Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost @displacedhobbit - Tumblr Blog

Update: Greater Than Gold

AN: Oh, man, this has been an emotional journey. This part sees us through to Mirkwood.

I’m so sorry for the choppy feel of the last chapter. Rereading where I separate things (because it seemed like Rivendell was a good place to rest) I was really unhappy with how it came out. Hopefully this chapter helps to fill in some of those gaps. It also doesn’t help that I’ve written the quest over a span of about 4 years, and I can see how my writing style has changed with time.

Warnings: Violence, some swearing (I think?).

Also on FF.net and AO3

Chapter 26: Eighty-Three and Seventy-Seven - Part 2

Word Count (chapter): 10321

He tries in vain to free himself, but his vambrace is fully entertwined with Minty’s reigns. Blindly, he feels for the knife in his boot, relief washing over him once he grasps the solid wood of the handle. He stretches his other arm and begins to cut himself free, when suddenly he’s dunked into icy cold water. It rushes into his mouth and lungs, stunning him.

Minty rears up in panic, pulling his head above water and giving him a blessed moment to sputter the water from his lungs and breathe, but it is gone all too soon; he’s plunged under again. Dimly, he realizes that he’s dropped his knife, and panic seizes his chest. He prays to any god that will listen that Minty will rear up again, that he’ll be able to breathe. That she’ll cross to the other side of the stream and will be too exhausted to carry on.

His lungs burn. Desperately, he tugs at his arm. He cannot die like this - who will protect Fíli and Thorin if he dies like this? This stupid stroke of absolute misfortune.

Abruptly, he feels himself yanked away from the pony by the rushing current - his arm is freed! He tries to swim in the direction he thinks is upward. it’s so dark, everything is bathed in shadow and the water rushes too strongly for him to make out any features of the riverbed. It is a loss; the current is too strong and drags him down, down, down. His lungs burn. His arms feel heavy and leadden. No, no; not like this.

Then his head slams onto something hard and he knows no more.

Kíli wakes with a shout, sitting up so suddenly that it takes his mind a moment to process what he sees. He takes several deep breaths (Mahal, he hadn’t realized how wonderful it was just to breathe) and focuses on his surroundings. The white bedding, the soft light filtering in through the window. The solid weight of the body he’s leaned in against, the strong arms wrapped around him. The gentle voice in his ear, reminding him to breathe.

Thorin’s voice.

Kíli looks up at him, confusion plain on his features.

“I heard you shout; you were thrashing in your sleep,” he explains, before gently parting his hair to check the still-healing wound. Kíli hisses in pain when he does, but Thorin makes a satisfied noise in his throat. “It’s healing well; still swollen, but the wound has sealed.”

Then Thorin’s comforting warmth is gone, and he turns to see his uncle pouring a cup of water for him. He sluggishly pushes himself up the rest of the way to sit and takes the offered cup, grateful. Still, he avoids Thorin’s knowing, concerned stare. He doesn’t want to talk about his nightmare, doesn’t want to voice his worries aloud. Thorin has enough on his mind already, and Kíli is supposed to be here to help ease his burdens, not add to them.

“I am sorry,” Thorin says finally, reaching up to tuck Kíli’s hair behind his ear. “I have been preoccupied with planning; I hadn’t checked to see if you were well.”

Kíli shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, finally looking up to reach Thorin’s eyes. He frowns; his uncle is a wreck. “Are you well?” he asks uncertainly, not sure if he is overstepping his bounds.

Thorin sighs and looks down at his hands. “I worry for the company,” he says simply. For you, he means, and Kíli hears it plain as day. “The journey grows harder still from here, and we’ve encountered more...misadventures already than I had anticipated.” Already, his uncle looks as though he has aged a decade - the worry lines creasing his brow and crinkling the corners of his eyes, the growing streaks of silver in his hair.

He can think of no comforting words to say, so Kíli reaches for Thorin’s hands and squeezes, mind wandering to a conversation that seemed ages ago now, after the trolls.

-

Kíli felt his anger bubbling. “Reckless?!” he parroted in a hissed whisper. Thorin had pulled him aside while the others had ventured to the troll hoard, scolding him for how he had nearly gotten the entire company killed. “What was I supposed to do; leave Bilbo to his death after they’d seen him?”

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You owe no oath to the hobbit…” he’d started.

“So unless it is Fíli, you want me to sit idly by and let others in this company die?” Kíli snapped. He didn’t understand why Thorin was so cross with him. He’d kept an eye on Bilbo while Fíli went to alert the company. He hadn’t engaged until he heard them coming, known for certain that he had backup. It wasn’t his fault that the trolls were prepared with a plan to catch them. And it was precisely because they’d saved Bilbo that the hobbit had been able to play for time and spare them all. He had been anything but reckless, and it incised him to be characterised as so.

He was fully ready to give Thorin a piece of his mind, proper for him to talk back to his uncle or not, but he’d stopped short when he saw the sheen of tears in Thorin’s eyes. His anger dissipated almost instantly. He knew how strong Thorin’s emotions had to be for them to show on his face.

When Thorin saw that his ire had calmed, he had gathered Kíli into a tight embrace. “You know that’s not what I mean,” he’d said, words muffled gently by Kíli’s hair. He could hear the thickness in his uncle’s voice. “We are barely into our journey and I’ve already almost lost you.”

He broke on the last word, and Kíli softened, twining his arms around Thorin. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he’d said, even though he himself knew it was nothing he can promise. And Thorin knew it, too; he tugged Kíli closer still, pressed his face into his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin had murmured as he pulled back, pressing their foreheads together. “I was afraid.”

-

He was still afraid, and it tugged at Kíli’s heart, though he knew there was nothing he could really do to ease his uncle’s fears, short of seeing them all the way through to Erebor unharmed. For the most part he had been careful, he had thought through his actions before engaging. He was sticking to his promise, as well as he could. And he would continue to do so. There was too much at stake, and he refused to let his brother and uncle down. He squeezes Thorin’s hand again, then leans over to touch their foreheads together.

“I had half a mind to send the two of you home from here,” he admits with a soft chuckle. “Though I know you never would.”

Kíli smiles. “Of course not,” he admits. “We’re in this together, remember?”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees, reaching a hand up to squeeze the back of his neck, a silent thanks for Kíli’s comfort. “Together.”

-----

Fíli sat by the stream, eyes raking in the beautiful vistas of the elves’ valley, taking it all in, knowing they will depart soon.

