Chapter Text

Chapter One

Sometimes in the dead of night, when there’s no sound in his chambers except for the spitting of a dying fire, Fili will stretch his memory as far back as he can. He will pass through all of his days in Ered Luin, pass by the first time he held a sword, the first time he drew a rune and try to remember what life was like before. He knows that he used to live somewhere else, Thorin’s told him as much. His uncle won’t say where though and the look on his face was so desolate when Fili first asked that the young dwarf prince won’t risk it a second time. Instead, Fili tries to find the answers for himself, in the hazy moments between wakefulness and sleep.

          He can remember a laughing dwarf woman, with a beard which looks like his uncle’s. He supposes this was his mother, Thorin’s sister. There is also a dwarf with a broad chest, booming laugh and strong hands. In Fili’s mind this is his father. There are hazy details like a hearth with a battle ax over the mantle, thick armchairs and a strong oaken table. Sometimes he can almost hear a baby’s laugh. Why he remembers hearing his own laugh, he has no idea.

          He doesn’t even know if these are real memories, or just ones which his mind has invented to fill in the blanks where his family should be. He has never seen a picture of his parents. Thorin refuses to talk about them. He only told Fili that his parents were killed in an orc raid and that he was the sole survivor. Every one of Fili’s true memories has Thorin in it.

          Fili absently tugs on the left braid of his moustache. In the long run, he supposes that it doesn’t matter much. The past is dead and buried and the wide future lies ahead.

-_-_-_-_-

          Kili feels his teeth clack together as he hits the ground. Blood, warm and coppery, fills his mouth and he spits once he regains his feet. He quickly probes his tongue around his teeth while his eyes dart at the four dwarves advancing on him. Good. At least he hasn’t lost a tooth. He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and bares his teeth at his attackers.

          “Come on you sons of whores,” he snarls, beckoning them forward. “Too afraid to face me in a fair fight? Come on, two of you will be fair enough.”

          “Scum like you doesn’t deserve a fair fight,” one of the older dwarfs grunts. With that, all four are on him. Kili has the advantages of youth, agility and speed but they have strength and numbers on their side. No matter how he turns with his fists and feet, there is always someone there on his unprotected side.

          The fight does not, cannot, last long. Two take his arms and hold him still, despite his furious struggles. Surrender has never been in Kili’s vocabulary and he hisses in defiance, spitting in the leader’s face. A rough hand tangles in his long dark hair, yanking his head back painfully.

          “You defiled my sister, you filthy pervert,” the leader growls as his hand slaps across Kili’s face. Warmth blooms on his cheek but Kili refuses to close his eyes against the pain.

          “Did she say that I forced her?” Kili keeps his voice even, despite the rage bubbling inside him. She was willing enough in the dark, he could vouch for that.

          “She couldn’t speak through all the weeping,” the leader dwarf yells as his fist abruptly slams into Kili’s stomach.

          His captor’s hands are relentless and though Kili wants to double over in pain, they still hold him upright. His body spasms as he coughs and tries to put air back into his lungs. He shouldn’t feel this sense of betrayal—he knew that the dwarven maiden was never going to defend him, but he still thinks that she might have done him a better turn than this. While he was inside her, she had nothing but sweet endearments for him.

          The fist slams into Kili’s stomach again and he is backhanded just for good measure. At a curt nod from the leader of the gang, Kili is let go and he drops heavily to the ground. His fingers claw at the dirt in the street as he tries to force himself to his feet. That choice is taken out of his hands as a hand wrenches him upright by wrapping itself in the hair on top of his head. Kili claws at the hand until another hand is wrapped around his throat. His back is slammed into the unyielding wall behind him.

          The hand around his throat squeezes so tightly that Kili starts to see small dots chasing themselves around the field of his vision. Fear sneaks in through the cracks that indignant fury leaves. When he was first cornered in the alley after leaving the pub he thought it was going to be normal street brawl, but this has turned much more sinister than he had originally planned for. Just as red tinges his vision the hand releases him enough to allow him to gasp pathetically for air. It is a brief respite.

          The hand squeezes hard and his head is yanked backwards by his hair (they could leave that alone, Kili thinks with irritation) and warm, beery breath washes over his face. “If I ever see you talking to another maid or lad in this town we’ll be leaving your pretty body to decorate the streets, you beardless whelp.”

