AN - Whoop whoop; here's part 3.

Warnings - Some swearing, shoddy depictions of violence because that's what I'm garbage at writing.

Eighty-Three and Seventy-Seven - Part 3

Thorin shifts farther back into his cell, intent on ignoring Balin's lecture. He settles into the back wall, into the shadows, letting the din from the idotic elvish party reverberate around the stone to drown out his cousin's rough whispering.

He knew what he was doing. At least, he thought he knew. Bilbo would come through; he was so sure of it, more sure than most anything else in his life these days. The hobbit owed him no loyalty, could have left a dozen times at least, but he never had. He had stuck with them through all of this mess - had stuck with him. Bilbo had won Thorin's trust, and had shown the depths of his loyalty. He would wait a hundred years for Bilbo before he bent to trust Thranduil.

He could not say as much to Balin. Not here; not now. So he would let Balin rant himself out instead, here in these damp cells.

He picks a piece of dried mud from his boots, his ire renewing as he recalls how Thranduil's guard had stripped them of all their belongings, down to their shirts and trousers, and locked them away like criminals. Angrily, he flicks the mud to the ground, then squashes it with the toe of his boot. They were so close. If only they hadn't lost the road.

He sighs, Balin's incessant whispering still reaching his ears, though it has become too jumbled for him to make out the words. He hoped the rest of the company fared well enough. Fíli sounded as though he had recovered from the spider's venom, and he could breathe easier knowing Kíli had returned from Thranduil's interrogation unscathed.

The fire of his anger grew. How dare Thranduil? How dare he attempt to weasle a deal out of him by having his own son hold a knife to Kíli's throat? Truly, he lacked all honor.

He releases a shuddering breath. For a moment, he was afraid that Thranduil would issue the order, that he would spill Kíli's blood on his throne room floor. But, dishonorable as he was, Thranduil was not stupid. Lestwise, he was not stupid enough to kill an unarmed dwarf and incur the wrath of the Iron Hills in retalliation. Dain and Thranduil had a long-standing cease order between their two kingdoms - Dain would harm no elf and Thranduil would harm no dwarf - to violate it would wound Dain's pride and invoke his wrath.

But still, he'd seen the glimmer of panic in Kíli's eyes. And Thorin had felt it, too - the fear that he would be wrong. Though he was a king, Thranduil was still unpredictable. He'd been foolish to hedge his bets on the elven king fearing retaliation from Dain.

Once, when Kíli was still a tiny dwarfling, he'd had a horrifying night terror in which he'd gambled with Kíli's life and lost. It had plagued him since, popping up in quiet moments, surprising him by squeezing the breath out of his lungs in unprecedented panic. The same image always leapt to his mind, of Kíli, pale as snow, his blood poured out around him. Like Frerin. Just like Frerin.

He's found his thoughts drifting to his brother quite frequently on this journey. He wishes, beyond anything else in this world, that Frerin were at his side. He was so much better with Frerin. Would his brother's presence have calmed him enough to negotiate a deal with Thranduil? Would his gentle, loving demeanor have tempered his ire?

But no, he had let Frein down ages ago. Let his blood spill on unholy dirt, until the light faded from his eyes.

He thinks of Dís, her sharp mind and quick wit. Had she been with him, she would have surely performed some sort of verbal gymnastics on Thranduil and charmed them out of their cells. She had always been so eloquent, so thoughtful. As children he had often envied her way with words; while he and Frerin stumbled over theirs, she had always sounded like a queen.

And he had let her down, too. Promised to care for her boys but led them on this damn quest, to these gods-forsaken cells.

He swallows thickly. He could not dwell on the past, or on horrors seen only in dreams that he would fight with every breath in his being to keep from coming to pass.

When they were free of this wretched place, he would explain it all to Kíli, explain why he had taken such an unfathomable risk, see to it that he understood that Thorin knew in his bones that Thranduil would not harm him. He would remind him that there was no treasure, no honor, nothing in this world that was worth more to him than Fíli and Kíli. Nothing.

He can only hope that Bilbo will be swift.

He fiddles with his shirt hem, idly fingering along a tear, flicking the flap of it up and down as the sounds of the elven party drift through the corridor. It sounds downright raucous, much more so than the parties that Lord Elrond had hosted. Kíli admittedly didn't know much about the different families of elves (which made him strangely grateful for the cells that separated them - Balin would chastise his ear off is he knew Kíli had forgotten his lessons), but he had to imagine that the Mirkwood elves were the most...un-elf-like of them all. Perhaps like how Kíli himself was decidedly un-dwarf-like.

He sighs, once again considering trying to fall asleep. He can hear snoring from somewhere, and he wonders who has already nodded off. Not Fíli, at least; he can hear his brother humming quietly. He wishes it were easier to talk with him, but he didn't dare speak too loud and the music and laughter from the party would probably drown him out anyway.

The redheaded elf patrols by again, glancing into each of their cells as she walks by with quick, light steps. She had been the one who spared him from the spiders in the wood. It was probably proper to thank her, but that seemed senseless now that she was ensuring they stayed locked in their cells.

He also thought she looked quite sad, and he found himself wondering why. Perhaps because she was on patrol while the rest of the elves were celebrating. He tried not to dwell on it too much; for the moment, she was their enemy - an obstacle. Dwalin had warned him that his soft heart would be his undoing one day.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them as he scans the hallway once more. Candlelight flickers off the walls, casting strange shadows. He focuses on Fíli's soft humming, and closes his eyes.

Fíli's humming stops. "You still awake, nadadith?" he asks, and though his voice is quiet somehow Kíli manages to hear it clear as day.

"Yea," he murmurs in reply, scooting closer to the door of his cell. "Don't think I could sleep with all this anyhow."