Their rest at Rivendell had greatly improved the mood of the company. Even Thorin, who had never been shy about his distrust of elves, had grown fond of Lord Elrond, for he had offered them housing, and food, and supplies for their coming journey into the mountains. For his part, Fíli had been grateful for the soft bedding under his head each night, the comforting warmth of Kíli sleeping soundly next to him, the security of knowing the borders of Rivendell were well guarded.

He had pretended not to notice the growing darkness in Kíli’s eyes. He knew the quest was taking a heavy toll on his brother - that it had forced him to grow up much faster than Fíli had even anticipated. Kíli worried far too much about fulfilling the expectations of his role as Thorin’s spare. He could see that it haunted him, followed him always; after every mishap they’d encountered the darkness grew. After he’d nearly drowned...Fíli shuddered. They were fortunate to have the hobbit with them. Oin could have been too late to get him breathing again, and then….

He feels the chill of the water seep into his bones again. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms to feel warmth, even as he sits in the bright sun.

“You alright?” Kíli asks, and he jumps, snapping out of his thoughts. “Sorry; didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, plopping down next to him, knocking their shoulders together with a tone that is anything but apologetic. It reminds him of before.

Fíli smiles, glad to see his brother in higher spirits. “What’s gotten you in such a mood?”

Kíli just smiles, eyes raking in the scenery. “It’s a good day,” he says after a moment.

Fíli reaches into his pocket for his pipe, sneaking a glance at his brother. He’s struck suddenly with a memory of their father on a similar summer day, the sun making his eyes glow a honey brown. They had been out for a walk - Fíli’s mother had been nesting, Da had called it - and she had grown tired of him being underfoot. They had been galavanting around the woods, Fíli pretending to slay his father, who amiably played along, laughing and smiling. It was one of the last warm days before autumn, before the winter that came all too fast and harsh and changed everything. It was one of the last memories he had of his father.

He smiles softly as he finishes packing his pipe and lighting it. His brother shifts beside him, and he turns to regard him, raising an eyebrow in question at the lopsided smile Kíli wears, eyes shining with something close to mischief.

“What?” he asks, puffing on his pipe. Kíli’s smile grows wider.

“Have you forgotten?” he asks.

Fíli frowns, wracking his brain. What could he have forgotten? He searches Kíli’s face for the answer, but only sees his mirthful expression. He looks so much like he did when they were children; he can’t see a trace of the darkness that had been there just this morning. He can’t for the life of him remember what he’s forgotten, but it doesn’t matter; it lightens his heart to see Kíli this way.

From his pocket, Kíli produces something wrapped in cloth and presses it into his hands. Setting his pipe down, Fíli unwraps it, grinning when he reveals the apple scone inside.

“Happy birthday,” Kíli murmurs, soft, fond smile on his face.

He had forgotten. The days on the road had started to stretch together; he truly had no idea what day it was. But Kíli must have been keeping track; of course he had been. Oh, Kíli, his sweet little brother, who remembered his birthday and had cared enough to see to it that he had his favorite treat. “Thank you,” he says quietly, breaking off a piece of the scone and taking a bite, savoring the flavors.

“I know it’s not much,” he starts.

“It’s perfect,” Fíli murmurs, knocking their foreheads together. “Thank you, nadadith.” He breaks off another piece and offers it to his brother, which Kíli happily accepts. They sit in companionable silence while Fíli munches on his treat. Eventually Kíli’s head rests on his shoulder; his brother has pilfered his pipe while he eats, but he doesn’t mind. The scent of the pipeweed makes the moment sweeter. It feels like they’re home.

He’s had many birthdays like this, lazy, just the two of them. Kíli thoughtfully gifting him with a treat or something that he’s crafted - one year it was vambraces, another a knife with an ornately carved handle that stays tucked in his overcoat, close to his heart. But he thinks, with Kíli pressed warmly against his side and his eyes roving the unfamiliar, but no less beautiful, landscape that this one might be his favorite.

It all feels so peaceful and right. He doesn’t want the moment to end; it’s the happiest he’s felt in an age. And he knows that soon, too soon, this moment will be nothing more than a memory, that they’ll be on the road once more, that the darkness will return to Kíli’s eyes. That this could very well be the last birthday he spends with a thoughtful gift and his brother pressed too close (always too close, but Fíli wouldn’t trade it for anything).

He forces his darker thoughts away, tilts his head so that his cheek is pressed against Kíli’s hair. Just breathes.

“I love you, you know,” he says finally, and he does. His brother is more precious to him than anyone or anything else in this world. He doesn’t say it often enough, he’s sure, and he knows that Kíli knows this, but he needs the words to be said, needs for Kíli to hear them. Just one more time. Just in case.

Kíli snorts out a laugh. “‘Course I know,” he says, but the affection is clear in his voice, and Fíli lets that warmth wash over him, closing his eyes to commit the moment to memory. Tucking it in next to the ones of his father, of his mother, of home.

Kíli presses just a little bit closer.

“Love you, too, nadad.”

-----

He hates thunderstorms, always has. Fíli keeps a reassuring hand on his back as they stumble their way up the mountain, rain pelting them relentlessly as strikes of lightning flash across the sky, thunder booming so loudly that it feels like the mountain itself will crumble.

His thoughts drift to his father, who still lay buried beneath a crumbled mountain, and he chokes on a sob, loses his footing and stumbles to his knees.

Fíli is there in an instant, helping pull him back to his feet. He touches their foreheads together tenderly, because he knows. Fíli knows how terrified he is, knows because for all of their life thunderstorms had sent Kíli crawling into his arms, a shaking, trembling mess.

There’s shouting from ahead of them, and he looks up to see a huge boulder flying through the air, smashing into the mountain above, sending everything violently shaking around them, raining shards that crash onto the path they're on. Kíli’s arms reach out on instinct, pressing his brother flat against the face of the mountain as the edges of the path break away and fall into the chasm below.

“It’s a thunder battle!” Balin yells, just as a massive stone giant comes into sight.

His heart leaps into his throat. Kíli suddenly can’t begin to imagine how they survive this day as another boulder careens through the air, smashing into a nearby mountain and revealing another stone giant.

“Grab my hand,” Fíli shouts as the world violently quakes around them. “Kíli!”