          Kili wants to sneer at the threat, but beneath the alcohol is a distant growl of foreboding, that tells him that maybe this time, he should pay attention. With the warning delivered, he is finally shoved back into the wall and released for good. The four dwarves stomp away while Kili slumps against the wall, legs sprawled out in an ungainly mess and tries to collect himself.

          Maybe it’s time to move on to another town.

 -_-_-_-_-_-_-

          In the morning all of Fili’s nighttime wonderings are banished by the prospect of work. There is always work in Ered Luin for the heir of Thorin, whether it is tutoring by Balin or sparring with Dwalin, meeting trade envoys with his uncle or inspecting the village. His list of tasks seems endless, but Fili relishes the labor. He feels a sense of glowing pride as he walks down the main street of the village to see dwarves plying their labor, feels more pride when he sees the envoys from villages of Men look at the works of his people with respect and desire. His uncle has built a new life from scratch in the Blue Mountains, and Fili likes to tell himself that he has helped in some small way.

          He notices the respectfully inclined heads as he passes by the shopkeepers, but only in a casual way, the way that he notices the wind in the air, or the leaves on the trees. Utterly predictable and comfortable. If it were missing then something would be wrong. He smiles at some of the merchants he knows by name and pauses to inspect some furs which the trappers have just brought in. A pretty young maid with hair just beginning to fuzz her chin darts in front of him and Fili stops.    

          He knows that she is the daughter of one of the merchants but he can’t remember which one. He smiles at her and she blushes scarlet. Her hands are shaking as she holds a small trinket out to him. “I carved it myself, my lord,” she finally stammers. Fili can feel her tremble when their hands brush.

          He looks at the object. It lies small in the palm of his hand, a bead to snap around the ends of a finished braid. Small designs are carved into the wood. It’s a simple bauble, but the emotions, not the object, are what matters. Thorin has ingrained this into his mind: proper rulers need the love of their subjects and they will court them at any cost.

          So Fili unsnaps one of the silver beads from the end of his braids and replaces it with the wooden clasp. The maid’s eyes shine as he turns back to her. Fili breaks into what he knows is his most dazzling smile. “I’ll treasure it, my lady,” he murmurs, as he takes her clammy hand and brushes his lips across the back of it.

          If he thought she was crimson before, this is a hitherto undiscovered shade of red. When he releases her hand she clasps her chest. “Thank…thank you my Prince!” she sighs, before she darts away as suddenly as she appeared.

          Fili suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Now he’s going to have to wear this clunky bead for at least a week for fear of giving insult if he should happen to see the lass again. Deep down inside himself, Fili is aware that he has been more created than grown, an heir which his uncle has been able to sculpt since birth. Sometimes, when the night creeps in and he hears the laughter of long dead parents he contemplates his uncle. Thorin loves him, yes, but is it the love which Dwarfs feel for their kin or the love of the beautiful creations which they mold with their hands and imaginations?

          Fili shakes his head and moves towards a friendly face. Bofur sits outside the shop he operates with his brother and cousin, piping notes on his tin whistle. He grins when Fili flops down into the chair next to him and stretches out. “Another admirer, eh lad?”

          Fili likes Bofur because of his apparent lack of respect. Thorin said that Bofur had been a miner in Erebor, before the dragon came, but now he runs a small tavern with his cousin Bombur as the cook. Fili groans at the sympathetic hand laid on his arm.

          “What am I going to do with them all?” Fili groans. He looks at Bofur. The other dwarf is smiling wickedly underneath his trademark winged hat.

          “Pick one and you’ll stop all the wondering,” Bofur answers as he pipes a cheery tune. Fili glares at him but Bofur is not cowed. “Look lad, most of the maids and a good deal of the lads dream about the privilege of getting to warm your bed at night.”

          “They dream about the privilege of bedding Thorin’s heir,” Fili corrects. Bofur shrugs.

          “Some of them might, aye. But there’s a good number who’d like nothing more than pull on those golden locks of yours.”  Fili bats Bofur’s playful hand away and the other dwarf stands, laughing merrily. “Come on lad, Bombur’s just put some scones in the oven, we’ll have a pint while we wait for them, eh?”

