face grim. "I will make sure Thorin knows of it when he wakes."

That's the closest the old dwarf will get to thanking the elf, and they all know it; Thranduil inclines his head ever-so-slightly to all of them, holds eye contact with Kíli for a moment longer (he should tell him thank you, he thinks, but he cannot find the words, and his mouth is so horribly dry), and then the elf turns and exits the tent.

Óin fusses over Fíli's chest, double-checking to make sure everything is in order ("Can't trust those elven bastards with everything," though all three of them know that Fíli owes Thranduil his life) before carefully wrapping it in bandages to keep the bleeding in check. He moves toward Kíli then, eyes on his clearly dislocated shoulder even through the armor he still wears; though Kíli attempts to shoo him off, tries to convince him that Thorin is more important, Óin will have none of it.

"We've got some of Dáin's best healers working on him right now, and your uncle is strong—you know he'll be fine. He was even awake earlier, asking after you two—now, get this armor off so I can at least put your shoulder to rights, and we need to wrap your knee as well—"

Kíli tries to protest further (though he can see Thorin's bed, mere feet away, and he is indeed well-attended), but the old dwarf has conspicuously misplaced his ear horn, remaining blissfully "ignorant" of his indignant replies. Eventually he gives up and does his best to help shrug out of all the armor, his mind going into autopilot even as Óin shoves his shoulder back into place (he has to bite back a scream—Fíli's been through so much worse) and binds his arm tight to his chest, and Dwalin wraps his knee snugly. Soon enough, he's stripped down with a bowl of water and instructions to clean his wounds so they don't get infected.

It's important, surely. Kíli just...can't bring himself to care about such things at the moment, not with desperate adrenaline from both the battle and Fíli's wounds still coursing through his veins. "It's good to see you're well, lad," Óin says after a moment, clapping a hand lightly on his good shoulder, and the smile on his face is genuine as he continues, "Your brother and uncle are some of the strongest dwarves I know. They'll be up and about in no time, you'll see."

Kíli can barely find it in himself to smile, but somehow he does...and after another pat on the shoulder, Óin has retreated to the other side of the tent.

"Will you be all right, if I go out to find more survivors?" Dwalin asks after a moment, peering at Kíli's face though the younger dwarf avoids his eyes. "If you want someone to stay, I can, but..."

"No," he says quietly, waving a hand. "You should go. People need help, out there..."

(Just like he did, not an hour ago, alone and desperate for someone—anyone—to come to his aid.)

Dwalin looks doubtful but only reaches out to ruffle Kíli's matted hair lightly, saying, "You fought well today, lad. This was no place for anyone's first battle, and you did more than anyone could ever expect of you. Thorin owes you his life."

Kíli nods, not trusting himself to speak; Dwalin seems to hesitate for a moment before sighing heavily and limping back out of the tent, leaving him alone—or as good as—with his unconscious brother.

And then Kíli crumples.

He's been running on empty for hours, for the battle dragged on and on; he's exhausted, utterly spent, but he's forced himself to keep going...because Thorin needed him, and Fíli needed him, and he couldn't give up for something as silly as exhaustion, could he? That would be failing his family; it would bring shame upon the name of Durin; Thorin would be disappointed in him, and that is simply unacceptable.

But Mahal, he's barely an adult, and he's not ready for any of this—he's not ready to see his family so horribly wounded all around him, even if the others assure him they will be all right...and he feels tears brim in his eyes again as the gravity of the situation crashes fully down upon him.

There was a battle. A war. He fought in it. He killed orcs and wargs and watched his allies die and nearly died himself and he isn't ready for this—his good hand finds its way to Fíli's, and though his brother is still unconscious he clenches it tight to bring him some semblance of comfort.

Fíli and Thorin will be all right.

They aren't going to die.

He knows these things...so why is it so hard to convince himself they're true?

His mind is whirling even as his body is exhausted, and he bows his head over his brother as the tears finally spill down his cheeks. It's over now, he tells himself; you won't have to fight anymore. The battle is won.

But every time he blinks, all he can see is Thorin bloody and crumpled on the ground, grasping desperately for a sword even as he's spitting blood; Fíli flat on his back, his ruined chest doing its damnedest to draw in air only because his little brother begged him to live; hundreds and thousands of bodies strewn everywhere, lives lost over a few piles of gold and too many creatures' greed...

He can't do this. He can't.

But he has to—and so he endures, and he cries, and he begs whatever gods are listening to spare as many lives as they will, to bring peace upon them all...because he isn't sure he will survive if he's forced to live through this a second time.

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Technically an off-shoot of my story Oblivion, set right before part vii, but as it stands on its own, I figured I'd post it as its own thing :D