He reaches for him, but the ground lurches forward abruptly and his foot is no longer on solid ground. Their fingers brush for a scant second, before Fíli is pulled away from him. Or Kíli is the one being pulled. He isn’t entirely sure what is happening; it takes all of his concentration to keep his hands grasped on the wet stone as the world pitches wildly around him. He’s close to the edge and his foot keeps slipping off. They’re going higher, higher, and he finally realizes with horror that the ledge they’d just been on is really one of the stone giants, rising to join the fight.

Frantically, he looks for Fíli, feeling panic well up in his throat as he realizes that they’re on opposite legs of the giant. “Fíli!” he shouts, but the giant shifts its position, causing his foot to slide again, and he’s scrambling for purchase. Fortunately, Gloin grabs his arm and keeps him from falling over the edge.

His head spins. The unpredictability of their movements coupled with the torrential rain keeps throwing him off balance. He can’t see where Fíli is, but he hears distant shouting occasionally break through the thundering sounds of the battle. A boulder hits their giant, shaking everything horribly and sending down a shower of rock and debris that only narrowly misses them. Another great shaking, another lurch of the world, and he’s sliding, his boots failing to find traction on the stone.

Gloin grabs his arm again, pulling him forward, keeping him sliding even as Kíli tries to find traction. “Come on; jump off!” he shouts, and Kíli looks up to see Thorin and several others standing safely on a much larger ledge, so he scrambles to reach them. He slips again, losing Gloin’s hand as the warrior jumps to safety. By the time he is able to stand again, the giant’s leg is pulling back as it rights itself; the gap between him and safety grows.

“Kíli, jump!” Thorin hollers, arms outstretched, face panicked, and Kíli does.

For a terrifying second he doesn’t think he will make it, and in truth he doesn’t make it all the way. The ball of his left foot catches the ledge, but slides straight off. Thorin and Gloin are able to grab him, though his stomach and legs slam roughly into the unforgiving stone, knocking the air out of him and sending his stomach churning. He’s hoisted up to safety, heart pounding louder than the thunder around them, as his uncle gets him to his feet.

Thorin cups his face, smoothing his wet, knotted hair out of the way. “Are you alright?”

He can only nod; he’s trembling so much that he doesn’t trust himself to speak - he doesn’t even trust the ground under his feet to stay still. Thorin gently pushes him behind himself, farther onto the safety of the ledge, and Kíli turns to see the missing members of their company, still trapped on the giant’s knee. “Fíli…” he murmurs numbly.

They can do little more than watch, huddled on their ledge, as the stone giants continue to brawl. He wraps his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to stop his trembling.

Another giant joins the fray, tossing a boulder at their giant, sending it stumbling to its knees, which smash into the mountain not far from them. When the giant falls back, the space on his knee that the company occupied is empty.

Cold dread wells up within him, a chill even icier than the rain battering them.

“No!” he hears someone scream, belatedly realizing it was himself. He stays rooted to the spot, even as Thorin presses past him and ahead, calling for Fíli and Dwalin, hoping for any sign of life, that they haven’t been crushed in the collision.

He can’t move. He was supposed to protect Fíli, but how could he have protected him from this?

“We’re alright!” someone shouts. “We’re alive!” He can’t place the voice, he just knows that it’s not Fíli’s and that he needs to see if the words are true - he needs to move.

He starts shuffling forward, numbly, not believing. His boots slip on the rocks; the rumbling sounds of the thunder battle seem farther away. There’s a commotion up ahead, and he turns a corner to see Bilbo hanging from the ledge, Ori trying desperately to grab his hand to pull him up. They can’t reach him, and Kíli’s heart leaps into his throat when Thorin swoops down himself to grab him and allow the company to pull him up. His uncle slips, and he’s aware of the strangled scream that wrenches its way out of his throat, but Dwalin has him and pulls him to safety.

Across the expanse, his eyes meet Fíli’s, and suddenly, finally, nothing else matters. He’s alive.

It seems to take ages before they make it across to the ledge, ages before he is able to embrace his brother, to truly see that he is unharmed. Kíli clutches him close, something akin to a sob wrenching itself from his throat when Fíli’s arms wrap around him in return. His tears come fast, unbidden, as he presses his face into his brother's neck. Fíli keeps murmuring assurances to him, but he can’t quite make out the words over the blood rushing in his ears and the horrific thunderclaps echoing off the mountain.

Dimly, he’s aware that the company is moving again, but his hand doesn’t leave Fíli’s as they traverse the rocky terrain, eventually coming upon a cave.

It is no sooner than they step inside that Fíli whirls him around and clutches him close to his chest. “Breathe, nadadith,” Fíli’s shaking voice says in his ear. “Breathe with me.”

Kíli focuses on the rise and fall of Fíli’s chest, the feel of his breath against his cheek. It is a few moments of hitching, shuddering breaths before he is able to match them. He’s still crying, but he doesn’t care. He thought he’d lost him, just like they’d lost their da…

A second pair of arms wraps around him, around both of them. “Shh, atamanel,” Thorin’s choked voice whispers. Kíli hears him press a kiss to Fíli’s brow, then one to the crown of his own head. “We’re alright, my boys. We’re alright.” He almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. They stay entangled that way for a long while, drawing strength from one another, before Thorin’s arms reluctantly loosen. “Come,” he says softly, hands squeezing the napes of their necks before dropping away. “We must get you into dry clothes, keep you warm.”

Having decided that the cave was safe enough, they make camp for the night, though they skip the fire for fear of what might be lurking in other caves in the mountain. He and Fíli share a bedroll, limbs entangled with one another just as they did when they were children. For warmth, he’d say if anyone asked, but he really just needed to feel Fíli’s solid weight against him, hear the thrum of his heartbeat, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, to know that he was alive.

Thorin sets his own bedroll up just a little too close to theirs (for space, of course; the cave is small), and Kíli is deeply comforted to feel his uncle’s arm against his back.

When Kíli eventually drifts off to sleep, all he dreams of are great chasms opening up from beneath his feet, splitting him from his brother, wrenching Fíli off to places he cannot follow.

Then he suddenly wakes and sees it is real.

-----

“Start with the youngest.”

Goblins surge forward, clawed hands grabbing at Kíli and Ori and yanking them from the group. Fíli reaches desperately for his brother (Nori does the same), but all he catches is empty air as the two youngest members of the company are thrown unceremoniously to the ground in front of the Great Goblin. The whips come out again, and he can hear them whish through the air, can hear them striking, can hear a sharp cry from Ori, but Kíli is silent. He can’t see them through the throng of goblins.

