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Chapter Text

" Of all the herbs most rare and potent, none can compare to the Athelas, better known in the common tongue as Kingsfoil. This small plant, whilst commonplace and unremarkable in both petal and leaf, hath properties most remarkable. In the hands of a King, its powers are miraculous. However, such power is not nigh as that which it is in the hands of an Elf wielding Magik of the most ancient and cathartic sort. An ancient Magik forsworn and forsaken, known by few, long since banned. Magik that penetrates both skin and sinew, tissue and bone, heart and soul.

Beware, oh heedless apothecary! Ye know not what ye meddle with, for Magik of the soul is the most dangerous kind and the most unpredictable. Thy troubles shalt be heaped down on thine own head, for there will be none to blame for any such unfortunate happenstance or consequences."

-An excerpt from the Lost Apothecary's Handbook, dated from the Second Age

The last Orc fell to the ground with a heavy thud, Tauriel's arrow embedded in its skull.

The elleth, however, did not relax her position or lower her bow as she scanned the room for further intruders. A young boy, a Man, crawled out from beneath the table where he'd been hidden.

"You killed them all." The boy said, looking slightly wondrous and still a little hesitant. Tauriel didn't blame him, he and his siblings had probably never seen Orcs—or Elves—before in his short life.

I wish it were that simple, she thought to herself, finally tucking away her bow. From the doorway, Legolas called,

"There are others. Tauriel, come!"

Tauriel hesitated. Legolas waited expectantly, eyes dark with the thought of Orcs and hair almost silver in the moonlight. She would be lying if she denied that, in some small corner of her heart, her attraction to him remained. Meanwhile, Kíli lay on top of a simple oaken table, semi-conscious and groaning. One of the dwarves—Oin, was it?—had set some odd-looking plate of walnuts under his head, and looked deeply concerned. He glanced up at Tauriel.

"We're losing him!"

Her place was with Legolas, but what about Kíli?

Kíli, Kíli, Kíli, Kíli… A traitorous voice in the back of her mind chanted. He's going to die if you don't help him, he's going to die… Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, fear and grief tightening her throat. If she left now, what would happen to him?

"Tauriel," said Legolas again. To anyone else, he would have sounded even more demanding this time than the last, but Tauriel could hear the unspoken plea woven in. Are you coming? Tauriel, please. Don't do anything foolish.

She took a step back.

No, came her reply, equally silent. Legolas paused for a moment, torn, and for a heartbeat, Tauriel thought he might stay. But then the moment shattered when the cry of an Orc tore through the night and in a flash, Legolas was gone.

Only a second later, a second Dwarf—this one with a large, floppy brown hat—came running inside, clutching a plain-flowered plant in his hand. Tauriel took it from him.

"Athelas," she murmured, the floppy-hatted dwarf eying her uncertainly.

"What are you doing?"

Tauriel looked at him, hoping that she looked a lot calmer than she felt. "I'm going to save him." The reply was a lot simpler than the situation truly warranted. Kíli had been struck by a Morgul shaft—which to the Dwarves, certainly meant bad news. But they had no real idea of the potency of the arrow's poison. There were some things not even Elvish healing could fix. Unless…

Tauriel shifted the Kingsfoil around in her palms. It felt lush and fresh. But it is forbidden—such healing has been forbidden for over seven hundred years, what will the Elvenking say to me if he finds out that I used such magic, especially to save the life of a Dwarf? She wasn't as worried about the Dwarves, they probably wouldn't know one Elvish chant from the next, and would have no idea what Fëa Evaliir—also known as soul magic—was.

It's dangerous, it's unpredictable… The more cautious side of her, which sounded suspiciously like Legolas, urged. If done wrong, it could get you killed! But the stubborn traitorous side of her was even louder. Kíli's life is at stake, and you want to sit around and do nothing? You traveled to Laketown to make sure he would live, and you need to see that through!

Her mind made up, Tauriel gripped the Kingsfoil harder and said grimly to the dwarves, "Hold him down."

Once they had done so, Tauriel pulled back the cloth covering the wound. It looked infected, all swollen and red, and it didn't look like Kíli had taken any time to properly treat it at all. That complicates things, the Silvan elleth thought. If Tauriel hadn't been so used to blood, the sight would have made her sick right then and there. Gritting her teeth, she pressed the Kingsfoil against the open wound and began to chant.

Her first guess was right: ordinary Elvish healing was not going to work on Kíi. His injury was too severe and had been left untreated for too long. The only option left was Fëa Evaliir.

Tauriel closed her eyes, trying to remember everything she knew about using the forbidden magic. Remember, Tauriel, the voice of her mother came back to her, unbidden. That healing is a gift. You must use it. At its core, Fea Evaliir is simple. Energy is the truest source of healing, and our energy is life. Life flows through us all, all you need to know how to do is redirect the life and energy from your own body into another. Let the Light of the Eldar guide you.

Tauriel's mother had died when she was only a little over a hundred years old, and as Captain of the Guard, Tauriel had always been more of a warrior than a healer. She truly had no idea what she was doing, but knew she had to try. Kili's life depended on it.

She focused, and as she focused, Tauriel could feel the sickness and pain radiating from the young Dwarf's body. No matter how hard she focused her own energy into her fingertips and attempted to ease the healing essence into Kíli's semi-conscious form, the poison fought back. It clung to Kíli like flies to a dead Warg, working its way again and again through his bloodstream. Everywhere their skin touched her fingers tingled. If jet black were a color, it would feel like this, Tauriel thought. Like pain and despair, she was suffocating, dying—

And still, she pressed deeper. She pushed her way through the darkness, searching for the light. A light. Any light. She chanted even louder.

Then she found it—the light she was looking for. Tauriel sensed it, buried deep within his chest. She allowed herself to open her eyes. To her surprise, Kíli was staring back, though he seemed too disoriented to do anything else. It was as if he too sensed that she'd found his soul, for that was what the light within truly was. Tauriel hadn't known what to expect, succeeding in finding the deepest part of the Dwarf's inner being. For the first time, she could understand why Fëa Evaliir was outlawed; the soul was a vulnerable thing.

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, so to speak. Kíli's soul was light and warm and young; it felt golden if that made any sense, just as the poison from the Morgul shaft felt like an inky black. His aura was cheerful and should have been strong, but she could feel it weakening rapidly, even as she willed him to live. She could sense within Kíli fears and desires, hopes and dreams, all swirling around inside of his soul like the mist inside of a crystal ball. Within her, she could sense her own soul stir, almost brushing his but not quite. It felt wrong to be so directly linked to someone who was unaware of it.

Stay with me, Kíli… Stay with me… Tauriel begged. She was beginning to grow tired, and Kíli was at death's door. I'm losing him! She realized. Even the forbidden magic was failing….

