Prince's Shadow

Skyborn Huntress

A/N: Age conversion: Fíli is thirty-three in dwarvish years, Kíli is twenty-eight. That's thirteen and eleven in human terms.

Chapter 1

TA 2892.

"Must they come here?" Kíli asked, fidgeting upon the kitchen stool. At his back, Dís was busy weaving his unruly raven hair into more respectable braids. Though his ama's leathery hands were gentle, he could not stop tears prickling at his eyes when she unwittingly tugged too hard.

"Dáin is your cousin, and so is welcome here," Dís reminded. "Now, let's not hear that tone out of you when his family arrives."

She had not answered his question. Kíli squirmed protest.

Dáin Ironfoot's kin resided in the ancient settlements among the Iron Hills; Fíli had shown him on a map, and it was far away to the east, beyond the wall of Misty Mountains. He had asked his brother if that was where they used to live, too, before the dragon, but Fíli had scoffed at him. That was Erebor, stupid, and didn't he ever think before he opened his mouth? As if dwarves would still be living there with a great stinking dragon slumbering in their Hills.

Fíli was right, of course. Fíli had never seen Erebor, either, but he was thirty-three and knew about a great many things. Kíli supposed Fíli knew why Dáin had come all the way to the Blue Mountains, too.

Dís sighed. "In any case, he and his kin will be here shortly, and they will stay until your rada has settled his words with them. I know it will be hard on you, Kíli, but please – do try to keep a good tongue in your head."

Kíli did not answer, for presently her absent hands caught a snarl buried beneath his mane and his eyes watered. "Ouch!"

"Didn't I tell you to brush your hair, Kíli?" Dís clucked her tongue and reached for her comb, neatly tucked in her beard for safekeeping, to untangle the knot that had ensnared her fingers.

"I did so," the dwarfling protested.

Yet, he would admit, it had been a very hasty undertaking: he and Fíli had been racing to be the first out of the house to meet Master Dwalin on the practice field. Master Dwalin did not even have any hair (atop his head, at least), so Kíli could not see why it mattered if they wore proper braids or not. But Dís had caught them pulling on their boots in the hall and told them there was to be no training on Durin's Day, and they had to neaten themselves up for their visitors.

Thus, ten minutes later, Kíli found himself hunched on the wooden stool, fighting a losing battle against the stinging in his eyes.

"Stop – stop it, that hurts!"

"Sorry, mizimuh." Dís's voice was warm with affection and just the slightest hint of amusement. "Perhaps if you held still now, it wouldn't hurt as much."

"He's just being a baby, that's all," said Fíli helpfully.

Kíli scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue at his brother. Fíli, of course, was already finished. Two neat golden braids framed his face and he sat across the table, his feet propped up on a second stool, idly gnawing on an apple. There was a glint of mischief in his blue eyes as he watched Kíli undergo what he could only term Unfair Torture.

"Fíli, put your feet down. There, now," said Dís, giving the first finished braid a flick. As she moved to his opposite side, Kíli shook his head; the silver bead bounced against his cheek.

"Must I wear the braids?"

Dís only chuckled as he crossed his arms and huffed. "You're a prince of Durin's folk, so yes, you must."

"Amn't." Kíli sulked. "Fíli's a prince. I'm Kíli. Just Kíli."

"Fíli is your rada's heir. You're the heir after Fíli. So you're still a prince, I'm afraid." Dís concluded her explanation with a light poke upon his nose. It tickled, and Kíli's scowl crumpled.

"I don't want to be a prince."

"Sorry, mizimuh." Dís tucked her comb back into her beard and took up his hair in both hands, dividing it into three strands. She wound them together as gently as possible, yet Kíli still fought a grimace.

"You know, your rada wears rayad's braids, and I swear I never hear him complain."

"He does?" Kíli asked curiously.

Dís smiled absently. "Sure, he does. And Fíli, too."

Kíli looked across the table at his brother, round-eyed. When Fíli had turned twenty-five and Dís first taught him to braid, Kíli had noticed that his were the same as Uncle Thórin's (though, of course, Fíli's handiwork was scruffier, and ever so slightly lopsided).