Fíli feels bile rising up in his throat. This cursed day had been too much. He needed Kíli, needed him safe at his side, just as he needed air in his lungs. He lunges forward but is quickly yanked back by Thorin.

“Enough!” his uncle shouts as he steps forward, and surprisingly all movement from the goblins stops. The Great Goblin eyes him for a moment, before an amused smile splits his face wide.

“Well, if it isn’t Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror; King Under the...Mountain?” the goblin mocks. “But you don’t have a mountain, do you?” Laughter from all of the goblins surrounds them, shrill and screeching.

Fíli inhales sharply in surprise. How did he know? They had been careful, hadn’t they? Had Dain ratted them out?

He sees Kíli slowly start to stand, before his brother pulls Ori back to his feet as well. With a snarl, Thorin presses the pair of them back toward the mass of dwarves, distancing them from the Great Goblin, eyes flashing with pure contempt.

“Take care how you speak,” he says, tone level. Even here, with the odds stacked against them, Thorin oozes confidence. Fíli cannot help but admire him, and hope that he could be an ounce as kingly as Thorin some day.

“I’m fine,” Kíli whispers once Fíli pulls him closer, distancing him still further from the throng of goblins, and he does look mostly unharmed, though he rolls his shoulder stiffly. But truthfully, Fíli has no idea if it’s from the goblin’s assault, or from falling through the ceiling, or from stumbling and sliding their way up an apparently living mountain. For his part, Ori is sporting a nasty red swipe across his cheek, which Dori immediately frets over.

“Send word to the pale orc,” the goblin snears to one of its subordinates. “Tell him I have found his prize.”

Thorin steps back in surprise, but keeps his unflinching glare on the goblin. “Azog was slain in battle long ago,” he spits. “By my own hand.”

The Great Goblin laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Sure of that, are you?” he taunts, and Thorin takes a step forward, confidence renewed, curses on his tongue.

His words are cut off by a shriek from a nearby goblin. A flurry of activity erupts as the goblins rush forward to see what caused the scream; it forces Thorin back, closer to the company. Fíli reaches for his uncle’s forearm and squeezes; he can see the tension that lingers in him from his posture. If the pale orc really were alive...it would be devastating to their uncle. The one small consolation Thorin had taken from the horrid Battle of Azanulbizar had been Azog’s end. After everything else that had been lost...

“Biter!” the Great Goblin yells, leaping away from the commotion as he tosses Thorin’s elven blade to the ground. “Kill them!” he commands. “Kill them all! Cut off his head!” he shouts, pointing a gnarled finger at Thorin.

The whips are out again, striking haphazardly as goblins leap onto the company, slashing and biting. Kíli and Thorin are both yanked away from him, the latter pinned to the ground as a goblin straddles him and brandishes a particularly jagged looking blade, prepared to cut his throat. Fíli lunges forward, intent on knocking the goblin off to buy them some time. Their weapons aren’t far away; they just have to get to them.

Suddenly, a flash of light appears, illuminating the dark caves with all the strength of the sun, followed by a shockwave that sends him stumbling back. The goblins shriek, startled by the unnatural brightness and cowering away, while Fíli manages to stagger back to his feet.

“Take up arms,” Gandalf’s voice rings out, for the wizard is silhouetted in the brightness. “Fight!”

Fíli reaches their weapons cache first, and starts tossing them back toward the company. As Gandalf’s light begins to dim, the goblins start to come back to their senses. The Great Goblin is up first, swinging his mace wildly at Gandalf, who brandishes his own sword.

“Beater!” he wails, shrinking backwards, giving Fíli enough time to get the rest of the weapons to the company and to grab his own twin swords, readying himself to fight in just the nick of time, slashing down two goblins that lunge at him. He feels Kíli behind him, sword drawn, guarding him from any dangers that might sneak up on him.

Kíli had steadfastly watched his back from the day he took his oath. While he still feared for Kíli and what this quest would require from him, he couldn’t lie and say that he was not grateful at having him here. Having him wrenched away from him on the mountain had revealed a deep fear within him that he wasn’t ready to process just yet. The thought of not having Kíli to watch his back...he cannot fathom it.

What followed next was a mass of chaos - weapons clanging against each other, battle cries from dwarf and goblin alike, a cacophony of sounds echoing off the cavernous walls. He is operating fully on instinct; all he can focus on is following Gandalf’s staff through the maze of halls as they make their escape, trusting that the wizard would see them through, slashing away at any goblins that cross his path. It seems like it takes hours as they run, wholly exhausted, before they break through a crevice in the rock and are bathed in sweet daylight.

Gandalf keeps them running father still down the mountain, in case of archers or catapults or other defenses, and when the wizard finally deems them far enough to be safe, Fíli all but collapses into the forest clearing.

Kíli sinks to his knees beside him, gasping for breath, wide eyes meeting his. “We’re okay,” Fíli manages, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder fondly. “Right?” Kíli simply nods and reaches his hand up to grasp Fíli’s.

Thorin appears to his right, equally out of breath, franticness in his eyes. It’s a look Fíli has not seen before, and it unsettles him. He reaches forward and grabs the nape of his uncle’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. After a moment (and a few deep breaths) Thorin’s gaze clears, and he reaches for Fíli’s face, cupping his cheeks in his hands as he pulls back, scanning him for injuries.

“You alright, lad?” he asks gruffly, and Fíli nods. He is, for the most part, unharmed, though his legs and lungs burn.

Thorin turns to his brother and pulls Kíli to his feet, giving him the same treatment, embracing him before checking for injuries, shoulders relaxing slightly at the realization that they have both escaped Goblin Town unscathed.

Gandalf counts as the last of their company breaks through the clearing. The wizard frowns. “Where is Bilbo?” he asks.

Kíli’s sharp eyes anxiously scan the treeline.

“Where is our hobbit?”

-----

He’d been naive.

It didn’t matter how careful he had been, how diligently he had guarded his secrets. The word was out, that Thorin Oakenshield and company were journeying to Erebor to reclaim the mountain, and now goblins and orc alike were hunting them relentlessly. Who knew what others now sought to reach the mountain before them. They’d been fortunate enough to simply survive the day, with many thanks going to their burglar and the wizard.