Let the Light of the Eldar guide you…

With one final surge of effort, Tauriel drew from the last reserve of energy she had left—her own soul, her very life force. Pressing down with renewed vigor, she channeled the life into Kíli's body. The poison—and even Kili's own body—rebelled against the internal invasion. The Dwarvishness of his soul rose up to fight against Tauriel's Elvish magic, but to no avail. She squashed it down ruthlessly, continuing to pour Elven life and healing into his body, and the fight drained out of him.

Kíli's eyes flickered feverishly as he looked up at her. "Tauriel?" he asked sluggishly. But before Tauriel could respond, he continued, unaware. "No, you cannot be her. She is far away… She… She walks in starlight in another world. It was just a dream."

She was only faintly aware of his fingers wrapping weakly around her wrist, so weary from the healing she was. Kíli's soul, as battered from the barrage of magic as his body was healed by it, was no longer merely accepting the foreign presence, but embracing it. Adapting to it.

Tauriel frowned. That wasn't supposed to happen…

She stumbled back, head spinning and off balance with exhaustion. Meanwhile, Kíli's form had begun to lengthen, his ears growing longer and more pointed while his meager beginnings of a beard faded away entirely. But Tauriel had no more time to wonder at what was happening because at that moment she fell, her head striking the ground, and she knew no more.

Fili closed his eyes in disbelief, turning away from his younger brother. How was any of this possible? The dark-haired stranger laying on top of Bard's table couldn't possibly be Kíli, his Kili, the younger brother he had sworn to protect, the most rambunctious member of the Company, but most of all… his best friend. This stranger, tall as any Man—if not taller—couldn't be Kili.

For starters, Kili was a Dwarf.

"We haven't lost him, lad." The golden-haired heir felt the weight of Bofur's hand clasp his shoulder, but the touch didn't feel anywhere near reassuring. Not when Kíli had been… had been… I should've done something to save him, Fíli thought miserably to himself, refusing to finish his previous train of thought. If only I'd been the one to climb out of my barrel to raise the gate in Mirkwood, or—or if I could've done something to stop that Orc from firing that arrow…

It seemed that Bofur took his silence as a sign to go on. "We haven't lost him," he repeated, but to Fíli's ears, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well. "He's just different now… He's an…"

"An Elf." Fíli managed to reply. There was a terrible moment of silence.

The two fatal words were finally spoken.

Mahal, it sounded ridiculous. Kíli the Elf? It sounded like someone's idea of a bad joke or perhaps a very, very bad dream. Certainly not reality. Fíli snuck another glance at the strange Elf lying unconscious next to him.

It—no, not it, he, Fíli reminded himself, this was Kíli he was talking about—stirred slightly, and for a moment all three of the Dwarves tensed, half hoping and half fearing that the Elf was about to awake, but the moment quickly passed. Letting out a soft sigh, he shifted his weight into what Fíli hoped was a more comfortable position—because in all honesty, that wooden table didn't look the slightest bit comfortable. The steady rise and fall of his chest assured Fili that the Elf was still in a deep sleep.

Not an Elf, Fíli scolded himself. Kíli, your brother. Kíli, Kíli, Kíli!

As much as it pained him, Fíli could see very little of his brother in the being before him. The stranger certainly had Kili's dark, slightly unruly hair, with several strands overshadowing his brow. He also had Kíli's clothes—the pants and no doubt the shoes that no longer fit the Elf's taller, more limber build. He'd grown into Bard's red shirt quite nicely, but as for the rest of his clothes, Kíli would definitely need to change out of them. Fíli cast an uncertain glance at the elleth who had healed his brother, after losing consciousness herself, had been propped up rather haphazardly against a nearby wall (with the combined efforts of Bofur and Oin—they'd quickly learned that despite their deceptive grace, an unconscious full grown Elf was heavy).

Had she known that in saving Kíli's life, she would be taking him away from them? Fíli doubted it; from the little he had seen, it was clear that his little brother was fond of the Elf—perhaps too fond—and now, seeing that she'd come all the way to Laketown to save him, it was also clear that those were feelings that she reciprocated. She would never do anything to willfully hurt him.

Oh, Kee… What have you gotten yourself into?

"I know little of Elvish medicine, and I'd considered it a great honor to watch such healing at work. I wished to see how it would manage to heal Kíli," Oin's voice was heavy with regret. "But now all I wish is that I'd been a little less curious, and a little more cautious."

Fili looked directly at the elderly healer, disbelief shining in his eyes. "You mean, this was for nothing? You could've saved Kíli's life, without the help of the Elf?"

"You misunderstand me," said Oin with a sad shake of his head. "Kíli was fading fast; there was nothing to be done. Initially, I believed that I may have been able to treat him. That is why I stayed behind. But by dusk, I realized that there was nothing I could do. For better or for worse, that elf," he nodded briefly in Tauriel's direction, "saved his life."

"He's going to panic when he wakes up," said Fíli, casting another anxious glance at his brother. A soft smile flitted across the unconscious former Dwarf's face, and he murmured something that sounded suspiciously like 'Tauriel.' Tauriel. Was that the Elf-dam's name? Fíli frowned. Was his brother actually… dreaming about her? Kíli, please don't tell me this means you actually like the Elf!

"What was that?" asked Bofur.

"What was what? I didn't hear anything," said Fíli, perhaps a little too quickly, covering for his brother. "What I said was 'he's going to panic when he wakes up.'"

"Aye, that he is." agreed Oin. "But for all we know, this may not be permanent. The Elf who healed him may know how to reverse this. Until then, we'll just have to remain patient until she wakes up."

That's a lot easier said than done, Fíli thought grimly. What will we do if Kíli wakes up before she does? What will we say? How do you explain to someone that they have become something that they are supposed to hate? But the question he asked was one even more pressing. "Kíli is my brother, no matter what. But how will Uncle Thorin react?"

A groggy voice caused all three Dwarves to jump.

"How will Uncle react to what?"

Consciousness returned to Kíli in bits and pieces. At first, all he could remember was searing pain. Terrible pain, like none he'd ever endured before, spreading from his injured knee to the rest of his body. Then there was the jarring sensation of falling on the ground when the Orcs attacked. Wait, was it the Orcs that attacked? Kíli was pretty sure it was the Orcs, but for all he knew, it could've been anything. The poison in the arrowhead made him feverish and hazy.

Then he'd seen Tauriel, and that part he was pretty sure was a dream. For one, Tauriel lived in Mirkwood, what would she be doing in Laketown? And even if she somehow had followed the Company to Laketown and healed him, it didn't make any sense for her to be glowing as she did so.

But as impossible as it was, it felt so real.