"Such a light sleeper," Fíli comments, and he can hear the smile in his voice. "One positive of the spiders was that Oin's drought knocked me right out for a while."

Kíli snorts. "I know. You're heavy." Fíli chuckles outright, and they lapse back into silence.

"I've been thinking a lot," Fíli says after a while, his tone wistful. "Do you remember that autumn in Ered Luin when we snuck off from Dwalin? And built the fort?"

Kíli smiled. He did remember. They were young, much younger then, and they'd fancied themselves as fine explorers so they'd 'snuck' away (Dwalin had told him later that he'd known exactly where the lads were - they weren't particularly stealthy in their youth), venturing to an outcropping of rocks with a large slate overhang, gathering sticks and stones to fashion their fire and other comforts, pretending they were regal princes of Ered Luin, sword fighting with the largest sticks they could find. They had played for hours, until the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, and Dwalin had come and feigned ire at their escape.

It was a good memory. He hadn't thought on it in a long while.

"I came upon it on a patrol once," Fíli says. "I went to look inside but there was a fox and her cubs. 'Bout near scared me out of my skin."

"I guess she's the Lord of Ered Luin now," Kíli says with a small laugh.

Fíli hums in agreement. Were they in different circumstances, he'd imagine his brother would be packing his pipe and settling in for the evening. Kíli finds himself longing for those simpler times, longing for the only home they'd ever known, wondering if he will ever be that content again. He tries instead to conjure up other happy memories of his childhood with his brother, willing away the loneliness he feels.

Fíli must sense his distress. Even though it was through a stone wall, he could still read Kíli like one of Balin's books. "After this is all over, I want to go back some day," he says, quietly. "And I suspect you do, too."

Kíli swallows the lump in his throat. "Aye," he manages. "I think I'd like that."

His gaze focuses again on the flickering light of the hall, trying to make out shapes in the shadows that skirt along the wall. It must be his imagination, because the shadows suddenly move as if blown by the wind, a too-uniform wave passing through their movements. Kíli narrows his eyes, leaning forward to focus, wondering if there is some form of elvish magic at work, but the shadows resume their random dance as though nothing odd happened.

He relaxes, leaning back against the wall with a 's the sound of a stone being kicked farther down the hall.

"Did you hear that?" Fíli asks, his voice a sharp whisper, and Kíli's body snaps to alertness again.

"I thought I saw something move a second ago," he confirms, hauling himself up to his knees and watching out his cell gate. He can make out voices down the hall, but nothing else.

"Bilbo!" someone halfway shouts from down the hall, and he hears the sounds of a key opening a lock.

"Come on, this way," Bilbo whispers, sneaking down the corridor, looking around every corner to ensure they are unseen.

The dwarves follow, boots scraping along the stone floor. Since they'd been divested of their weapons and most of their affects they were much quieter than normal. Fortunate, that was.

"He's leading us to the cellars!" Dwalin hisses, accusatory.

"You're supposed to be leading us out, not farther down!" Bofur nearly shouts.

Bilbo whirls to face them. "Shh! I know what I'm doing. Trust me." He leads them around a corner, where a number of large barrels sit empty. "Well?" Bilbo says, gesturing to the barrels. "Get in!"

"Are you mad?" Gloin replies. "They'll find us!"

"No, they won't. I promise," Bilbo assures them, turning pleading eyes to Thorin.

Fíli looks to his uncle, then to Kíli who stands uncertainly at his side. Bilbo has proven his worth many times over, and had already broken them free from their cells. What reason did they have not to trust him? Yet still...hiding in barrels in the elven wine cellar didn't seem like the best of plans.

Thorin turns to the rest of the company. "Do as he says!"

At his command, they clamber into the barrels, the wound in his side stinging uncomfortably. Kíli casts him a worried glance. "I'm fine," he assures him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reaches forward, grasps the back of Kíli's neck and presses their foreheads together. "I promise."

"What do we do now?" Bofur asks, as all the dwarves turn to look at Bilbo.

The hobbit looks uncertain for a scant second. "Uh, hold your breath."

The floor beneath them begins to creak, and suddenly their barrels are rolling, then falling, then splashing violently into the stream below. The shock of hitting water instead of solid ground forces the breath from his lungs and he sputters, trying to find balance as he bobs in the stream. Once he has his bearings he searches for his brother - frowning at the wide, terrified look in his brother's eyes as he coughs some of the splashed water out of his lungs. After a deep, shuddering breath, Kíli's face clears, and he catches Fíli's gaze and gives him a reassuring nod.

There's no shortage of shouting and coughing as the dwarves regain their composure. Ori and Bifur, caught off guard in their fall, had fallen out of their barrels, and it was no simple task to get them back inside as they bob about. From behind him, Fíli can hear Dwalin muttering something about useless hobbits and being drowned like criminals.

"Hold on!" Thorin shouts, reaching his arm out to grab Fíli's barrel. "We must wait for Bilbo." Taking his uncle's cue, he reaches for the nearest barrel (Bofur's, who for his part looks a bit like a drowned rat) and grasps it tightly. The dwarves work quickly to form a chain with their barrels, blocking the path forward in a makeshift dam, when the hobbit suddenly falls from the ceiling, plopping into the water, barrelless.

Once he comes up, sputtering for air, he swims to the nearest barrel, Nori's, and hangs on for dear life.

"Well done Master Baggins," Thorin laughs, sounding almost mirthful at this turn of events.

Bilbo waves them on, spitting water as he does. "They're coming. Go."