Kíli knew that dwarvish braids spoke an intricate language of their own: their location, thickness, and even the colours of added threads and trinkets spun tales about their wearers. Dís wore a long rope that tucked from behind one ear to the other and symbolized her marriage. Kíli had seen dwarrowdams in the village wearing the colours of their husbands' houses, but his ama's dark hair bore no ornamentation but the silver clasps of Durin's line. He had never asked about that: Dís always looked sad and turned away when he asked about adad, and Kíli had always supposed it was because she had nothing of his left.

He had never asked about Fíli's braids, either, but that was different. Kíli had made the mistake of calling his brother's careful braids lopsided, and after Dís had left the room a red-faced Fíli had tackled him to the ground. It had been one of their nastier fights, filled with hair-pulling and bruises that smarted the next day. Fíli had apologized afterwards: Kíli might not know when to hold his tongue, but Fíli was the crown prince, and he was supposed to be able to stay his hand. After that, in Kíli's mind, the braids did not exist, rayad's braids – prince's braids – or not.

"Why?" Kíli asked presently. "Rada's King, isn't he? Shouldn't he wear king's braids?"

Dís did not answer. Her hands had stilled in his hair and Kíli twisted around to look at her, accidentally yanking his hair enough to make his eyes water anew.

"Sorry, my love." Dís resurfaced from her thoughts and rearranged the portion he had dislodged. "Yes . . . your rada is the rightful King under the Mountain, but he is not a king here."

Kíli blinked, bemused. A king was a king, no matter where he was, wasn't he? He pressed, "But he's still the king, isn't he? Master Dwalin calls him King –"

"Aye, he's the king," Fíli chipped in, fishing for another apple from the bowl on the table. "But he ain't got a kingdom now."

"Doesn't have a kingdom," Dís corrected him.

"Doesn't have a kingdom," Fíli parroted, busily shining the apple on his sleeve. "Rada's King, but in exile. We all are."

Kíli reflected in silence. Uncle Thórin was a king by birthright – he was melhekh undu abad, King under the Mountain – and yet he did not lead a kingdom, nor wear a crown.

That made him a lot like a prince, Kíli supposed.

"So . . ." his brow pinched in thought, "So if Rada doesn't wear proper king's braids . . ."

Dís had the foresight to know where his thoughts were headed. Chuckling, she kissed the top of his head. "As soon as Dáin is gone," she promised, "you can go back to being Kíli-just-Kíli, my little wildling. Until then, at least pretend you're as civilized as your brother."

With that, she gave his finished braid a little swat, and Kíli was free. He hopped from the stool and ran to Fíli's side, the silver beads slapping against his cheeks. He stuck his hand in the near-empty fruit bowl and grabbed an apple before his older brother could eat them all.

"Pig," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Whelp," answered Fíli, sticking out his tongue.

There was to be no training for either of them that day. Dís had them wash their faces and hands and dress in their clothes reserved for Special Occasions. Kíli tugged on a midnight blue tunic, trimmed with gold thread in the interlocking designs of Durin's house. Fíli's was identical, but a little broader in the shoulders to fit his growing stature. The silk fabrics had been a present on their respective naming-days from Dori, who was a weaver in Overhill.

Kíli plopped down to pull on his boots. The braids swung into his face with the motion: the cold beads hurt his cheeks just a little. Boots donned, he reached up and fiddled with them, unclasping and clasping the silver beads until Fíli crouched in front of him. Gently, he tugged Kíli's hair out of his hands.

"Ama worked hard on those."

Ruefully, Kíli saw his fidgeting with the clips had made the ends all tufted and straggly. His hands fell back in his lap.

"How can you wear them all the time?"

"Because I'm the prince, I guess," shrugged Fíli. He gave Kíli's hair another light tug, as if his braids were the reins of a pony, and then let him go. When he rose and held out his hand, Kíli took it. His brother hefted him to his feet.

"Princes ought t'do whatever they want," Kíli decided.