In his dream, she'd placed her hands on his wound and began to chant. And as she chanted, he'd begun to feel rather… strange. Something other than the sickness had crept into his body and seeped into his very bones. At first, it had felt nice—all light and warmth and distinctly Tauriel. But then, it had grown overpowering, tearing him apart from the inside, burning and blinding him with its brightness.

Come to think of it, he could still feel the warm little light in his chest. It no longer felt uncomfortable, but welcoming and natural. He smiled softly to himself. It was nice. Like Tauriel.

It was then that he became aware of the conversation going on around him.

"…May not be permanent," came the slightly rough but unmistakable voice of Oin. "The elf who healed him… we'll just have to be patient until she wakes up." Oin's voice drifted in and out of focus. What were they talking about? Kíli tried to ask, but his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. He wanted to wake up, to reassure everyone that he was alright, but his eyelids felt so heavy…

The next voice, however, Kíli understood perfectly.

"Kíli is my brother—" Fee! Kíli wanted to embrace him. Of course I'm your brother, why wouldn't I be? Unaware of the former Dwarf's awareness, Fíli continued. "—no matter what. But how will Uncle Thorin react?"

How will Uncle Thorin react?

There was something wrong with him.

Panic surged inside of Kíli, and he struggled to push it down. What's wrong? He wanted to cry out. What's so bad that Uncle wouldn't accept me for it? Was he blind, and that was why he couldn't open his eyes? Or… Or had his injured leg been amputated, and he would never be able to walk again? But as far as Kíli knew, Uncle Thorin had never disowned or discriminated against anyone based on an injury. In fact, Uncle Thorin was the one who had taught Kíli to respect those severely injured in battle. Maybe Fíli was simply worried that Thorin wouldn't be pleased to learn that Kíli'd been healed by an Elf.

That's it, Kíli told himself. My dream wasn't a dream; Tauriel was really here. Uncle isn't going to be happy to hear that an Elf saved my life.

All the same, he struggled to open his eyes. Come on, he coaxed his stubborn eyelids. For Durin's sake, work!

His eyes flew open, the lighting inside Bard's almost blinding. Squinting, he managed to ask in a voice thick and heavy with sleep, "How will Uncle react to what?"

Kíli watched as the color drained out of his brother's face. Fíli took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant, and took a step closer to him. "Kee," he said slowly. Kíli stiffened. Fíli hadn't used that nickname so publicly since they were children. "No matter what has happened, you will always be my brother."

Kíli whimpered. "Fee, you're scaring me." He struggled to sit up, but Oin gently pushed him back down.

"Easy, laddie. I don't think you're ready for that quite yet."

The young prince ignored him and sat up anyway. His head ached, but the wrongness of the situation hit him like a thunderclap. Even though he was not standing up, it was clear that he was much taller than Fíli. Much taller than any of the Dwarves for that matter.

"What's going on?" He asked, hating how frightened and demanding he sounded.

Fíli gingerly put a reassuring hand on his arm. "An Elf-dam came and healed you, brother. You were dying."

"Tauriel," Kíli said softly, happy that part hadn't been a dream after all. "But what's going on? Why is everyone acting like someone just died?"

His brother took a shaky breath. "She saved you, Kíli, but at a price. You're no longer a Dwarf… You're an Elf."

Kíli blinked, then laughed. "What? I really look that bad? That's ridiculous. Fíli, if this is your terrible idea of a joke..." He trailed off in bewildered disbelief when Fíli's face remained dead serious. 

What? No. No, no, no, no, no…. Kíli stared disbelievingly at the three Dwarves before him. It all made sense, in a horrible, twisted sort of way. The fact that he was taller. The strange warmth in his chest. It was magic. Desperately, he looked to Fíli. "I don't believe you." His voice shook. "You're lying!" The room rocked and he rocked with it. Fíli's reply was soft, barely above a whisper.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Kee."

No, no, no, no, no!

Kíli raised his hands in front of his face, staring at the elongated, elegant digits in shock. The nails were still dirty and cut to the quick, but unfamiliar. They weren't his hands. With a morbid fascination, he brought the foreign hands up to his face, tracing its contours. His face felt strange, more angular. His cheeks and jaw were now as smooth and soft as the skin of a newborn dwarfling, all traces of the scruffy beginnings of a beard gone. His hands roved higher. Kíli dreaded what he would find, but found himself unable to stop. Fingertips traced over long, sensitive pointed ears, and Kíli could hold it back no more.

He was inexplicably and undeniably an Elf.

Fíli was right, what was Thorin going to think? His uncle wouldn't want an Elf as one of his heirs!

Kíli could see his own grief reflected in the bright blue eyes of his brother. Looking back on the moment later, neither Oin nor Bofur could tell who acted first—it seemed that at the exact moment Fíli opened his arms Kíli flung himself into his brother's embrace, where they stayed for awhile, rocking ever so slightly back and forth.

"It's going to be alright," murmured Fíli. "Everything's going to turn out okay."

Oin and Bofur exchanged uncertain glances. Would it?

Chapter Text

The house shook as another roar sounded in the distance.

"Smaug," said Bofur grimly. "We've got to get out of here. Quickly."

Kíli made a move to get off the table but fell with a startled yelp as soon as his feet touched the ground. The former Dwarf looked pained as he staggered to his feet, gripping the table for support.

"Are you alright, brother?" asked Fíli. He put a steadying hand on Kíli's arm—not that it would do much good if the Elf did stumble, Fíli supposed that with Kíli's larger size, he may just end up dragging his brother down with him. He gripped the sides of the table so hard his knuckles turned white, which Fíli pretended not to notice. Taking a few labored breaths, Kíli nodded.

"I'm fine," he said, "I—I can't walk right with this body." With this body. As if the body he was currently in was not his own. Shuffling his feet underneath him, Kíli drew himself to his full height and loosened his grip somewhat. However, as he continued, he looked distinctly embarrassed. "But… I think I split my pants."

"I'll ask Singrid if Bard has any to spare. And shoes too," Fíli added with a pointed glance at his feet. Kíli followed his brother's gaze, gasping at what he saw. His boots—his favorite, worn leather boots—were destroyed, split along the seams by much longer Elven feet. The former dwarf blinked in surprise—those couldn't—how could those be his feet? But to his dismay, when he willed his toes to move, the Elven toes sticking out of the boots wiggled as well.

Fíli encountered Singrid while racing up the stairs, both moving so quickly that they nearly ran into each other.

"I need to borrow some pants and a pair of boots," said Fíli.

Singrid's eyes narrowed in confusion, and she peered around the blond Dwarf. "What for?" She asked. "You're a Dwarf. And who's that by the table down there?"

Tilda poked her head out from behind her older sister. "I think he's an Elf," she informed Singrid with an air of childlike certainty. Her eyes widened. "But I don't remember him. Do you think he'll bring good luck like the Dwarves were supposed to? Do you suppose he got here through the toilet as well?"