And Azog! He felt the bile rise in his throat. He’d been such a fool to think that his wounds would have festered and led to his demise all those years ago. Young and overconfident; so sure that his line could not suffer any more loss that the gods must have granted them one small gift - the death of the pale orc. For all the life that had been snuffed out of his line due to that...creature...he had thought the gods would reward him.

He was wrong. How cursed was his house? What other horrors would befall him before he made his way to the undying lands?

The bounty that had been placed on his head long ago, the missive in Black Speech that Balin had uncovered...it was all due to that filth. Thorin had thought it was just an order in retaliation for killing Azog, but now he knew better. It was a grudge; personal. Azog himself wanted to snuff out his line. It was more important to him than ever to keep Fíli and Kíli’s relation to him under wraps. As it was, as long as the pale orc drew breath, they would never be safe.

And he would never, never be able to forgive himself if they suffered more for nothing other than their relation to him. He couldn’t bear it. He curses himself, not for the first time, for bringing them with him. It would be so easy to end his line...they could get ambushed on the road, they could...

“So what do we do now?” Dwalin asks, plopping unceremoniously next to his brooding friend by the fire. They had rested the full day since the eagles had carried them away from the orc and his hunting party. In the distance they could see the Lonely Mountain from the outcropping of rocks, under which they’d taken shelter for the approaching night, and Thorin had mostly recovered from his wounds thanks to Gandalf’s magic (and fortunately his armor was thick - he’d mostly just had the sense knocked out of him and some impressive bruising); it was time to move on. To continue onward. Home.

The mountain looked ethereal, bathed in the pinks and purples of twilight. Thorin feels a familiar, intense longing tug at him. So close, but still so very far. Nevermind the issue of the dragon. There were too many dangers much closer to focus on.

“Gandalf thinks we can lose them in Mirkwood - they won’t likely follow us into Elven territory,” Thorin says. “But we will need to make haste and leave at first light. They could still catch us on the road.” Dwalin nods, and Thorin sighs, “Though we may have lingered here too long, I don’t fancy leaving at this hour.”

“A decent night's sleep wouldn’t hurt with all the knocks we’ve got on us,” Dwalin agrees. It was true; he doubted any of them were ready to pack up and run again after this woeful misadventure. They hadn’t had a proper rest, even by traveling standards, since they ascended into the Misty Mountains over a week ago. Not even their hobbit would be ready to venture on just yet, even though he had turned out to be surprisingly brave. Thorin owed him his life, if he were honest with himself. All of them did.

His eyes scan the company. Most of them are lying about, some asleep, others simply regaining their wits (truly, Bombur was still regaining his breath), others tending to their wounds. His gaze first fixes on Fíli and Kíli, who are huddled together with their backs pressed against the rocks, seemingly already asleep; then to Balin, who is pouring over some maps with the wizard, trying to plot the safest path forward; then to the hobbit, who is off to the side, alone, eyes fixed far off in the distance.

Dwalin notices his gaze and smirks. “I’ll take the first watch,” he says, barely hidden amusement in his voice.

Thorin gets to his feet and plods over to the hobbit - Bilbo (Mahal, he could hear Kíli scolding him in his head) - with plenty on his mind. “Are you opposed to company, Master Baggins?” he asks gruffly, though not unkindly.

Bilbo starts and looks up at him. For all his complaining about the noise of the company, it seemed he was so caught up in his thoughts that Thorin had managed to sneak up on him. “Oh,” he says hastily. “No, not at all.” He gestures to the space beside him, scooting over a bit on his bedroll to make room.

They sit in silence for a while as Thorin tries to form his thoughts into words. Bilbo occasionally sneaks glances at him, clearly unnerved by the silence. “I underestimated you,” he finally says. “Your bravery. Your loyalty. I was wrong to say that you did not belong amongst us.”

Bilbo flushes. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” he says, relaxing, good humor in his voice. Thorin almost smiles.

“How are you faring?” The hobbit had been quite banged up after they escaped from the goblin cave, and no doubt from being tossed around by Azog. Oin had tended to him earlier, and at least the old dwarf had not been concerned. Though when Bilbo had gotten separated from the company, he’d taken a nasty knock to the head.

Bilbo sighs. “I’ve got a good number more bruises than I’ve ever had in my life,” he says with a chuckle. “But nothing that won’t heal in time. My head’s feeling much better, at the very least.”

“I’m still amazed you managed to find your way out of the caves,” Thorin comments, and although his tone is not accusatory, Bilbo flinches just slightly, hand slipping into his pocket, before he relaxes again.

Without a word, the hobbit sets about preparing his pipe, pulling the pouch from his pocket and packing it efficiently. “You?” he asks, gesturing toward Thorin, who fishes out his own pipe and hands it over. “Old Toby, a shire specialty,” Bilbo explains with a small smile. “My favorite pipe-weed. It just tastes like...home,” he finishes quietly. It’s almost as if he’s afraid to say the word - home - as if it’s become more of curse than a comfort.

“It’s good,” Thorin says after taking a long drag, savoring the flavor. It’s different, sweeter somehow, then the pipe-weed that grows near Ered Luin. They sit in silence for a while, blowing smoke rings into the woods as the sun sets, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I meant what I said,” Bilbo says eventually, quietly. “About helping you regain your home.” He can see that the hobbit’s eyes are fixed on the lonely mountain, bathed in the last oranges of the day as the sun slips below the horizon.

Thorin shifts a bit, a complicated mess of emotions welling up within him.

“I just...it’s a horrid thing that happened to your people. And though I haven’t known you all a long while, I know you are an honorable folk. I...I wish these tragedies had never befallen you,” he says softly. “I’ve spoken with Kíli a great deal…”

“Aye, he does seem to have grown quite fond of you,” Thorin admits.

“Hearing how you’ve done so much to care for your people, even when they didn’t deserve it...it’s kingly, indeed.” Bilbo turns his gaze to the Lonely Mountain. “I will see you returned home. I swear it.”

With a grateful sigh, Thorin quietly murmurs, “I owe you much more than your fourteenth share.”

-----

He doesn’t sleep once they get to Beorn’s.

He’d like to, and honestly, he’d do well to, but too much has happened since they fell into Goblin Town. Too much that he hasn’t been able to process. Too much fear gnaws at him constantly, distracting him from his duty. Now that he knew the pale orc had lived, Kíli was more certain than ever that his life would be forfeit. How could it not be? All of the odds were stacked against them - against him.