With that, they release their barrels and start paddling to gain speed. They careen down a waterfall, each of the dwarves (and poor Bilbo) clinging to their barrels, and they rise from the water to see that they're now bathed in bright daylight. It's a sharp contrast from the dark cells they'd resided in for who knows how long, and it takes Fíli's eyes a moment to focus. He can see shapes rushing through the woods, when suddenly the elf-guard that had captured them in the woods springs forth, shouting something in elvish just before a horn sounds.

"No!" Thorin shouts from ahead, and he turns to see a gated bridge across the stream, and an elf standing atop it near a lever as a sluice begins to close.

Well, shit. He thinks. They're weapons-less and, quite literally, sitting ducks. He desperately tries to form a plan, to come up with some way that they do not wind up back in the cells or dead. Thranduil didn't strike him as a particularly merciful king.

"Watch out!" Bofur shouts, and he turns to see the elf that had stood atop the bridge falling into the water just in front of him, a jagged arrow lodged in his back.

Orcs. Of course the orcs have come.

Now that they have nowhere to go, the dwarves are seemingly forgotten by the elves as they shift their focus onto the orcs. The orcs, however, remain fixed on getting to Thorin, lunging onto their barrels with blades drawn. Fortunately, Bilbo produces a sword from somewhere, stabbing one, and Dwalin, brawny as ever, elbows another in the face, stealing it's sword before it plops gracelessly into the water. Fíli manages to subdue another, grabbing its dagger.

He catches movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to see Kíli rushing up the ramp, completely unarmed, eyes fixed on the lever the elf had pulled before. Orcs rush toward him, and Fíli's breath catches in his throat.

"Kíli!" Dwalin calls, lobbing the sword he'd snagged up to his brother. Kíli catches it easily, swinging it down to take out the orc in front of him, sending it splashing into the water below as Bofur reaches over to snag it's weapon.

His brother continues up the stairs and across the bridge, slashing his way through. Another orc comes up behind him, spear poised to strike Kíli in the back, and Fíli hurls the dagger forward, sighing with relief when his aim rings true and the dagger lodges itself in the filth's temple. The way is clear now, and Fíli feels a surge of adrenaline as Kíli nears the lever. They're going to make it; Kíli is going to open the gate and they're going to get away -

Suddenly, Kíli lets out a strangled cry of pain and collapses to the ground, grasp coming just short of the lever, sword falling from his fingers and clattering to the ground beside him.. "Kíli!" he hears himself shout, fear welling up within him. From under the bridge, Thorin calls out his brother's name as well, blind to the situation.

An orc leaps onto the bridge, sword drawn and prepared to bare down on Kíli, but an arrow abruptly skewers its head as more elves arrive. Distracted, the orcs switch their focus to the ambush, and Kíli manages to crawl up to his knees, gasping for breath. With a groan of pain, he throws his weight onto the level, pushing it down and opening the sluice, before collapsing once more.

"Kíli!" he shouts again, grabbing his brother's empty barrel with one hand and trying to find purchase on the slippery rocks with the other. "Kíli, come on!" he calls again, voice breaking. "Please!" His hands are slipping on the rocks, his barrel is being pulled under the bridge by the rushing current, The other dwarves slip one by one down the small waterfall, into the rapids below.

Just as he's certain he's going to lose his grip on the rocks (and by extension, Kíli, because he knows without a doubt in his mind that if he's left behind he'll be captured and worse), Kíli's body falls from the bridge, landing roughly on top of his barrel, halfway into the water. He looks positively ashen, and Fíli's heart sinks as he prays to any diety that will listen that the arrow wasn't poisoned, that his brother will be okay.

"Hold on!" is all Fíli can say as his hand loses its grip on the rocks. Kíli manages to hoist himself back into his barrel, a rough shout of pain bursting from him, and they're swept along the current with the rest of the dwarves, the orcs still in pursuit.

"Mahal, Kíli," Fíli breathes as he examines the wound, pulling the torn pieces of his trousers to get a better look. It was already so inflamed, and he couldn't tell if the arrowhead was still inside or not. "Oin needs to take a look at this," he says, immediately searching for their healer. "If it was poisoned, then -"

"Just bind it," Kíli hisses, brow furrowed in pain. "We have to keep moving. You heard Thorin"

Fíli frowns at him, shaking his head. He cannot be serious; there's no way he would make it far with his leg wounded so badly.

"I'll be fine," Kíli says, looking him straight in the eye, which manages to reassure him, however smally. "We're not safe here." Fíli still hesitates, and his brother reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Fíli tries to ignore how badly Kíli's hand is shaking. "I promise to have Oin tend to it as soon as we can spare," he adds.

Finally, Fíli nods and unceremoniously rips fabric from the hem of his shirt, dunking it into the river in a feeble attempt to clean it, before setting about tightly wrapping Kíli's wound. His brother winces and grits his teeth as he works, driving Fíli's own anxiety higher. He knows he will feel much better once Oin has a chance to properly tend to him. He can only hope, as he finishes up, that Kíli will be able to make it to safety. Frowning, he looks at his work. It's a poor excuse for a bandage, even for a field dressing, but it will have to do. He doesn't have another option.

"Come on," he says, helping Kíli back to his feet. For the first few steps, his brother leans heavily on him, but after a moment he regains his footing well enough to walk on his own across the slippery rocks, with hardly a limp in his step as he goes to rejoin the others. Fíli frowns again; he knows how good Kíli is at hiding his hurts and knows that his brother is going to overdo it and wind up being in more agony farther down the line if he can't get a proper dressing soon.

There's a commotion from behind him, and Fíli whirls around to see a man, bow drawn and aimed at Ori and Dwalin, the latter brandishing a tree branch as a weapon.

Dwalin raises the branch, ready to fight, and an arrow strikes directly into it, right between his hands, in warning. "Do it again and you're dead," the man snaps, another arrow already drawn.