"That's Kíli." At both girls' astonished and disbelieving glances, Fíli knew he'd need a better explanation, but a better explanation would have to wait. Smaug was near enough now that they could hear wingbeats; the whole house seemed to quake under the rage of the dreaded dragon. Singrid glanced anxiously at the ceiling then nodded, dashing back upstairs. A moment later she returned carrying a brown bundle and a pair of muddied boots.

"Here," she said, tossing them to Fíli. "Will these work?"

Fíli nodded. "Thank you."

He brought them back to Kíli, uncrumpling the pants and doing the best he could to scrape the mud off the boots. "Here, put these on."

The last thing Kíli wanted to do was put on Bard's extra clothes. To put on the extra clothes was to confirm the reality of his situation, to acknowledge his change in size. It almost felt like a betrayal, casting off his Dwarven belongings.

But in the end, that is what the newly formed Elf had to do. This isn't permanent, he told himself, hastily slipping on the pants before Singrid and Tilda came hurdling back down the stairs. Next, he pulled on the boots, uncertain of whether to be disturbed or relieved by the fact that they fit almost perfectly. Oin said Tauriel will be able to fix it, once she wakes up. I am not an Elf. This is not my body. I am a Dwarf of Erebor. I am a Son of Durin! It rapidly became a mantra as he fought back the tears that threatened to fall.

They climbed into the small boat tied to the side of the house overlooking the harbor, all of them—he, Fíli, Oin, Bofur, Singrid, Tilda and Tauriel. Well, not so much Tauriel; the unconscious elleth was half carried, half hauled into the boat. Kili had tried to help, but only succeeded in tripping over his own too-large, too-foreign feet. Wordlessly, Fíli had guided him back to the boat, allowing his younger brother to lean against him like a crutch.

Kíli wasn't sure whether to scream or cry at his inability to be useful—weren't Elves supposed to be graceful?

Realizing his slip-up, the former Dwarf quickly caught himself: I am not an Elf. Elves were supposed to be graceful, but he was not an Elf.

Laketown was in shambles, the bitter cold of the crisp winter air contrasted sharply with the blistering heat of dragon fire. People scattered like leaves on the wind; the screams of unfortunate souls caught up in the inferno mingling with the cries of men calling to one another, children crying for their parents, and mothers wailing for their lost children.

Tilda hunkered closer to him, drawing her knees up against her chest. "I'm scared," she whispered, almost inaudibly. Kíli did not respond—what was there to say? They had come to the Lonely Mountain seeking to reclaim their lost homeland and awakened Smaug, the dragon inflicting his ire upon Laketown. His throat tightened. We did this. This is our fault. We brought this danger to Laketown—me, Thorin, and the rest of the Company. He rowed even harder.

The fire was red, its flaming spread… Unbidden, the Song of The Lonely Mountain rang in his ears, the words eerily prophetic.

The trees like torches blazed with light… Uncle Thorin's voice was pitched low and gravelly, deep within his chest, and Kíli could almost imagine a voice like that coming from deep within the heart of the mountain itself. Only meters away, a Man who caught fire plunged into the Lake. Kíli wasn't sure if he ever resurfaced.

The bells were ringing in the Dale,

And Men looked up with faces pale…

"Where's Da?" Singrid crouched unsteadily, causing the boat to sway slightly back and forth, craning her neck to see over the heads of the Oin and Fili. The dark shape of Smaug swooped overhead again, so close the occupants of the boat could feel the rush of air created by his wings. Behind Kíli, Tauriel slept on, oblivious to the carnage all around them.

Then dragon's ire more fierce than fire,

Laid low their houses and towers frail…

"Look, up there!"

They all looked up to where Tilda pointed. Far in the distance, Kíli could see a lone figure—a Man—atop of the ruined bell tower. Tattered cloak billowing in the wind with bow and arrow in hand, the Man stood, braced against Smaug himself.

"It's too dark to see clearly," said Singrid, frowning.

"There is someone up there," added Fíli in a doubtful tone, "but your sister is right. It's too dark to tell."

Kíli shook his head. "No, I can see—clear as day. It's Bard!"

Bard misfired another arrow, its sharp point glancing off the dragon's hide as if nothing. But it was not nothing, and Smaug knew it. The dragon seemed to stiffen, arching his neck and changing direction in midair, flying back towards the archer and the tower. Tilda let out a muffled scream as Smaug descended, his heavy tail striking the tower and sending rubble and debris flying into the lake below. But still Bard held on.

The terrible dragon and the noble bowman disappeared from sight when the boat rounded the corner, hidden by an expanse of tall buildings.

"Do you think Da's alright?" Tilda asked softly, looking wistfully off into the direction from which they'd come.

"I'm sure your Da is fine," came Oin's response, more out of a desire to comfort the child than to provide actual truth. "If anyone can slay that dragon, it's him."

The mountain smoked beneath the moon,

The Dwarves, they heard—

A startled gasp from behind him jolted Kíli from his thoughts. He spun around quickly, one hand already subconsciously reaching for his bow—the bow that he did not possess at the time being and would've been too small to use properly anyway, but stopped in his tracks. He was confronted by none other than a very awake Tauriel.

Tauriel wasn't fond of strange situations in which she didn't know what was going on, and this was no exception.

She awoke to the sounds of people screaming and the hiss and crackle of flame, to the smell of buildings burning and the feel of cold night air and smoke leaving a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She certainly didn't expect to wake up on a small boat accompanied by two children, three Dwarves from the Company of Thorin Oakensheild, and a strange Elf.

Instantly, she sat upright. She had no idea what was happening or what she planned on doing next, but anything was better than doing nothing at all. A pressing sense of urgency nudged her onwards, but she had no idea of what to say. She surveyed the Company again—there were only three. Kíli was missing, and the very thought caused her heart to skip a beat.

"Where am I, and where is Kíli?" Whatever she'd needed to say so urgently, that shouldn't have been it. Such concern for the young Dwarf would only rouse suspicion from the other Dwarves and the unknown Elf, bringing unnecessary attention to both herself and Kíli. She was a warrior, a Captain of the guard. Such softness should not have slipped by her.

Yet it did, and there was nothing she could say to take back her words.

Her question, however, elicited a very unexpected response.

The Elf in the red shirt—in Bard's red shirt, although her mind was still too weary and addled to put two and two together—turned towards her. His eyes, a deep shade of brown, almost black in the dark but shining twice as bright, glinted with an unrecognizable emotion. It was not until the Elf spoke that Tauriel recognized the voice, though the face and form had changed.

He leaned a little closer. "Tauriel," he said. "It's me."

It was Kíli.