          And even though Fili rolls his eyes he can’t deny the rumble his stomach makes when the smell of baking drifts through the shop. He follows Bombur inside and as he quenches his thirst on strong ale and sinks his teeth into a fresh, flaky scone he thinks that there are some benefits to being an Heir of Durin after all.

 -_-_-_-_-_-_-_

          Kili doesn’t bother moving when the sun rises and starts to warm his bed through the window. He lies on the quilt, still in last night’s clothes and shuts his eyes, trying to put the memory of last night and a hand choking the life out of him out of his mind. Not the first time he’s been confronted by an angry relative, or even a gang of them. Not the first time that he had been defeated in an alleyway scrap. But this is the first time that his actual life has been threatened and Kili discovers that he doesn’t like it all that much.

          He hears the door creak open and the soft pad of feet across a wooden floor. His bed dips down slightly and a soft hand is laid on his shoulder. “Kili? Kili what’s wrong…oh.” His mother’s soft exhale of disappointment and grief brings a pain of regret and shame to Kili.

          His mother’s hands trace his face, pausing over the black eye and the split lip. “Oh Kili, who was it this time?”

          Is she asking about who he bedded or who beat him? Kili doesn’t know and he simply shakes his head to avoid answering. He avoids meeting his mother’s eyes. He wishes he could be a better dwarf, a better son. She’s the only person who has always been there for him in this world, the only family he has and he cannot seem to accomplish anything to make her proud.

          His mother’s hand rubs at his back. Kili hides his grimace of pain as she unknowingly presses on fresh bruises. “Kili, my wild child,” she sighs, and despite the pain in her voice there is also a note of love.

          “I fear for you…this town is not the place for you.” Kili listens to her words and the threat from last night echoes: We’ll be leaving your pretty body to decorate the streets. His mother does not need to hear how four dwarves threatened her son last night in a filthy alley smelling of chamber pots and sick.

          “Well, I can’t leave, so I’ll just have to make the best of it,” Kili mumbles.

          “Kili my son,” and the pain and regret in her voice make Kili curl his body tighter. “You remind me so much of my brother. He too was reckless in youth.”

          Kili rolls over and sits up to look at his mother. She is a handsome dwarven woman, dark hair streaked with thin lines of silver with a carefully trimmed beard. Her dark eyes could crinkle in laughter or flash with anger, but now they focus on a past of which Kili has never heard.

          “He never would have been content in a tiny village of Men and Dwarves clustered together,” she muses.

          “I can’t leave,” Kili protests and his mother blinks, startled out of her reverie. The smile she gives him is devastatingly bittersweet. “You’re here. I can’t just leave you.”

          “You can,” she tells him, and her hand gently combs through the hair which had been so abused last night. “Kili, you will never be happy here. It is too quiet here, too small. Even if you were born elsewhere, you still have the blood of the Lonely Mountain.”

          Kili furrows his brow at yet another reference to the past. He has asked his mother many times of his father and of Erebor, but she refuses to say anything other than his father was a craftsman who was slain at the coming of the dragon. He knows that she lost all of her male relatives to battles with orcs. The one time when he was a child he pressed her beyond her endurance and she snapped at him that some stories were best left to be tended by grief. After that, Kili has never dared to broach the subject of the past. Besides, he has enough trouble just with the present.

          Kili takes his mother’s hands in his. They’re strong hands, the skin worn from years of cooking and weaving and holding him together. His own hands can easily cover hers but he still feels like the small child who ran to hide behind her skirts whenever he was in trouble. Part of him wishes that he still could flee from his miseries so easily.

          “I can’t leave you,” he says, but that’s not the whole truth. His blood is already humming with the idea of leaving the small village less than a day’s ride from Bree but he cannot lose the only family he has. His mother is the only safe haven he has in this world.

          “Kili, if you stay here, you will continue to bed every lad and lass in the village” Kili flinches at the knowledge that his mother knows about his bedroom exploits, “and drink in the taverns every night and grow old, discontented and bitter with your life. You were not made to languish in this small place.”