"Excuse me," Balin calls, using his 'diplomatic voice' that Fíli has heard countless times before. He approaches the man with his arms raised. "You're, uh, from Laketown, if I'm not mistaken?"

The man lowers his blow, casting a sidelong glance at Balin.

"That barge over there," he continues, gesturing behind the man, where Fíli now sees the very tip of a boat, mostly hidden from their sight by the thick underbrush that lines the river. "It wouldn't be available for hire, by any chance?"

Dwalin keeps his eyes on the lads as they sail.

Fíli and Kíli are pressed shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the damaged barrels. He'd been worried about the lad since he saw the arrow pierce his leg - orc arrows were rarely free of poisons or filth that could take even the hardiest dwarf down in a matter of hours. Once they'd safely boarded the barge, Oin had tended to the wound and gave it a proper dressing. The arrowhead had still been lodged in his leg, but with steady hands and a sharp knife borrowed from the bowman, Oin had been able to remove it. The old healer had stated that he'd need a poultice to draw out any infection and to help with the pain, but the man - Bard, he remembers from Bilbo's chastising - had none, so Kíli would have to make due until they were smuggled into Laketown.

Kíli was too pale, so much so that the darkness of his hair and the red smear of blood on his lip (he'd bitten it so hard to keep himself from screaming as Oin had removed the arrow) stood out in stark contrast. It made the dark circles under his eyes look worse. It made it look like he could slip from this world at any moment, despite Oin's assurances that he would make it to Laketown.

It's the cold, Dwalin tells himself, it's just the cold that makes him look so pale.

The small blessing was that Kíli was asleep, that he was able to take this brief respite while his brother watched over him.

They'd come too close to losing him too many times on this quest. Dwalin had sworn to protect him, knew without a doubt that he would gladly die if it kept either of the lads safe, but every time he had been too far away or otherwise unable to help, unable to do anything other than watch. He wouldn't be able to bear it if they lost one of them and Dwalin had done nothing.

He chews the inside of his cheek, keeping the lads in his periphery as he watches the lakeman. He doesn't trust him, doesn't like that they're stuck on a boat in the middle of frigid, foggy waters with him, doesn't like that their survival may very well depend on him being true to his word. Something sits ill within him, like they're walking into a trap, but with the other option being trying to beat orcs on the road, unarmed and without supplies, he knows they had no other choice.

Someone comes to his side, shoulder brushing his as they lean along the railing beside him. He doesn't have to look to know that it is Thorin.

"How is he?" he asks, barely concealed concern in his voice.

Dwalin shrugs. "Not well, by any means," he says, gaze shifting back to Kíli. "But, not getting worse."

Thorin makes a small noise in the back of his throat in acknowledgement. "Do you think it knew?"

He does look at him then, eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Azog's spawn," Thorin clarifies. "Do you think it knew who he was? That he was my kin?" he adds in a whisper.

Dwalin shakes his head. "Think he was just trying to take out anyone that would've helped us escape," he says. "Wouldn'ta mattered who it was." He knows this fear, this old, horrible fear that Thorin had carried with him ever since Frerin had died. He couldn't bear to lose anyone else for being associated with his line. It would almost certainly spiral Thorin into madness, and if it were Azog's own spawn (for how else could the other pale orc have come to be?) that ended one of the lads...he could not fathom how Thorin would go on.

With a sigh, he looks for his brother, catches him with a gaggle of the company, counting coins to pay their way as Bard navigates them through the waters.

"How do we know he won't betray us?" he finds himself asking, putting words to his fears in the confidence of his best friend.

Thorin frowns, a misted look in his eyes. "We don't."

Dwalin settles back with a huff, hating the answer but knowing Thorin is right all the same. There's some squabbling between Gloin and his brother that he considers intervening on, but the fog thins ahead, and he finds himself awestruck instead. "Look," he says softly, nudging Thorin's arm. His eyes water on their own accord.

The Lonely Mountain sits on the horizon, closer than he's seen it in an age.

"You look like shit," he says fondly as he tucks Kíli's hair behind his ear.

Kíli scoffs in indignation at him, but he doesn't argue. "I feel like shit."

Fíli just smiles and wraps a blanket around his brother's shoulders, sitting beside him on the settee, eyes fixed on the Lonely Mountain out the window. Kíli leans back into the plush cushion, turning himself the tiniest bit into his brother, just a tiny bit too close, as always. His leg is propped up on a footstool, at Oin's request. Fíli lets his cheek rest on the top of his brother's head, content.

They'd been welcomed into the home of the Master of Laketown (who, in Fíli's humble opinion, looked more like a louse than the lord of a town, but men were much different than dwarves), and while the man had thrown them a rather uproarious party, Fíli and Kíli had taken their leave to rest. Oin had instructed Kíli to do so (and Thorin, too, though he need not say the words aloud) to give the poultice he'd packed the arrow wound with time to work. He'd worried that they'd perhaps taken too long, and that after being doused with river water, covered in fish guts, and crawling through a toilet the wound had likely become infected. So off he'd sent them, just after the party started, with a plate full of food and a mug of ale (for Fíli only he had stressed) - and Fíli had felt Thorin's eyes on them the entire time he'd helped his brother up the stairs to the rooms they'd been lent.

When Kíli had fallen in the armory, Fíli's heart had stopped. He knew, the second he'd heard the loud clattering of weapons that it had been Kíli, the ache in his leg finally overcoming him. He had pushed it too far, given too much without resting, just as Fíli knew he would. He loops his arm around his brother's shoulders, tugging him a bit closer still.