Instantly, all traces of grogginess vanished from Tauriel's face. The elleth sat upright so suddenly the entire boat rocked, its passengers gripping the sides to steady it. Tauriel, seemingly unaffected by the upset, settled herself into a more poised seating position, legs tucked under her and feet pressed firmly against the baseboards.

"Kíli?" Her voice caught in her throat. "How did this…" The words died before they left her mouth. Kíli looked miserable, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around himself as if warding off a chill. As if, the Captain of the Guard told herself. If Kíli was truly as Elven as he looked, then the cold—at least not a mild cold—would have much effect on him. No, the biting pain Kíli suffered from was one from within—for not only did the dark-haired Elf look miserable, he looked lost.

"I woke up like this," Kíli said numbly. "Long legs, no beard, stupid ears…"

Tauriel wanted to argue that Elf ears were not stupid—she could hear the sound of a twig snapping from half a mile away, thank you very much, but decided that it probably wouldn't be best for her first real conversation with Kíli since Mirkwood to be an argument. Kíli's delirious ramblings at Bard's place didn't count for anything.

He shifted his own weight slightly, sending her a saddened grin that reminded Tauriel more of a grimace as he did so. "Surprise. Do you still think I'm tall for a Dwarf?"

It was intended as a joke, but neither felt like laughing.

Do you think I'm tall for a Dwarf?

There was nothing Dwarven left about Kíli. That wasn't to say that he wasn't Kíli; Tauriel could easily see the shadow of the Dwarf behind the face of the Elf. He was still distinct and recognizable, the dark eyes and hair virtually untouched. And perhaps his brows remained thicker, denser than those of a typical Elf, his skin a little less smooth. But everything that truly mattered in the appearance of an Elf—the ears, the build, the stature—was there. The Kíli seated before her was not one who looked as if under an enchantment. He looked as though he'd always been an Elf.

Kíli could see the understanding dawn in Tauriel's eyes, and felt a myriad of conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was Tauriel, his rescuer, his… friend. He felt strangely reluctant to call her anything more, for what was there to call her? Crush made him sound like he was back in his thirties and liking a female for the first time. Lover implied they were something more when they were not.

As Thorin said, she was the enemy. And in saving him, she'd made him the enemy as well.

Kíli suppressed a shudder. What was his uncle going to think when he found out what had happened to him?

Hesitantly, as if afraid he would shy away from her touch, Tauriel reached out a hand. She paused only inches from his face, then drew back. "Fëa Evaliir," she murmured quietly.

"Feeya Eval-eer?" Kíli echoed in confusion, mangling the Sindarin pronunciation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Fëa Evaliir," Tauriel repeated, more firmly this time. "Soul magic. It's what I used to heal you."

"You performed magic on his soul?" Fíli demanded incredulously, whirling around so quickly that his paddle flew up out of the lake, scattering drops of water everywhere and nearly whacking Kíli upside the head. The blond dwarf shot an apologetic glance at his brother. "Oops. Sorry, Kíli." His attention was quickly drawn back to Tauriel. "But isn't that dangerous?"

Tauriel nodded. "Very. I wouldn't have used it if I hadn't believed it would be the only way to save his life."

I'm going to save him. It seemed that her earlier words had come back to haunt her. It was hard to believe that they'd come from her lips less than an hour before. She'd been so confident then, so sure of herself. So sure that she was doing the right thing in saving Kíli's life. But was it the right thing to do? It was clear that Kíli was devastated by his transformation, and Tauriel knew firsthand that if their wish for death was severe enough, an Elf could fade away from grief. To make things even more difficult, Kíli was originally not an Elf but a Dwarf.

Tauriel tried to imagine what the roles would've looked like in reverse; an Elf forced into the body of a Dwarf. She did her best to stifle a cringe as she imagined what it would be like, trapped in a squat, aging body, living away from the starlight deep underground, spending the remainder of her days obsessing over gems and precious metals. Any sane Elf would prefer death over such a wretched existence.

Would a Dwarf feel the same way about being an Elf?

If he lives on, he will lose everything, Tauriel realized with a sudden jolt. He will outlive his uncle and brother. And there was no way to tell yet how deeply Kíli's transformation affected him psychologically. He may find himself claustrophobic underground, or develop a yearning for trees and open spaces, she realized with growing horror. He will live as an outcast from his people.

She said none of this out loud, but her heart cried out for what she had done to the Dwarf she'd been trying to help.

Oh Kíli, what have I done to you?

Another frightening roar cut through the night. Their boat tilted ominously back and forth on the inky water as waves struck the starboard side, propelled by the collapse of a fire-ravaged structure only yards away. Oin glanced nervously out over the lake.

"This may be a discussion better reserved for another time."

The shadow of Smaug darted once more over the lake, the occupants of the boat hardly daring to breathe. No one disagreed with the old healer.

Before dawn, they set up camp.

Bofur was weary—they had to haul the boat far enough up shore it wouldn't drift away at the first opportunity—ice-cold water sloshed around in his boots. With stiff fingers he riffled through his coat pockets, searching for his pipe. He felt near frozen and was in need of a good smoke. He soon found his pipe, but belatedly realized that he had nothing to light it with: his matches were too soaked with lake water to be of any use.

Ah, well. At least he hadn't lost his hat.

The toy maker paused on the shore, glancing back to see how his companions were faring.

Oin was the next to trudge to shore, and behind him came Singrid holding tightly to Tilda's hand. Tauriel leaped from the boat to dry ground with irritating ease. Stupid, arrogant Elves with their natural agility. Fíli had gone back to help Kíli off the boat, the former Dwarf still struggling to maintain balance with his altered gait. Kíli still leaned heavily on the blond Dwarf, Fíli stoic and uncomplaining as he bore the icy water once again to assist his brother.

At last they were all on dry land, but they weren't the only ones.

Hundreds of Men and Women—survivors from Laketown—gathered in groups, some sitting around hastily made fires, others wringing out waterlogged possessions or tending the wounded. Some simply sat down on the ground and stared listlessly off into the distance, shell-shocked. The air was filled with the thrum of voices.

One voice, in particular, rose above the rest.

"It it isn't Bard, the hero of Laketown, the slayer of Smaug!" It was Alfrid, the sleazy advisor of the Master. The man's voice was as slick and oily as his hair. Bard, emerging from the middle of the crowd, scowled.

No amount of wheedling and assurances could earn back the trust Alfrid had lost from the people after his cowardly flight from Laketown, and the angry crowd closed in on him. Too late, the selfish advisor realized that the tide had turned against him.

"This could get ugly," Oin murmured, and Bofur was grateful for their location further down-shore, where even Bard took no notice of them. It was unlikely that any would unless they were truly looking. At the sight of their father, Singrid and Tilda took off running.

"Da!" Before anyone could stop them, they launched themselves into his arms.