          “What about you?” Kili traces his mother’s knuckles. She had slammed those knuckles into a grown dwarf’s face when he had threatened Kili for daring to make eyes at his daughter. “What will happen to you?”

          “Kili, my child, my beautiful wolf boy.” His mother’s hand cups his face. “I have already had my mountain. I had your father, I had my brothers. They are gone and now is your time. Though…” her voice chokes for a moment, “though I will miss you terribly.”

          Kili moves forward and crushes his mother into a hug which makes her wheeze, strong as she is. He buries his face in her hair as a tear comes to his eye. Her arms squeeze him back, strong and sturdy, anchoring him to the ground. “I love you,” Kili chokes out, his throat squeezing painfully.

          After an age has passed they separate. His mother’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears, but her smile is loving and content. “I know, my son. And you will always know where to find your mother Naohne.”

 -_-_-_-_-_-_-

          His nephew sits beside the hearth, absentmindedly puffing on his pipe as he flips through the pages of a book. Thorin watches Fili and feels a pang of regret at the sight. When he was Fili’s age any given night would find him drinking in the alehouses of Erebor with Dwalin or marching through the city with his sword brothers at his side. And if he was not with them, well, there was always Dis to accompany him, as boisterous and courageous as any dwarf soldier.

          Thorin shakes his head and forces a small smile as Fili looks up and sees him. He has never regretted his choice. He knows it was the right one to make, but sometimes he does wish that Fili would find more companions. He broached the topic gingerly one night, wondering how other parents approached their younglings, but Fili had just smiled and shaken his head. “I don’t care for much of anyone’s false friendships or empty smiles,” his nephew had said. “If I truly wanted friendship uncle, I would find it.”

          Thorin sits in an armchair that feels much too rickety for this house. Fili looks expectantly at him as he takes another puff from his pipe. Sometimes, in moments and glimpses, Thorin can see his sister’s husband so clearly in their son that it sends a pang through him to remember Nain as he once looked, strong and hearty as he wielded his war-hammer.

          “Uncle?” Fili prompts and Thorin shakes himself.

          “I am leading an expedition to White Harbor to talk of trade and protection along the roads for merchants.” A brief flicker of interest lights up Fili’s eyes before his face returns to the impassive mask with which Thorin is so familiar.

          “When do we leave?” Fili asks, more from courtesy than curiosity.

          “Balin and Dwalin will accompany me, but you will be staying here.” Thorin feels triumph when Fili’s jaw drops as the full weight of his words hit. “You will not stay in my shadow forever Fili. It will only be a few weeks that I am gone, but for those weeks you will be the law in Ered Luin. Our people will look to you as they look to me. They will look to you in the same way when I am gone.”

          A slight twist of Fili’s lips tells Thorin all he needs to know about what his nephew thinks of this turn in the conversation. “We leave in a week’s time.”

          Fili smiles at him and they continue a conversation for a few moments before they both lapse into silence. Most of their nights end as such, the two of them sitting quietly by the fire, both surrounded by a cloud of pipe smoke and each in their own thoughts. It’s a comfortable way of existence, and Thorin cannot deny that he is proud of Fili—at seventy he reads Khuzdul better than even Thorin, though he would never admit that fact—but he still wishes that he saw his nephew smile more.

          Nain had a huge booming laugh which would echo in the chambers of Erebor. Dis’s laugh was no less loud, though hers had the bright sound of golden coins clinking together. His sister and her husband had been able to have entire conversations out of nothing but their shared giggles. It had driven him mad sometimes, to be so obviously left out, but he had cherished his sister’s grin all the same. He remembers Fili as a small child, nothing more than a toddler. That child had laughed almost continuously, had seen life as nothing more than a colossal adventure. The Fili who sits before him now is as far removed from that child as Thorin is from his own kingdom.

          “I think I’ll retire for the night uncle,” Fili says, as he stretches and slides out of his chair. His pipe is cleaned and put in its proper spot and Thorin knows that before he sleeps Fili will check every one of his braids to make sure each is in its proper place. So fastidious, so mature. Thorin has raised Fili to cherish these qualities, has raised Fili to be the perfect heir that he desired.

          He does not know why he feels such pity for his nephew and such disgust for himself as Fili inclines his head before he marches up the stairs to his room.

          It was the right decision.