At that, a grin broke across Fíli's face. "Oh, agreed. But Rada's still King, so we'd better do whatever he says first. C'mon, Kee: if we run to the lookout-hills, we might get to see them first."

Dís said there was to be No Running.

In the end, the brothers were hardly the first ones down to the lookout-hills. Most of Kaminhund – the above-ground dwarvish settlement that the Rangers and traders called Overhill – were already there. Blacksmiths came up from their forges, arms and faces stained with soot. There were wood-carvers, farmers, squinty-eyed miners, and one or two dwarrowdams restrained curious children. It was a motley crowd of Longbeards and Broadbeams that had gathered, some out of curiosity and others out of custom, to greet the dwarves of the Iron Hills.

At the crown of the rightmost hill, Uncle Thórin waited stiffly alongside his council. Kíli knew most of the older dwarves by name, but today none of them smiled in recognition. At Thórin's right hand Dwalin stood with his burly arms folded across his chest. To his left, Dís laid a hand on her brother's arm, her gaze distant. She looked very queenly in her pale blue gown, silver beads in her beard and her dark hair wound into three plaits that joined into one at the base of her neck. Later, Fíli would inform him, that was rayadinh's braid – the princess's braid. At her throat was a pendant of glittering mithril, the last to be smuggled from Erebor.

Thórin stood tall and regal between his retainers and his sister. The King under the Mountain wore no crown. Instead, he was robed in his best fur, the black sable one, and his hands were heavy with gold rings. His expression remained an unsmiling mask of stone when his sister-sons approached. King, not Rada, Kíli thought, and he instinctively slipped into Fíli's shadow, grabbing his hand.

Dís had the boys scuttle into place between Masters Balin and Lofarr. At once Fíli straightened, puffing his chest, trying his best to look the part of a regal prince. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning it to gold. In his shadow, Kíli did not feel much like a prince at all. The tufted ends of his rayad's braids dangled in his face, and he could not understand why none of the others was smiling. It wasn't as if all their amas had forced braids into their hair.

A horn called beyond the hills; Kíli drew a breath and felt Fíli's hand squeeze his, sharply.

All at once, Kíli felt braver.

He stood up on his toes and puffed his chest and smiled as Dáin Ironfoot's party approached. And soon he was not the only one. The exile had not been so long that the Longbeards did not still have kin among the Iron Hills; and as the dwarves grew near enough to recognize each other they cried out in incredulous reunion.

Dáin Ironfoot had brought with him a company of twenty warriors. For every dwarf among them, there seemed to be two ponies: one to carry him, and another with bulging bags of supplies strapped to its saddle. The warriors wore glinting mail, swords and axes belted at their sides. Their beards were long and braided, beads and odd bits of metal dazzling in the sunlight. Kíli had never seen such a regal procession.

Dáin himself rode at the head of the party, escorted by two dwarrows in bronze mail. The warriors were fascinating, but Kíli could not look at them for very long. Dáin had recognized Thórin and was dismounting.

"Thórin Oakenshield! How long has it been?"

"Since Azanulbizar, cousin," said Thórin, stepping forward.

"Aye, Azanulbizar." Dáin's eyes crinkled. "Your beard has grown longer, but I would say your severe face has not changed."

Thórin lifted an eyebrow. "And I would say you have not changed either, Dáin."

At that, the Lord of the Iron Hills threw back his head and laughed; he had a warrior's booming laugh. Thórin only smiled thinly. In three long strides Dáin reached him, clasped his upper arms, and embraced his kin, a lord to a king.

After that, it was all good manners and propriety, and Kíli let the words wash over his head as he examined their cousin. Dáin Ironfoot was sharp-faced and dark-haired, like Thórin, but he had yet to bear Rada's streaks of silver. Dáin's beard was not quite as long, either, and divided into two heavy braids. He, Kíli noted, did not have to wear rayad's braids. He was dressed in scarlet velvet, gold chains at his throat, and a red axe with a heavy head hung at his side. Kíli found his eyes drawn to the axe most of all; it was taller than he was.

When Thórin at last stepped back, Kíli knew the proper greetings had been exchanged. Rada now looked back at them. Fíli tugged at his hand; Kíli stumbled forward in his shadow.