Bard's expression softened as he held his children close. Turning back to the crowd and Alfrid, the Bowman spoke, and his words calmed the angry sea of faces. The tension over, the Dwarves, Kili, and Tauriel resumed setting up camp.

"Now that that's settled," Bofur sighed, once again attempting to light his pipe, successfully this time. "I think there's a lot we need to talk about."

Tauriel shifted uncomfortably. "Where do I begin?"

"How about at the beginning?"

Kíli had to be dreaming. There was no other explanation.

His head spun, trying to process everything Tauriel had told them—had told him—as they sat around the fireside, the shore strangely quiet as most of the people of Laketown had long since gone to sleep. Their fire had begun to burn out, but no one moved to rekindle it. It would be morning in a few hours, and the sun would chase away the predawn chill. Besides, it seemed that Tauriel's account had enraptured them all.

Soul magic, forbidden healing, transformation? Kíli shook his head. It all sounded like something out of a legend, a far-fetched tale like the ones Uncle used to tell him and Fíli when they were dwarflings. Certainly not something that happened in real life.

Tauriel seemed apologetic as she spoke, her eyes constantly seeking out Kíli's as she sought to explain. With no little difficulty, Kíli gazed back. In part, he felt that he should've been angry at the elleth for what she'd done to him, for what he had lost, but found himself unable to. Maybe it was because her intentions were well-meaning, or maybe it was simply because she was Tauriel.

Either way, Kíli couldn't find it in his heart to hate her.

And for that, he wasn't sure whether to be grateful or concerned.

Either way, he knew he had to return things to normal. Soon. Before Thorin or any other member of the Company could see him as a shirumund Elf.

"You don't suppose you could… change me back by any chance?" Kili's tone was so achingly hopeful, it even pained him. The doubt in Tauriel's eyes was obvious.

"I can try," she offered, moving closer to him. "But I have never done this before and it may not work. But I will give it my all."

She placed one hand on either side of the dark-haired Elf's temples, right above the ears, and began to chant. It was disconcerting to see how the Dwarf who'd not quite come up to her chest had managed to become an Elf nearly a full head taller than her. She couldn't imagine what it felt like from Kíli's perspective.

Kíli closed his eyes and focused on the sound of her voice. He could feel a strange, prickling sensation spreading throughout his body, and felt almost dizzy with hope. Maybe this would work after all. The ball of warmth in his chest seemed to swell, growing stronger and larger. Whether it was working with or against Tauriel's magic Kíli wasn't sure, but he prayed that it was the former.

It flickered and grew, and as Tauriel's incantation increased in speed and volume, he felt a rush of excitement. This was it, he knew. Soon he would be a Dwarf again, probably looking ridiculous in Bard's oversized clothes, but none of that would matter. He would be himself again, and everything would return to normal—

Abruptly, he realized that Tauriel was no longer chanting.

Slowly, cautiously, hardly daring to breathe, he opened his eyes. To his surprise, he found Tauriel staring back, her face almost inches from his own. Staring up at him, not down. The disappointment came crashing down on him, as hard as any physical blow.

He was still an Elf.

Tauriel gently drew back, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes as she apologized. "I am sorry, Kíli. I am so, so sorry."

Kíli could swear he could almost feel his heart breaking—if the pesky warmth in his chest hadn't been pulsing more strongly. Self-consciously, he rubbed at it. "Do you always feel like this?" he asked.

Tauriel looked confused. "Feel like what?"

"Like there's a furnace in your chest."

The elleth brought a hand up to her own collarbone. "I… I suppose I do," she said at last, looking thoughtful.

Kíli frowned. "What do you mean, you suppose you do?"

"I guess I've never really given much thought to it before," Tauriel replied. "I have always felt this. What you feel Kíli is the Light of the Eldar, a life force present in all Elves." She carefully refrained from mentioning it was the Light of the Eldar that gave Elves their long life spans and immortality.

The idea of being immortal seemed to have not yet occurred to Kíli yet, and she didn't wish to bring it to the forefront of his mind until he was ready. The knowledge would devastate the former Dwarf, who was devastated enough already. Yes, Tauriel realized, he would find out soon enough.

But until that time came, she figured there was no harm in sheltering him from the pain.

The group lapsed into an uncomfortable silence until at last Bofur stretched and said with a yawn, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm ready to hit the hay. Tomorrow we can begin the long walk to the Lonely Mountain. Just think of it, lads. Erebor awaits!"

The rest of the group hastily agreed and as the three Dwarves and Kíli lay down and got situated, and Tauriel wondered if it was an appropriate time to mention that Elves didn't require the same kind of sleep.

Chapter Text

Apparently he was not only an Elf, but an insomniac as well.

Kíli sighed loudly and flopped over, turning on his stomach and burying his head in his arms, doing his best to ignore the lush, almost sickeningly sweet odor emanating from the grass and the feel of beardless skin against his arms. The sounds of his snoring companions usually didn't bother him—traveling together meant that they'd all had ample time to get used to each other—but tonight their rumbling was loud enough to wake the dead.

It didn't help that as well as the snoring, he could hear the murmur of Men's voices from further down the river as distinctly as if they were carried by the wind, the cawing of a lone crow, and of course, the constant slap of the lakewater as it struck the side of the shore. Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped as suddenly and violently as a bone breaking.

Never one to be patient, Kíli huffed and readjusted his position again, clapping his hands over his ears. Was he supposed to hear this well? The former Dwarf supposed he could ask Tauriel, but the elleth was probably sound asleep and he didn't want to wake her up for the sake of a stupid question.

His determination doubled by the thought, Kíli resolutely kept his eyes shut and forced his body to remain motionless, taking deep, measured breaths to quiet his mind. If anything though, his thoughts refused to be quieted and he found his imagination even more active than before.

The Lonely Mountain. Erebor. His Uncle.

He would see them all tomorrow.

How many times had he pictured their triumphant return to the mountain, imagined his first step into the kingdom of Erebor? The answer must've been more times than he could count—he and Fíli had been raised on tales of the mountain. Their quest was one of legend.

But reality, however, had different plans than legend.

In all of Kíli's fantasies, he was with his Uncle when they reclaimed their home. Together with Fíli, he would explore the great halls and corridors of old, see the Arkenstone, stand on piles of endless treasure. Maybe even find out which room had once belonged to Thorin or his deceased uncle, Frerin. Never in Kíli's dreams did he give much thought to the events leading up to reclaiming their home. Oh sure, there would be a long journey to reach Erebor, filled with difficulty and small dangers, but nothing too terrible. And then there was the issue of Smaug—who honestly did frighten Kíli, but he chose not to think too much about that—Thorin had a plan, right?

But not even in his wildest dreams did he imagine that he wouldn't be there when the Company first set foot in Erebor. Nor did he ever imagine he'd be seeing it as an Elf.