"How's your side?" Kíli asks softly, sleepiness evident in his voice. He turns to press a kiss against his brother's hair. Of course Kíli was still worried about him. Even with everything that had happened, even with the wound that Fíli knew was causing him pain. Kíli's kindness never wavered

"Better," he says, and Kíli hums in acknowledgement. His head seems to sink further into Fíli's shoulder, blessedly cool forehead pressed against his neck.

From below, he can hear music, shouts and cheers. The merriment at the return of the Lord of Silver Fountains seems as though it will last long through the night, though Thorin had told the company that they would be leaving at first light.

"Tomorrow, we'll be there," Fíli murmurs softly as he gazes at the mountain, but Kíli doesn't reply. He listens for a moment, pleased to hear his brother's breathing deep and even with sleep. He presses another kiss to the crown of Kíli's head. "Tomorrow we will finally see Erebor, nadadith."

From his right, the door to the guest room they'd been lent for the night creaks open, sounds of the party spilling in, causing Kíli to stir slightly. He cranes his neck around to see Thorin sheepishly enter, closing the door behind himself with a quiet snick. He walks over to them, sitting gingerly on the edge of the settee before reaching out to card his hand through Kíli's hair.

Fíli sees the fondness there, the raw emotion. It warms his heart - Thorin had been so focused on the quest, so in control for fear that their enemies would discover them as his heirs - he cannot remember the last time he had seen such tenderness from their uncle. He'd known to expect distance; Thorin had warned them that it was important to keep their relation to him a secret. He just hadn't expected it to bother him as much as it did. Hadn't expected it to hurt.

"How is he?" Thorin asks, his thumb tracing reverently over Kíli's high cheekbone, as if committing his face to memory. Fíli frowns; what does Thorin know that he isn't saying?

"He seems better," Fíli admits. "I think the medicine is starting to take."

Thorin smiles at him before reaching over to cup Fíli's cheek, before dropping his hand to squeeze the nape of his neck.

"Talk to me, Uncle," Fíli says quietly. "What troubles you?"

Thorin sighs, drawing away from the lads to stand by the window, eyes on the mountain. Fíli hates it a little because he can no longer see Thorin's face, but he knows good and well that that's probably the reason he stood in the first place. He almost wants to join him, just so he can see his face and read him better, but he doesn't dare leave from where Kíli is tucked safely into his side.

"I've not been this close since...since we fled," he says softly. "It's made me sentimental, I suppose." Thorin runs a hand through his beard. "I fear what we will encounter when we reach the mountain. I fear what will happen if we awaken Smaug. I fear...everything all at once, I suppose."

Fíli can hear the barely restrained emotion in his voice. "So do I," he admits just as quietly. "But I'm also…" he frowns, trying to decide on the right word. "Excited? Anxious? I don't know. You've told us about Erebor our whole lives. It feels surreal that tomorrow...that we'll be there."

Thorin stiffins, almost imperceptibly, but he catches it nonetheless. "I hope it does not disappoint you," he says after a long stretch of silence.

"I doubt it could," Fíli says quietly. "Even after years of Smaug's squatting, I'm certain it will be grander than anything we've seen before."

Thorin turns back to him and smiles softly. "I cannot wait to show it to you." He hears so much in his voice - pride, worry, fear, love - and it fills Fíli with an emotion he cannot quite identify. "But you should rest," he says as he comes back toward him, bending down to press their foreheads together.

Fíli nods. "You should, too," he says, an amused smile coming to his lips. "Can't stay up partying all night."

"Know that I love you," Thorin says softly, not playing into his joke. "The both of you. More than anything in this world." There are tears in his eyes when he pulls away, and Fíli has to swallow the lump in his throat, blinking back his own tears.

"We know, Uncle," he asserts with a shaking voice. "Kíli adores you. I love you. Always."

The corner of Thorin's mouth quirps upward, in the barest hint of a smile. "It is more than I deserve."

He's wrestled with this decision for days, though it felt like years.

Ever since his youngest nephew had been struck by the orc filth's arrow, he's wondered if he should send him home, or have him wait here, with these wretched men in Laketown. He doesn't want to. Kíli is, for all intents and purposes and lineage aside, his son. They both are. He's been with them since they were babes, he's promised them Erebor since before they even knew what it meant.

They still didn't know what it meant.

It meant no more rumbling stomachs, no more scrimping and saving, no more threadbare clothes, no more disdain from elves and men. It meant the end of the suffering of their people, the dawn of a new age. It meant peace and happiness in their lives for all the rest of their days. It meant everything to him because it meant he could finally, finally give everything to them. Everything they'd craved, everything they'd deserved…everything.

And they've come so far, they've conquered so much, and it seems such a shame to send him away when they are but in the shadow of the mountain.

But time is not on his side. If he is to give them all he desires, he must be swift.

And when Kíli makes to step onto the boat, horrible limp still evident in his step, his decision is made. He had hoped Oin's cures would have had more of an effect, that the solid night's rest would somehow make him strong enough to complete this last, precious leg of the journey.

But it hadn't, in his heart he'd always known it wouldn't. It had been a foolish hope.

"Not you," he murmurs as he reaches out an arm to stop him. Kíli's face twists into something that is a terrible cross of hurt and shame and fear, and Thorin knows he must school his features and stay impassive. He cannot let these men see him break. He cannot let them know what his nephews mean to him. They could use it as a weapon against him, and he will not have it.

"We must travel at speed," he elaborates when he feels many eyes fall to him. "You will slow us down."

Kíli looks up at him, disbelief clouding his face as he tries to manage a smile, to pretend that this is just a joke.. "What?" he murmurs, gaze flickering just quickly to where Fíli stands behind his uncle. "What are you talking about? I'm…I'm coming with you."