"My sister, Dís; and my sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli."

Family introductions would follow the formal greetings. Fíli bowed, and Kíli followed clumsily. When he raised his head, the beads smacked his cheeks and he tried to look as if it didn't hurt. They stood before the eyes of entire company and their restlessly pawing ponies; Kíli tried to look as solemn as Fíli, as if he wasn't afraid, as if his heart wasn't fluttering to escape his ribs.

Respectfully, Dáin kissed Dís's hand and extended a nod to Fíli.

"A blond prince of Durin?" he mused, looking at the eldest prince.

"His father was a Firebeard," Thórin said.

"Ah," said Dáin. Then the stern face behind the beard crinkled. "But by the swords on your back you take after your mother's line, do you not?"

Fíli bowed again, his ears slightly pink.

It was only the second time Kíli had heard their father mentioned. He had never seen him, never known his name. But now was not the time to wonder about his father, for Dáin had stepped in front of him, looking him head to foot.

Kíli clutched to Fíli's steady hand. He jerked up his chin and held the Lord of the Iron Hills's stare, fighting not to tremble. He stood there with his messy braids and his boots scuffed with dirt from running down the hills, waiting for Dáin to say something, to call him a wildling like Dís did.

But when Dáin spoke, it was not to him.

He turned away, calling his own family forward. "My wife, Éira, daughter of Álfr," he said. "And my eldest son, Thórin."

Kíli's eyes went to his youngest cousin. Dáin's son was two years younger than him; he remembered because he had the same name as his rada. This Thórin was still beardless, a coppery braid descending from his right temple. He had a dwarfling's rounded face, but a proud jut to his chin and high cheekbones; someday, maybe, he would grow into them. He wore black velvet, a gold buckle on his belt, and a red weasel fur draped across his shoulders. He looked very proper and princely. When Thórin saw the scruffy raven-haired dwarfling looking, his upper lip curled a little, and so Kíli looked away again.

Rada completed the ritual greetings and, as dwarf custom expected, extended Dáin Ironfoot's welcome to their peace-halls for however long he desired to stay.

There was a great feast that night in honour of Durin's Day, the changing of the year, and Dáin's arrival.

The Longbeards' great mead hall was called Zahargund in their language, and the Underhall in more common tongues. That evening, the long fires of the Underhall blazed brightly; laughter and merry songs ran the length of the table. Some of the younger dwarves had been recruited to help the cooks, and they scurried about, refilling cups, bringing fresh serving-platters, and cleaning the worst of the spills.

Thórin sat at the head of the long table with the Lord of the Iron Hills and his family at his right hand. Dís sat to his left, and then Dwalin, and then Fíli and Kíli, with Balin on the youngest prince's opposite side. It was a position of honour, Kíli knew, and he tried his best to behave, but it was hard.

It wasn't due to a lack of food. That feast alone would have fed all of Overhill for a week. There were more courses than he could bother to count, and golden ale flowed constantly by his place. Kíli had to wonder, if he was the king and all, why Thórin didn't simply decide they could eat like this all of the time. If he was ever King, Kíli decided, that would be the first thing he'd do.

The pages always brought their steaming dishes to Thórin and Dáin first, so the princes had their choice of cuts from the stuffed pig and roast duck. Then came mountains of mashed potatoes on golden platters, sliced wheels of salted cheeses, green pea stew and oat porridge, and so many other things Kíli didn't have names for. He wanted to try some of everything, including the ale. For a long while Kíli occupied himself piling and re-piling his plate, and Fíli had to keep kicking him under the table.

"Chew with your mouth closed, stupid," he hissed.

Kíli shut his mouth obediently and swallowed, but when Fíli turned away he put his head up against his shoulder and playfully growled like a wild wolf.

"Shove off."

This was why it was hard. Sitting up at the king's left hand meant they had to be quiet and listen to Adult Conversations. Thórin and Dáin ruminated about gold and mining and the great eastern road; Lady Éira queried Dís about what life was like above ground. Fíli absorbed it all in solemn silence, prodding at his food. It was all very boring to Kíli, and by the second course he was already fidgeting.