Kíli's stomach lurched uncomfortably at the reminder and his grip tightened, nails digging into the pointed ears so hard that it hurt.

Mahal, he thought, half praying. I don't want this. I don't want to be an Elf.

But if the maker heard the dark-haired Elf's plea, he gave no indication of it. Mahal was silent, as silent as he was on the day Smaug attacked Erebor and Dale all those years ago. Kili swallowed down the heavy lump in his throat. Mahal created the Seven Fathers, would he even listen to the cry of an Elf? The Elves, Kíli remembered, were created by Ilúvatar. Should he make his plea to Ilúvatar instead?

Whoever you are- Mahal, Ilúvatar- I don't care! I don't want to be an Elf!

What would happen to him then, when he died? Since he was born a Dwarf, would he be reunited with his kin in death? Or would he go to... Kíli struggled to remember what happened to Elves when they died, but nothing came to mind. Thorin had never been very encouraging towards the studying of other races, especially the Elves. But death didn't seem as important to the Elves anyway, they were practically immortal.

Durin's beard. The Elves were immortal.

He was immortal.

And in that realization, Kíli's entire world shattered. He sat bolt upright, the desire to sleep vanished. His chest heaved and his whole body trembled, a cold sweat beading his brow. He looked over at his companions—at his brother—sleeping peacefully without a care in the world, oblivious to the dark-haired Elf's turmoil. Fíli twitched slightly in his sleep, as if sensing something was amiss, but then settled into an even deeper sleep than before. The only one who noticed him was Tauriel.

"Kíli, what's wrong?" Her green eyes were bright and watchful—too alert for one who had just been asleep. She had been awake and nearby, but though in his grief, Kili hadn't noticed.

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding wildly. "St-stay away from me!"

The cry tore from his throat, raw and frightened. Terrified.

Tauriel stiffened, hurt and confusion flashing in her eyes. "What's wrong?" she pressed. "Kíli, you can tell me."

Kíli shook. He was trapped, trapped in his own body.

He was going to watch as his Uncle, his mother, even his own brother grow old and die, and be powerless to do anything about it. Mahal, Fee could have great-grandchildren one day and he would still end up looking younger than them.

Tauriel was an Elf, she wouldn't understand. Long life was a given among her kind. She wouldn't understand how terrible it would be to outlive the ones she loved—because they were all Elves, like her. Kili had never spoken to Tauriel about her family before, but he could easily picture it. She probably had an Elf father and an Elf mother, and maybe even some Elf siblings and an Elf cousin or two. They were probably a happy, normal Elven family that would practice archery and comb each other's hair—or whatever it was that Elves did in their spare time.

Kíli was different: his family was Dwarves.

Tauriel wouldn't understand, how could she? Despite how he felt about her, she was in many ways still a stranger. She could offer him no comfort, only the truth.

He needed to escape.

Now.

Before he fully knew what he was doing, he turned and ran. His feet were against him, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, but he didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing in the world mattered, not when he was bound to the world alone. Branches lashed at his arms and raked across his face as he fled further into the forest, but still he continued to run.

In the end, it wasn't so much about escape as it was about getting away.

He could never escape.

"Kíli!"

Tauriel ran after him, calling his name. The former Dwarf ignored her and focused on his running. The trail was treacherous; several times he stumbled and fell, the muddy forest floor cushioning his fall but dirtying his tattered clothes further. When that happened, he didn't hesitate but quickly got back on his feet and kept on running.

As he ran, his footsteps got quicker and lighter. Under any other circumstance, Kíli would've marveled at the agility he now possessed, but all coherent thoughts were driven from his mind. He ran as hard and fast as he could through the trees and the silvery light filtering through their leaves, feet skimming the ground. Instead of tripping over roots, he began to anticipate and avoid them—leaping over one then veering around another.

"Kíli!" Tauriel called again. She sounded closer that time.

Weariness crept back into Kíli's body and he began to slow down. As fleet as he was, even an Elf couldn't run forever. Ahead, the land dipped low, forming a hollow. Kíli walked by the time he reached it. Tauriel wasn't far behind.

But for once, he didn't want to see Tauriel. He wanted to be left alone.

The elleth looked concerned—but also slightly frustrated—by the fact she'd had to chase Kíli through the forest, he could see it in her eyes. Mouth dry, he dropped his gaze. She did this to me.

"You did this to me." His voice rasped.

"Yes." A pause, neither condemning nor hopeful. Then, "You were going to die, there was nothing else to do. Are Elves truly so terrible that you can't bear to live your life as one? I didn't know the petty hatred between our races ran so deep."

"I don't hate Elves," Kíli grumbled. His gaze darted up and met Tauriel's, but her expression was unreadable, closed off from him.

She had a way of doing that—of drawing him in yet half-heartedly pushing him away at the same time, it was part of what made her so fun to tease, yet so frustrating. Only yesterday morning he'd been sure of what he wanted in terms of his relationship with Tauriel. The next time he saw her, he'd decided, he was going to confess his feelings for her- even give her his runestone.

Now he wasn't so sure.

"I was born a Dwarf, and I always thought that I was going to die a Dwarf," Kíli admitted. He felt he owed Tauriel some explanation, even if it was one as weak as that. "And now I realized that I'm going to live forever. If I don't die a painful, unnatural death, that is. But Thorin and Fili… and my Mum… They're—they're going to d… not live forever." He looked to Tauriel, dark eyes pleading. "Why didn't you let me die?

Because I love you, though Tauriel, and I didn't want to see you dead.

But the words died on her lips. Why was admitting the way she truly felt so difficult?

Before, the answer would've been obvious. She was an Elf, and he was a Dwarf. It was as simple as that. But now… standing before her was a male Elf, not a dwarrow. A handsome, if battered and miserable Elf, who also happened to be Kíli. She skirted around his question.

"You're bleeding," she said instead, gesturing to one of the branch-inflicted cuts slashed across his cheek. Tauriel felt a flash of guilt at her previous thoughts—Kili was suffering from the effects of her magic, what right did she have to think of him in such a way?

Kíli ran a hand along the side of his face, seeming absentminded and only faintly surprised when he drew back fingertips coated in blood.

"Let's go back to camp," said Tauriel. She began making her way out of the hollow, pausing and glancing over her shoulder to make sure Kili was following.

He wasn't.

"I'm not coming with you. I… I think I'm going to stay here for a little while. Alone."

The former Dwarf made another feeble attempt to wipe away the blood, but only succeeded in smearing it across his jaw. Tauriel hesitated a moment- it was almost morning, she could see the sun beginning to peer out from behind the trees—then nodded.

Perhaps that was all Kíli needed—some time alone.

Tauriel only hoped that it would be enough.