Thorin can see the pallor in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. Kíli is still clearly not well. It would be reckless to bring him, he reasons with himself.

Thorin gives the barest shake of his head and resolutely ignores the tiny whimper of desperation that escapes Kíli's throat. He has to do this. He has to keep him safe and win back the mountain. He has to do this. For them.

"I'm going to be there when that door is opened, when we first look upon the halls of our fathers," he implores. "Thorin…"

He knows Kíli cannot possibly understand why he is doing this, knows he should have done this earlier, should have prepared him, should have explained. But he didn't. He was a coward, had seen Kíli asleep the night before when he went to speak his mind, and had lost his nerve. With a sigh, he reaches to cup the back of Kíli's head, pulling their foreheads as close as he dares.

He cannot let them know how much Kíli means to him.

"Kíli," he murmurs, fixing him with a gaze that he hopes will explain everything. "Stay here. Rest. Join us when you are healed." Kíli has always been better at reading him than anyone.

Kíli's eyes search him again, desperate. Thorin's heart breaks; he doesn't understand.

Kíli shakes his head, breath coming out in a staggering huff, and a barely whispered 'Uncle…' reaches his ears. For a moment he's terrified that he'll cave, that he won't let Kíli go, but Óin comes to his rescue, saying that he'll stay with the lad. It eases his heart greatly to know that Kíli will not be alone here, that he will be in good hands between Óin and Bofur, if he ever chooses to come round again. He watches as his cousin leads his nephew away, heart feeling leaden in his chest.

When he turns back to the company, he's met with Fíli's furious face, nearly cringes when he sees the betrayal shining in the depths of his cerulean eyes. "Uncle," he murmurs the damning word, but thankfully none of the men seem to hear it. "We grew up on tales of the mountain. Tales you told us. You cannot take that away from him!"

He is hurt, his tone accusing, and Thorin has to focus to keep his face neutral and impassive. "Fíli," he starts, trying to find the right words to explain himself, but his nephew doesn't give him the chance.

"I will carry him if I must!" he declares, and in it Thorin hears the silent 'Uncle, please!', but he resolutely ignores it. They'll be angry at him now, hurt because of him now, but he'll make it up to them. He'll win back the mountain. He'll give them everything that he couldn't for the entirety of their lives.

"One day you will be King and you will understand," he says.

You will understand why I have to do this. It's for both you, he means.

"I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf – not even my own kin," he explains, in nothing more than a hushed whisper.

I cannot risk losing him, losing the mountain, not when I've come this far to reclaim it for you…for all of us, he means.

Fíli's face is filled with disbelief and fierce determination, and Thorin knows what he means to do before he even moves his feet. He reaches out quickly, grabs his arm.

"Fíli, don't be a fool," he half-begs. "You belong with the company."

You belong with me. I am doing this for you. I need you by my side, he means.

"I belong with my brother," his heir all but snarls as he wrenches his arm free.

With a heavy sigh, Thorin watches him leave the boat. He cannot blame him. He wants Fíli to stay with him, knows that he will feel better and stronger if he has at least one of them by his side, but he can't stop him. He won't stop him.

He turns back to the company, desperately ignores with worried glances, particularly the one Dwalin aims at him, and gives the nod for them to depart. He doesn't look back, cannot look back, because if he does he will break. Time is not on their side, and if he is to do this, if he is to do this for them, then he must be swift.

Dwalin slides close enough to him so that their shoulders are pressed closely together to give him strength. He knows he needs it. He has to see this through, and when he does everything will be alright in the end. He will be able to give them everything.

He can do this.

He'll do it for them.

This is how it ends for him, he thinks. He cannot see a way that his brother survives this day.

They are back at Bard's home, having been turned away everywhere else when Kíli took a turn for the worse. He'd practically fainted, then spiked a deliriously high temperature that had startled even Oin. When he'd peeled away the bandage the healer hadn't been able to hide his gasp of surprise. In a matter of hours the wound had festered, turning black around the edges.

"It was poison," Oin had hissed under his breath as Bofur and Fíli had supported Kíli's deadweight. "Slow acting, very deadly...damn those creatures."

Deadly. When Oin had uttered that word Fíli felt as if part of his soul had left his body. It took every ounce of his strength to remain calm (for Kíli, he would constantly remind himself - in his fleeting moments of lucidity he was completely terrified, and Fíli vowed that he would not make his terror worse). It helps that Oin has taken control, that he is barking orders at him, giving him something to do, a task to focus on.

"Get him up on the table," Oin commands. Bard makes a sound as if to protest, but he clears the table nonetheless, sending dishes and bowls clattering to the floor, making space for Kíli. Fíli stays by his head, knelt on the ground, trying to talk his brother through what is happening, though he has no idea if Kíli can hear him or not. One of Bard's girls brings in a cloth and a basin of cool water.

"Can you not do something?" Fíli asks frantically as Kíli's form seizes once again. He is burning hot; even pressing the cool rag to his forehead seems to do nothing.

"I need something to bring down his fever," Oin calls over his shoulder, to Bard, as he cuts Kíli's pant leg off and removes the latest bandage, face stricken. Fíli can't make out what the bowman says in reply. "No, no; those are no use to me. They won't stop the poison. Do you have any kingsfoil?"

"No; it's a weed," Bard says as he presents Oin with his own bowl of hot water and some cloths. The healer immediately starts clearing out the wound, causing Kíli to groan in agony once more. "We feed it to the pigs."

"Pigs?" Bofur says, jumping up from Kíli's other side. "I'll find it," he says. He fixes Fíli with a comforting look. "I'll find it, laddie." He reaches for Kíli's hand and squeezes it. "Hold on for me, yea?"