So he sits, wide awake, watching the company as they rest, cherishing the feel of Fíli’s head resting on his thigh, even though Gandalf had insisted that there was no need for them to be watched over this night. And that really must be true, because the wizard had dropped off to sleep with the lot of them, without anyone assigned to watch. It was only Kíli that twisted and turned uncomfortably in his makeshift bed, before he finally gave up on sleep for the night.

The embers in the hearth have grown low. He is contemplating getting up and throwing another log on, but the skin-changer’s logs are almost as big around as he is, and he doesn’t trust himself to not wake the company, so he sits, fingers idly combing through his brother’s hair as his thoughts wander. Happy memories, sad ones, fears that he has tried to ignore...they swirl into a complicated mess in his mind; gradually his temples begin to throb.

Near the fire, Dwalin shifts and rolls over, and his eyes meet Kíli’s in the dark. Kíli manages a smile in greeting, but Dwalin just frowns, rises, and quietly pads over to him.

“You been awake all night, laddie?” he asks, sitting so they are shoulder to shoulder, and Kíli only nods. Dwalin’s arm snakes around him, tugging him closer, much like when he was a child. “Ya’ need to rest,” he scolds gently.

Kíli sighs, but lets his head droop to his weapons master’s chest all the same. They sit in comfortable silence for a long while, and Kíli, tactile as he is, draws much comfort from their contact. He feels his head grow heavy, and he’s tempted to close his eyes. But he’s afraid of what his mind’s eye will paint for him, so, with effort, he keeps them open.

“You know,” Dwalin says softly, his voice a low rumble right at Kíli’s ear, “I was quite fond of your ma back in my younger days. Even asked Thorin if I could court her.”

Kíli snorts out a breath of laughter, disbelieving.

“I did!” Dwalin chuckles. “Thorin socked me straight in the jaw, told me to go sniffing after someone else’s baby sister.” His voice is fond, light. It warms Kíli to his core. He likes to hear stories about his parents, though he never feels bold enough to ask for them. “But your ma,” he continues. “She was a beauty, in and out. It’s a shame our stories give so much credit to Thorin - she’s the one who kept him standing tall after...everything.”

He hums in acknowledgement, eyes gradually slipping closed. He’d heard as much before from Uncle, that she had kept him from completely losing himself, that she’d kept him moving forward.

“You and your brother are a lucky lot. You got the best parts of both of ‘em. Your ma’s strength and courage. Your da’s kindness.” Dwalin’s voice thickens. “I miss them both,” he admits. “The world was a better place with them in it, that’s for sure, but you lads...you lads keep them with us.”

Kíli’s head droops further. “Tell me about them?” he asks softly, and he feels Dwalin give him a squeeze.

Dwalin does, and Kíli eventually drifts off to sleep, Dwalin’s stories coming to life in his dreams.

-----

Spiders. Of all the gods-forsaken creatures in the whole of Middle Earth, it had to be sodding spiders.

Fíli isn’t scared of a lot of things, honestly. He was the elder, braver brother, and out of necessity he’d ensured that only a few things really frightened him. Harm befalling any of his kin, primarily, dying in battle, too. And sure, little spiders made him squirmy and uncomfortable, but who didn’t feel that way? It was nothing he couldn’t muster up a little courage to handle. The eeriness of these woods, too, had sent shivers down his spine, but he still pressed on (mostly because pressing on was the only way to get out of this bizarre wood).

Big, gigantic, apparently dwarf-eating spiders were a completely different story altogether.

He was right terrified, but he can feel Kíli fighting at his back (as usual), and his brother’s bravery spurs him on (he is the oldest, after all, he should at least be as brave as his brother). He’s still a little woozy from whatever the beasts had bitten him with; his bitten side burns and his arms feel sluggish and weak. Kíli shouts something at him, but his ears feel full of cotton and he can’t make out the words precisely. He turns to ask, but a rather large spider rushes at him, distracting him.

With a grunt, he smashes his sword down, killing the beast quickly enough, but sees two more to his right. He braces himself, formulating his plan of attack. Suddenly, they’re taken down by an arrow each. He starts to look for his brother to thank him, but quickly realizes that the arrows aren’t his. The fletching is wrong, Kíli’s are yellow.

They’re instantly surrounded by elves on all sides as they snipe the spiders one by one. He whirls around, dismayed to see that Kíli is no longer at his back; he looks farther and still can’t find him. Thorin and the company begin to circle together, facing the elves, uncertain of their intentions. His vision seems to lag behind his movement - whatever toxin the spider had is taking its toll on him - but he needs to find his brother. Why isn’t he with them?

There’s a shout off in the distance,one that he recognizes immediately and has his stomach sinking into his boots.

“Kíli!”

He steps forward, but his vision clouds and everything goes back.

-----

When he comes to, he’s aware that he’s moving, but his feet aren’t touching the ground. Slowly, he pries his eyes open. His head is killing, and it takes a moment for him to gather enough strength to lift it and look around.

He’s still in the dark wood, and can make out Thorin’s dark hair ahead of him, flanked on either side by elves. He can feel that his arms are outstretched, and judging by the jostling he feels at his sides and what he thinks are arms snaked around his back, he’s being carried.

“You awake laddie?” Bofur’s voice asks from his right. He nods, then turns to look at him, but his vision swims and his head drops back down.

“Just hang on,” Kíli says from his left, and relief floods him. “Oin says it’ll take a bit for the antivenom to work it out of your system.”

“I’m just glad we’re not the ones carrying Bombur,” Bofur says with a light chuckle, one that is cut off when he stumbles.

“Dina!” an unfamiliar voice hisses. “Be silent, nogoth.”

He feels himself fade in and out for the rest of their journey, and the next thing he is aware of, he’s being tossed unceremoniously into a cell, his weapons stripped from him.

“Kíli?” he calls out with uncertainty. His head is still swimming, and he isn’t quite sure what’s happening. The elves had saved them and then...captured them? It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t Gandalf one of their friends?

“Took ‘im with Thorin to see the king,” Bofur explains, calling from somewhere outside his cell. “Hauty little buggers assumed he’s Thorin’s son.”

Fíli is fairly certain he is going to be sick. He must say that out loud, because Bofur says “Aye, Oin said that might happen. Could hear Nori retching earlier.”

He shakes his head to clear it, hoping the nausea will pass. “Who else got bit?” he grinds out, feeling the bile rise despite his best efforts.