Fíli was being princely enough for both of them, Kíli thought. Enviously, he wished Thórin had let him sit down the table with the warriors, who were having a grand time roaring over bawdy tales, swapping old war stories, and drinking the kitchens out of ale. Even Balin, seated to Kíli's left, was dabbing at his eyes, pleasantly pink-faced.

Kíli looked across the table at cousin Thórin, who looked almost equally bored, a pouty sort of curl to his lips. He wasn't a prince, either. Kíli opened his mouth to ask him about more interesting things ("things Kíli found interesting" including ponies, swordfights, climbing trees, and plotting new tattoos for Master Dwalin's head), but Fíli aimed another warning kick beneath the table.

Thus Kíli sat glumly through the soup and then the arrival of the dried whitefish. The lutefisk smelled weird when the pages carried out the trays, and Kíli was all too glad to let it pass over him to the warriors. But Fíli scraped some off the platter onto his plate.

"Don't be rude," he whispered. "You've got to take some of everything."

Kíli said nothing. He wrinkled his nose and glared down at the gelatinous fish.

This was the worst part of sitting at the king's table, he brooded. Tonight Fíli had become Prince Fíli and wouldn't talk to him except to tell him he was doing something wrong. Kíli stabbed at the fish. It slid off his fork again, and he commenced picking it apart, bit by bit.

At the head of the table, Dáin turned his attention to Fíli to ask how his training was going. Fíli answered respectfully, straightening in his seat and giving full credits to Masters Dwalin and Balin where it was due, and he mercifully stopped hounding after Kíli and his fish.

"– remarkable that you've raised them so well. I can't imagine what I would do with my two, without the protection of stone over their heads –"

Kíli mimed Lady Éira's fluttery words. Raised them so well, he mouthed, stabbing the fish and ripping it in two. No stone to protect them. Stupid stinky fish.

"It's the swords for you, eh, lad? Ever tried your hand at an axe?"

"– but surely there are wolves in the woods, and other terrible things," Lady Éira shuddered. "You must be very brave to have lived out here this long!"

Kíli could no longer tell what had been on his plate. The lutefisk had been mashed to little grey-and-white bits that had a disconcerting resemblance to brains. Kíli stabbed at it again, ruthlessly, and some of the bits toppled over the edge of his plate.

"Kíli!" said Dís, aghast. "What on earth are you doing?"

Guiltily, Kíli looked up. Suddenly, they were all looking at him. His ama's expression was horrified, but Thórin merely looked resigned. Kíli's nose scrunched and he looked back down at his plate.

"I hate fish."

Dís sighed deeply, but Thórin raised his arm and one the pages took away the plate of mangled fish. Fish-bits still hung on his fork. Kíli clutched it, his mortified stare now focused on the empty space on the table in front of him.

He had done badly, he knew, and it would reflect on Rada and Dís. Fíli was giving him his I-told-you-so look, and cousin Thórin was smirking.

From then on, Kíli determined, glowering at the crusty fish-bits on the tabletop, cousin Thórin would be Thorny. His haughty smirk prickled into his skin like a thorn, and his cousin didn't even look like Rada, anyway. It was stupid to name dwarves after other dwarves, Kíli decided. All it did was make everyone confused.

Kíli brooded for the rest of the meal. They had an apple pie among the many desserts, which was Kíli's favourite, but Thórin sent it down Dáin's side of the table, so he was stuck with the custard pudding instead.

Kíli poked at it with his spoon until it wobbled and glared at Thorny, who had the apple pie. He wasn't particularly hungry for dessert, but the fact of the matter was all. In fact, he was thirsty more than anything.

Kíli looked around. For once, the pages were nowhere to be seen with their sloshing jugs of ale.

To his left, though, Master Balin had a full cup, pink-faced and merry as he swapped stories with some of the Iron Hill warriors, who seemed to be his companions-at-arms from long ago. It would be easy to swap cups while no one was looking. Kíli's hands were small and quick, and Balin was very drunk.