Bard's daughter comes to kneel beside him, placing another basin of cool water beside him, then wetting her own rag and wiping it along Kíli's face. Sigrid, her name pops into his mind again. He nods at her in gratitude. Sigrid gives him a soft, small smile, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

Kíli lets out a pitiful, gasping wail as he arches his back against the pain. Fíli can't take it; the tears spill freely from his eyes now as he presses his forehead to Kíli's too-hot temple. "Hold on, nadadith," he whispers, voice tight. "Just hold on for me, yea? Bofur will be back. We're going to fix this. I just need you to hold on. Please," he adds, his voice breaking on the last word as he hopes beyond hope that Kíli can hear him.

Suddenly, the ground around them shakes violently. Fíli's stomach sinks into his boots.

"It's coming from the mountain," Bard's son says, just as the room rumbles once more.

Fíli's eyes find Bard's. "You should leave us. Take your children and go; get out of here!"

"And go where?" Bard says, clearly distraught as he takes in each of his children.

"Are we going to die, Da?" the littlest one asks, and Fíli fears that they will. "Is the dragon going to kill us?"

"No darling," Bard says, quickly striding over to their kitchen and yanking something free from a hanging rack. Fíli bites back a gasp of surprise; a black arrow. Ammunition for a wind-lance. "I'm going to kill it first."

"What about Bilbo?" Ori asks, a slightly panicked tone in his voice. It seemed like everything was going well enough, but then the ground had trembled beneath them.

Smaug was awake. There was no denying it. Any hope that Thorin had held that the blasted worm had perished and died within the mountain wafted away like smoke.

"Give him more time," he says finally, eyes anxiously watching the door. He trusted Bilbo; he knew the hobbit would not let him down, knew that he would find the Arkenstone and return it to him.

"Time for what?" Balin scoffs. "To be killed?"

"You're afraid," Thorin acuses, crossing his arms over his chest and staring his old friend down. They need the Arkenstone; Balin needs to trust him.

"Yes, I'm afraid," Balin retorts. "I'm afraid for you."

Thorin takes a step back, leveling Balin with a glare.

"A sickness lies upon that treasure horde, Thorin," he needlessly reminds him. "A sickness that drove your grandfather mad."

"I am not my grandfather," Thorin hisses, ire rising up within him. He knows, he knows the tragedy that had befallen his grandfather because he had watched it happen, helplessly on the sidelines. Stuck to do nothing while Thror withered into a shell of himself. He would not go down the same path. He would fight, tooth and nail, to keep that from happening.

"You are not yourself!" Balin continues. "The Thorin I know would not hesitate to go in there and -"

"I cannot risk the fate of this quest for one burgular," Thorin interrupts, hoping that he sounds practical.

"Bilbo," Balin hisses. "His name is Bilbo. Or have you forgotten?"

Thorin frowns, eyes drifting to Laketown, to Fíli and Kíli. The ground rumbles lightly beneath them once more. "What would you have me do?" he says quietly. "What would you have me do to stand against this worm who has taken everything from me.? I cannot hope to triumph against Smaug."

Balin's face softens. "It seems that you are also afraid, my dear friend."

Thorin says nothing, but his gaze shifts back to the stone door. He knows that Balin is right, he cannot leave Bilbo to fend for himself. But still, he cannot make himself move to venture into the halls. He cannot face Smaug again, not without a plan to defeat him. But if Bilbo can get the Arkenstone, he can rally the dwarf kingdoms, they could form an army and stand a chance at killing that beast…

"We have to do something, Thorin," Balin says again. "We would not have made it this far without him. We cannot leave him to face the dragon alone."

It shakes him to his core, but Thorin nods.

Kíli has gone positively ashen. His cries have weakened; he has started murmuring nonsense. Fíli can do little more than stroke his brother's hair from his sweaty face, than whisper empty reassurances. There's nothing they can do unless Bofur can find the kingsfoil. Nothing.

Kíli will die here, and he probably will too, judging by the ever increasing rumbles coming from the mountain.

A cold resignation settles over him. He presses a kiss to his brother's sweaty temple, suddenly grateful for the evening they'd had the night prior, when everything had seemed so simple, so much like when they were children. He'd felt safe. Happy. He'd felt like they were going to make it to Erebor, to live out their destiny, but it had all gone wrong.

How had it all gone so wrong so quickly?

There's a clunk on the roof, drawing Sigrid's attention. "Da?" she calls, peeking out the door. When she receives no response, she shrugs and turns back into the house, when an orc suddenly lands on the balcony behind her. With a scream, she tries to slam the door shut, but the orc stops the door with his sword.

Sigrid's scream snaps them all to attention, even Kíli, who struggles to get to his feet, bleary eyes trying to focus on the situation at hand. "Kíli, get down," he hisses, pushing his brother behind him onto a nearby settee as the orc forces its way in.

A second orc crashes through the ceiling. Oin is grabbing anything within reach and chucking them at the orcs - starting with the plates. Bain gets his sisters under the table, blocking them from the orcs with the bench as Fíli grabs the pike hook Bard had fashioned for them and throws it with a snarl, finding a sick sort of satisfaction as it finds its mark in the orc's throat.

More orcs crash through the ceiling, and he hears Kíli cry out in pain behind him. One of the orcs has him by his wounded leg, dragging him off of the settee, and Fíli sees red. He spies a knife on the floor and grabs it, hurling it with deadly accuracy, freeing his brother, who crashes to the ground with a whimper. Fíli has enough sense about him to grab the sword from the creature before turning to face the onslaught.

Just as suddenly, two elves come crashing through the roof, quickly getting to work on the orcs. He recognizes them from Thraduil's halls - the blond he thinks was the elven king's son, and the redhead had been the one patrolling the hall with their cells. The orcs must have continued following them, seeking Thorin, and the elves were clearly still hunting the orcs.