“You, Nori, Dwalin, and Bombur,” he answers. “Oin had the herbs for an antidote, luckily. Elsewise we’d need to rely on the hospitality of these elves, which thus far seems...lacking.”

Fíli loses his inner battle and empties the meager contents of his stomach on the floor beside him. He digs through his overcoat to find a cloth to wipe his mouth, and he lets his head tip back against the cool stone of their cell wall. The fog in his head starts to clear, and dimly he begins to recognize other voices from the company. With a sigh, he hefts himself up, crawling to the gate of his cell to try and assess what’s going on.

“Aye, Fíli’s up,” Bofur says, and Fíli can see him in a similar looking cell across the hall. “The rest?”

“Not sure,” Balin answers from somewhere down the hall. “We’re not all in this hall,” he says, sounding rather cross. “Or, at least, if we are, no one else is up. Don’t rightly know where anyone is besides us.”

“And Kíli and Thorin,” Gloin answers. “Assuming those nasty buggers told the truth.”

“Isn’t Gandalf an elf-friend?” Fíli grinds out, and his voice sounds completely horrid. “This has to be a misunderstanding. Thorin will get it sorted.”

Balin laughs, humorlessly. “Oh, laddie. You’ve no idea of the animosity that exists between Thorin and King Thranduil.”

-----

“A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon,” the elven king muses as he stares Thorin down. Kíli watches from the side, where he is surrounded by 3 elves, one of them seemingly the son of the king. “I myself suspect a more prosaic motive,” Thranduil continues. “Attempted burglary.”

Thorin scoffs, eyes not leaving Thranduil’s as the king tries to guess his thoughts.

Thranduil smirks. “You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. The King’s Jewel. The Arkenstone.” He circles around Thorin, casting a glance Kíli’s way. “It is precious to you, beyond measure. I understand that.” His eyes stay locked on Kíli’s, searching, then he suddenly turns to regard Thorin again. “There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems, of pure starlight.” He stands in front of Thorin again, stretching to his full height. “I offer you my help.”

“I am listening,” Thorin replies, tone carefully guarded.

“I will let you go, if only you return what is mine,” the king elaborates.

Thorin turns, eyes catching Kíli’s as he paces, considering. “A favor for a favor.” Hope blossoms in Kíli’s chest - he had been so worried that the elven king would refuse to negotiate with them, that he would refuse to let them go, but he seemed much more agreeable now.

“One king to another,” Thranduil affirms.

Thorin stops, eyes locked on Kíli’s. I’m sorry, they say, and his heart sinks.

“I would not trust Thranduil, the great king” he spits, and at the shift in Thorin’s tone the two elves flanking him grab his arms roughly, “to honor his word, should the end of all days be upon us.” He’s shouting by the end of it, whirling around and hatefully glaring at Thranduil. “You, who lack all honor! We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help, but you turned your back!” Thorin is shaking with rage. “You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us! Imrid amrad ursul!”

Thranduil steps back, surprised, but quickly composes himself, glancing meaningfully at the elves who have him pinned. Not a second later a hand roughly grabs his hair, pulling his head back, and an ornately carven silver knife is at his throat. “Take care how you speak, Oakenshield. I would hate for your son to lose his head from your...irrationality.”

Thorin’s eyes meet Kíli’s again. Trust me. Kíli swallows thickly, taking a deep breath to calm himself, putting his faith in his uncle to navigate this situation with care. The knife at his throat presses closer. “I have no sons,” he says, bitterly, eyes turning back to Thranduil. “I have no kin. The dragon fire and our homelessness saw to that long ago,” he hisses. “You saw to it.”

The elven king regards Thorin with a curious expression, looking again at Kíli with narrowed eyes. After a nod of his head, the knife falls away from his throat, but his arms and hair stay in the strong grips of the elves. Kíli releases the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

Thranduil turns, gracefully ascending back to his throne. “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon,” he says, casting a glance back at Thorin. “But he would not listen.” He settles into his throne, looking almost bored. “You are just like him.”

Thorin’s glare intensifies; he steps forward, more curses ready to spring from his mouth. Thranduil just waves a hand, and the guards rush forward, grabbing Thorin roughly. The hand in Kíli’s hair shoves his head forward as he’s forced to his knees.

“Stay here and rot, if you will.” The king says as Thorin is hauled from the throne room. “A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait.”

“Ish kakhfê ai’d dur rugnu!”

-----

Thorin sees red as he is hauled down to the keep, strangled curses coming in a constant stream. He is roughly tossed into a cell, the door slammed shut behind him.

“Metun menu rukhas!” he yells after the elves, before taking deep, heaving breaths to calm his ire.

He hears a sigh from across the hall. “I take it you didn’t make a deal,” Balin says, disappointment clear in his voice.

“No,” Thorin sneers. “No, I do not trust Thranduil to honor his world. He would stab us in the back without a second thought.”

He still holds out hope that their burglar will be able to spring them. He hadn’t been captured with the rest of them, and if he must choose between Bilbo coming to his aid over Thranduil honoring his promises, he would take Bilbo a thousand times over.

He is still focusing on calming his anger when he hears Fíli’s uncertain voice.

“Where is Kíli?”

Dismayed, he realizes that he doesn’t know, and all he can think of is the elvish blade at Kíli’s neck.

-----

Thorin spits more curses as he’s escorted none too gently out of the hall, harsh Khuzdul echoing off the walls until Kíli can hear him no more. Thranduil fixes his gaze on him once more. “Bring him closer,” he says.

He’s pulled back up to his feet and shoved in front of the elven king’s throne, feeling impossibly small.

“You’re too young to be of Erebor,” Thranduil observes, sounding thoughtful. “Where do you come from, boy?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice; the king’s stare unnerves him. “Ered Luin,” he says, proud of himself for keeping the shaking out of his words.

Thranduil hums thoughtfully. “And if it is truly not Oakenshield, who is your father? What family does he hail from?”

He swallows down the sadness that abruptly lodges itself in his throat. “No family of note,” he manages to say. “He was a miner. A commoner.”

“And your mother?” the king continues, eyes searching.

“I did not know her,” he says quietly; it’s as close to the truth as he can get - he fears that Thranduil would be able to see if he lied.

Thranduil clicks his tongue. “An orphan of Thorin’s Halls,” he muses, satisfied with his answers, and Kíli’s eyes sink to the ground. “So tell me, why would you risk life and limb to follow Oakenshield to a homeland that is not yours? It is a curious choice, indeed.”