But he had a feeling that would make Dís and Thórin really angry, so he sat tight through the last course, his hands clutched in his lap, until Dáin rose from the table and Thórin followed, and they could all finally leave.

In the end, Kíli thought, it had been something of a waste of an evening.

Dís exploded as soon as they returned home. She let the glass beads out of her hair and it spilled in wild, black tangles down her back as she paced before the hearth.

"Never, in all my life -!"

Kíli flinched and looked at his feet, but his mother's ire was not directed toward his atrocious table manners. Dís turned to her brother when he entered the room.

"Thórin, did you hear that woman? Oh, I must be so brave to raise my sons without a stone roof over their heads! As if they'll turn into wildlings as soon as I turn my back!"

Kíli's eyes went as wide as saucers. He had never heard Dís so angry, not after all the times he had snuck out into the woods or skipped lessons to go tree-climbing or painted Master Dwalin's head green. Maybe it was just the ale making his head fuzzy, but he started to waver on his feet.

Thórin said nothing at once as he sank heavily into an armchair by the fire. Flickering light danced across the shadows below his eyes. It occurred to Kíli that he had never seen Rada look so tired, either. He had fetched a pint of ale from the kitchen and cradled the cup against his temple.

"Dís," Thórin said quietly. "The boys."

Dís turned and saw them listening in the doorway. A heavy sigh left her shoulders slumped. "It's late," she reminded, approaching and laying her hands on Kíli's shoulders. "You'd best be off to bed, both of you."

The protest came automatically. "But –"

"No buts." Dís kissed them both on the cheek and sent them off. Kíli wavered for a moment longer, mouth opening and closing like a fish's, but Fíli seized his hand and dragged him toward the stairs.

When they were up in their room, the rumbling of voices resumed through the floorboards. Fíli pushed Kíli down on the edge of the bed and hopped up behind him, reaching for the braids in his younger brother's hair. The silver beads clicked loose in his hands.

They'll turn into wildlings as soon as I turn my back. Dís's voice rang in his head and through the fuzziness, Kíli's belly clenched with something like worry.

"Ama calls me a wildling, sometimes," he admitted.

Fíli snorted. "'Cause you're a stubborn brat. She doesn't mean you are one."

"Why does the queen think we are, then?"

"She's not a queen. Dáin's not a king, so she's not a queen." Fíli accidentally tugged too hard as he pulled the strands apart, and Kíli fought a wince. "She thinks we're not proper dwarves 'cause we don't have a mountain."

"We do so have a mountain." Kíli wrinkled his nose and grabbed his second braid, untying it by himself. His fingers moved quickly and nimbly through his hair, and he didn't care if it pulled. "Ered Luin is our mountain. She must be stupid."

"You're stupid, stupid. She means living under a mountain. Like Erebor, before the dragon. With mines and gold and crowns, and things."

"So what, maybe we don't want to live under a mountain."

"Then we're wildings," said Fíli, full of the eldest's sensibility.

"Then we're all wildlings," pointed out Kíli. "Thórin and Master Balin and Master Dwalin, and all."

Lady Éira's words had made Dís angry, and though he didn't quite understand why, he was vehement, too. The drink burned like fire in his belly as he hopped up from the edge of the bed and faced his brother, hands planted on his sides.

"Can them dwarves beneath the mountain climb trees?"

Fíli thought on it and shook his head.

Kíli pressed, "Can they find n'pick the best apples, or race ponies, or build snow forts?"

Fíli caught on. "They prolly don't even know how to swim."

" – or move like ghosts in the forest!"

"I bet they don't have names for the stars."

At that, Fíli and Kíli grinned unabashedly at one another. They knew Lady Éira was wrong. In the minds of the young dwarflings, there was nothing better than being born in exile.

To be continued.

Khuzdul Glossary: (Sourced from The Dwarrow Scholar, with some additions by me where necessary.)

Adad: father

Amad: mother ("ama" is more like a term of affection – i.e. "mama")

Melhekh undu abad: King under the Mountain

Mizimuh: my jewel

Radad: uncle ("rada" being an affectionate term)

Rayad: heir