Fíli grabs Bain, shoving him down as another one of the orcs rushes at him, giving him space to slay the beast. It only takes a few moments for them to dispel the orcs - the elves are deadly accurate with their blows. There's shouting in black speech from outside, and the remaining orcs flee from the house, leaving it a chaotic wreck. Fíli pants heavily, eyes scanning the small abode once again to make sure they are safe.

"Are you alright?" the redheaded elf asks the children as she helps them to their feet.

"You killed them all," Bain murmurs in amazement.

Oin pushes past him, rushing back to Kíli's side. His brother is struggling to breathe, his whole body hitching as he tries to take in air. "We're losing him!" the healer shouts.

"What happened?" he hears the elf ask from behind him, but he can barely make it out over the blood rushing in his ears. They're losing him.

"Please, Kee," he begs, sinking to his knees beside his brother, a sob forming in his throat. "Please don't leave me here alone. Please."

"I found it!" Bofur shouts, bursting back into the home. "What in the blazes happened here?"

Fíli turns to look at him, tears streaking his face. "You found it?" he asks, numbly. Bofur holds up his hand, the plant clutched in it.

"He's too far gone," Oin says sadly. "I don't know what to do." Fíli chokes on a sob.

"I do," the redheaded elf says, eyes switching between Kíli and the kingsfoil in Bofur's hand.

"Tauriel," the prince says. "We must go. We're losing the pack."

She shakes her head. "I'm going to save him," she says. "Get him up on the table. I need hot water," she says, looking at Sigrid and Tilda.

Fíli feels something akin to hope blossoming in his chest as they gather Kíli's limp form and settle him back onto the table. He has heard the stories of elvish healing magic; he prays to Mahal that it will be enough to save Kíli. His brother is mumbling deliriously again, skin so pale that, were he not drawing in breath, Fíli would think he was dead.

He watches as the elf washes the herbs, hands deftly shredding the leaves and creating a poultice. "Hold him down," she says, eyes fixing onto Fíli with something akin to sympathy. Fíli grabs his brother's shoulders and Bofur takes his ankles, pressing them to the table as he tries to ignore the whimper of protest that slips past his brother's lips.

The elf begins chanting in a language he does not recognize, before she presses the poultice into the wound, and Kíli screams. Fíli struggles to keep him still, even as Oin and Bard's children come to help. Kíli thrashes, but the elf holds steady, keeping the poultice pressed to his wound as she recites the healing magic. After a moment, Kíli takes a heaving breath and his thrashing calms, glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the roof.

"Kíli," he murmurs, relinquishing his hold on his brother's shoulders and pushing his sweaty hair from his face.

The elf's chanting ceases, and she pulls the poultice away from the wound. Fíli gasps aloud - the festering blackness of the wound has vanished, and it looks tremendously better already. He can hardly believe it.

"I've heard tell of the wonders of elvish medicine," Oin says, sounding just as awed as Fíli feels. "That was a privilege to witness."

"Burn this," the elf says as she hands the poultice to Bofur, who obediently tosses it into the fire. "He needs rest, though I fear it will be a while before he can have it," she says softly as she sets about binding Kíli's leg with a clean bandage. "The poison is gone, but his body is weak."

Fíli can hardly find the words to speak. He presses his forehead to Kíli's temple, breathing a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you," he manages finally.

"He is precious to you," the elf observes, a small smile on her face as she finishes Kíli's binding.

"He's my brother," Fíli whispers. "My only family."

She squeezes his shoulder as she stands. "I thought as much," she admits. "You looked after one another in Mirkwood. With the spiders."

The ground rumbles around them. Fíli closes his eyes. Have they saved him only to perish in dragonfire?

"You have to leave," she says, speaking to all of them now. "There is no time!"

Bain hesitates. "We cannot leave without our Da," he says, but even as he speaks the ground rumbles again, shaking debris loose from their damaged roof.

Tauriel frowns. "If you stay here, you and your sister will die. Is that what your father would want?" Bain blinks quickly, eyes shining when he finally shakes his head, looking to his sisters sadly.

Fíli and Bofur work to get Kíli to his feet. His brother is slowly coming back to himself, his eyes clearing, but he's far too weak to walk on his own. "Fee," he mumbles softly, his head lolling onto Fíli's shoulder as they right him.

"Don't worry; I've got you." he promises, pressing a kiss to Kíli's temple. Bofur helps Fíli get his brother onto his back, keeping the weight off of his leg.

Oin and Bard's children gather some provisions as Fíli and Bofur make their way down the stairs to the dock. It is slow work; Fíli is careful not to jostle his brother and Bofur works to ensure he maintains his balance as they navigate the steps. He is just getting Kíli situated at the back of the boat, propping his wounded leg up on the side, when the others rejoin them.

A horrible tremor shakes the ground, sending waves sloshing through the lake. In the distance, they hear the shriek of a dragon. Fíli locks eyes with his brother.

Smaug is coming.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Bilbo stammers to his feet, chasing after where Smaug had fled, the other dwarves clambering behind him. He can hardly breathe. How had this happened? Thorin's plan had been so good, he was so certain that it would work to subdue Smaug, but now...now thousands of innocents were now in Smaug's path. Because of them. Because of him.

They can do little more than watch when Smaug unleashes his flames upon Laketown.

AN - So it looks like I'll be rounding this bad boy out at 30 chapters. Next chapter will be pre-BOTFA focused, 29 will be BOTFA, and 30 will be the end. I'm sad and anxious and excited all at the same time.

Anyway, as always thank you so much for reading this little story that has occupied so much of my life at this point. It means the world.