He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I had...I had nothing in Ered Luin,” he says, eyes still on the ground, because he knows it’s a lie; he had everything. “This was an offer of...of something. A chance for more.”

Thranduil regards him carefully. “I had half a mind to kill you, son or not, just to see Oakenshield’s face,” he admits casually, and Kíli takes a steadying breath, biting the inside of his cheek to mind his tongue. “Still, it is obvious that you care for him, though I cannot tell if the feeling is mutual or not.”

Kíli’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

“Did he ensure you were fed as a child? Clothe you?” Thranduil asks. “A motherless child; you would have died without his aid, I wager. You feel indebted to him, do you not? Your benevolent king.”

Dumbly, he nods, not trusting himself to speak without revealing too much. Thranduil seems to stare straight into his soul.

“Your trust and your youth make you blind,” the king says, eyes drifting down the path they had taken Thorin. “If he is ever able to come to his senses and you set foot in Erebor, you will see. Let me give you some advice.”

Kíli takes a step back, uncertain, as Thranduil leans forward on his throne, watching him intently once more.

“You should know that you are worth nothing to Oakenshield, not compared to the treasure of Erebor. To the Arkenstone. The goldsickness will take him, just as it has taken all of his kin before him.” Thranduil smirks. “If you are smart, your company will see to it that you kill him before he gets you killed. You owe him nothing.”

White anger boils up within him, and it takes all of his strength to keep his mouth shut, though he knows from Thranduil’s amused smirk that his eyes are flashing with rage.

“Tell him this,” the king continues, waving to the guards who roughly grab his arms once more. “My offer still stands. He is welcome to take it if ever he comes to his senses.” He smirks at him. “If you value your life, you’ll see to it that he does.”

With that, he is taken down the same hall that Thorin was, and shoved into a cell of his own.

“Who’s that then?” he hears Bofur call from somewhere far away.

“It’s me,” he says, voice rough. “Kíli.”

“Oh, thank the maker,” he hears from the cell next to him. Fíli. He sighs with relief, immensely grateful to hear his voice. When he’d last seen him, when the guards had yanked him away from his brother to take him with Thorin, he’d been positively ashen, and though Kíli trusted that Oin’s healing would take, he was still afraid.

He was always afraid now, it seemed. It was getting harder to hide.

“Where have you been?” Thorin shouts, not unkindly, and Kíli can tell that he’s closer than Balin, but not as close as Fíli. “Did that snake harm you?”

“No, no; I’m fine,” he replies. “He just wanted to interrogate me a bit. To make sure I wasn’t your kin,” he says quieter, not knowing if there are any prying ears about. He remembers from Balin’s teaching that elves have notoriously good hearing; he doesn’t want to give himself away.

“And?” Thorin pries, clearly anxious. Kíli knows it would not do well for Azog to hear that Oakenshield had a young, beardless, dark-haired archer son traveling with his company. The risk to his life would grow exponentially.

“He knows I’m just an orphan,” he says, choosing his words carefully. He settles himself close to the door of his cell, his back pressed against the wall that he suspects separates himself from his brother. He sighs, letting his head drop back against the stone. “And wants you to know that his offer will stand, should you change your mind.” Thorin just scoffs, cursing the elf-king under his breath once more, and Kíli feels his hope for rescue vanish.

Now that his adrenaline from the battle and his audience with the king has left him, he just feels tired, hungry, and cold. He hugs himself and closes his eyes, wondering if he could sleep here. He probably shouldn’t - what if he had another nightmare? What if he woke up thrashing and screaming? Thranduil was too cunning and calculating to let that by, and he didn’t fancy himself to be in the elf’s presence anytime soon again.

But he can’t not sleep forever. Gently, he knocks his head against the stone wall behind him.

“You still there, Kee?” Fíli calls eventually, interrupting his musings.

Kíli manages to grumble something affirmative in return. “Are you well?” he asks, genuinely worried.

Fíli chuckles. “I've been better,” he admits; Kíli can hear the grimace in his voice. “Thunderstorms and spiders; how fortunate for us.”

Kíli snorts out a laugh. “Fortunate indeed,” he agrees. He wishes he could crawl into his brother’s arms, to see the color returned to his face. He wonders if Fíli wishes for the same.

Distantly, he can hear Thorin and Balin bickering, the latter urging his uncle to accept the deal, to get them out of this wretched place. But Thorin won’t budge.

Thranduil’s words reverberate around in his head. Would Thorin really forsake them for Erebor’s treasures? He truly can’t imagine it. His uncle has always insisted that he and Fíli were worth more than all the gold in Erebor. He’d never acted in a way that had caused Kíli to truly doubt that. Would Thorin stay stubborn even if it meant that Fíli and Kíli would be killed?

He remembered the knife at his throat, the look in Thorin’s eyes. A cold thought settles into his bones. What if his uncle had been wrong? His life would have easily been snuffed out of this world. Thorin had seemed so sure...but it was still a gamble with his life as the wager. A risk. And Thorin had taken it.

He’d heard of the goldsickness, sure, but not of how it had affected all of Thorin’s kin. He always thought that Thorin would be stronger than the sickness. What if he wasn’t? Was he living in a childlike world, believing that his uncle was simply too strong to be taken by anything?

Suddenly he realizes that here he was, taking the words of an elf whom Thorin had insisted was dishonorable and untrustworthy as truth. An elf who had turned his nose up at their peoples suffering. He was letting doubt creep into his thoughts. Thranduil was probably lying, he reasoned with himself. He only wanted some of the mountain’s treasures - he would say whatever it took to get them. To him, Kíli was just a pawn. An opening to get what he wanted. Nothing more.

“Hey,” Fíli whispers, shaking him free of his spiraling thoughts. “We’re going to get out of here. I promise. I can feel it.”

“Okay,” is all he can manage in return, as, despite his best efforts, the seed of doubt takes root in his mind.

-----

AN - Okay, so my intention was that Part 2 would get us to Erebor buuuuttt I’m adding in a lot of stuff. The barrels + Laketown + getting to Erebor was just too much to put in here, so that will come soon! I am having a super hard time writing the barrels scene because I keep debating whether or not I want to go book or movie verse. So, instead of you all waiting while I ruminate over that for another month, I wanted to post this part. I hope you enjoyed it!

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