Fíli stretched and yawned, rubbing his eyes clear of sleep. He could still hear the deep snore of Bofur and the lighter, more wheezing sound of Oin beside him. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to shine over the horizon, and it seemed that he was the first one up. Despite only a few hours of sleep and the events of last night, Fíli felt well-rested.

Deciding to let the others sleep, the blond heir sat up and began rebraiding his mustache. Today they would set off for Erebor—and if they made good time, they would reach it before nightfall. It was important that he looked his best. After he finished his braids, maybe he could collect more firewood so they could cook breakfast.

Having finished one side of his 'do, Fíli moved on to the other side, running his fingers through the coarse hair a few times to make sure it was smooth and even. Satisfied with it, he began to braid. His fingers were deft and nimble from years of practice. Finally, the last thing he had to do was retie the little band in place and fit the bead over it.

Holding his braid in place, Fíli looked around for his brother. Where was Kíli?

"Kee?" He called softly, not wanting to wake the others. There was no sign of Kíli, only an Elf-sized indent in the grass where he'd lain. Fíli tried again, a little louder this time. "Kíli!"

No response.

Hastily tying off the braid—much more sloppily than he usually would've done, Fíli was sure—he got up and began to search in earnest for his brother. There were no telltale marks of a scuffle, yet Kíli could hardly walk on his own. Where in the world could he have gone to?

He decided to wake Oin and Bofur.

"Have you seen Kíli?" he asked urgently, as soon as he'd shoved them rather unceremoniously awake. Bofur blinked blearily up at him for a moment, then scanned the clearing.

"I've been asleep, lad. Personally though, I think your worrin' too much—that Elf lass is gone too, and she's not someone many would trifle with. Kíli's safe with her because where ever they went, I'm pretty sure they went there together. It might not be best to walk in on them," he said.

At Fíli's mortified splutter and protests, Bofur cracked a rakish grin. "I appreciate that you're covering for your brother, but anyone with eyes could see the way he looks at that Elf. The acoustics back in that Mirkwood prison certainly helped too—we're not deaf, you know. Sometimes I think Thorin's the only one who hasn't noticed." Seeing that Fíli was still red in the face, he added, "Relax. The last part was a joke. I'm sure Kíli and that Elf of his aren't that well acquainted."

Oin snorted. "We should hope not."

"All the same," Fíli replied, "I want to go look for him."

"Patience," advised Oin. The old healer dusted off his clothes. "They should get back soon enough. If they're not back by breakfast, then we'll go look for them."

Frustrated but seeing no better option, Fíli nodded. They divided the chores among them, and the blond Dwarf hurried off to get firewood. The sooner they finished, the sooner he could search for Kíli.

Tauriel returned alone.

"Where is Kili?" Fíli demanded, noticing the elleth's stricken expression. Tauriel seemed conflicted and weary—the blond noticed a tear at the bottom of her dress that hadn't been there the night before and her eyes had an almost glassy, opaque look to them. The alarm bells going off in his mind rang even louder.

"He's in the forest," said Tauriel, nodding back in the direction from which she'd come. "He… discovered his immortality. I thought it best to leave him be."

"You left him alone?"

Tauriel nodded, downcast.

Fíli felt his heart freeze up. Kíli was never one to spend much time by himself—he typically preferred the company of others, even in grief. But this is not a typical situation, the dark voice in the back of his mind warned. Kíli has become an Elf. You have no idea what he's going through. No one does. This is bad, very, very bad. Most Dwarves would prefer death to this. Uncle Thorin would've killed himself before having to live life as an Elf.

But Kíli… What would Kíli do?

A grief-stricken image of the dark-haired Elf floated in his mind's eye, face twisted with horror at what he'd become, shoulders shaking with great, racking sobs. He could picture the Elf kneeling somewhere in the forest, alone. Could picture him drawing a dagger—or more realistically, one of the arrows from his quiver—from beneath his shirt, raising it to plunge into—

No. Kíli would never do that. He wouldn't.

Not Kíli, the youngest of the Company. Not Kíli, who was always so full of light and laughter, who strove to one day be as majestic as Uncle and flirted with Elves. Death by one's own hand was for cowards and the hopeless.

Not for Kíli.

Not for his little brother.

Fíli set down his firewood and turned towards the present members of the Company. His heart pounded wildly. "I've got to go find him. He shouldn't be alone. What if he's…."

What if he's dead? The unspoken question hung in the air, heavy and stifling. Fíli's mind raced as he sought a way to convince the others of this, but before he could, Oin spoke.

"Go to him. If anyone can help your brother, it's you." Uncertainty clawed at the back of Fíli's mind, but he merely nodded. His mouth felt too dry to say anything else. Oin bent over and rummaged through his supplies, pulling out a small green vial. Making sure the cork was still securely in place, he passed it to Fíli. "Here, take this. It's ground cayenne and lobelia. If necessary, it will help regulate blood flow and calm the mind."

Fíli hastily tucked the vial into his pocket, thanking the old healer.

Mahal, the blond Dwarf thought desperately. I hope I don't have to use it! Hang on, Kíli… I'm coming for you. Don't you dare give up on me. Remember your promise to Mum. Stay strong, Kee. Please, stay strong.

"Follow the forest path, and you should find him." Tauriel added.

There wasn't any time to waste.

As soon as he set foot in the forest, Fíli broke into a run. He was no skilled tracker, but even he could see from time to time the footprints embedded in the mud—Elvish footprints. In other places, the trail wasn't so clear—the tracks were skidded and muddled, as if their owner had lost balance and fell… several times. Fíli could only imagine one of the two Elves being so unsteady on their feet, and his throat tightened.

Another thing that struck him was how far apart the tracks were—a single Elven stride was nearly two of his own. Soon Fíli was gasping for air, legs like lead and a stitch in his side. He marveled at how much land Kíli and Tauriel had covered. Dwarves weren't built for long distances, he reminded himself, although they could be quite formidable while sprinting.

He only hoped that he could catch up to Kíli in time.

Fíli alternated between jogging and a brisk walk until he reached a hollow at the end of the trail. There he slowed to a stop, resting his hands against his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. He glanced up, still panting. "Kíli?"

He caught sight of his brother almost immediately, sucking in a worried breath as he saw the blood on the side of Kíli's face. The dark-haired Elf looked terrible—his hair was matted and it was clear he'd been crying—glistening tear lines streaked down his otherwise dirty face. He sat leaned up against the trunk of a gnarled oak tree, arms by his sides.

"Fee?" Something flickered in Kíli's gaze. "You came."

"Of course I came," said Fíli, unsure of whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Most likely the latter. "You're my brother. I was worried about you."

He came closer to Kíli, then sat down beside him. Kíli turned towards him, and Fíli could clearly see the welt on the side of his face. The bleeding had already ended, the blood caked and dried into a rusty reddish brown.

The cut itself was fairly superficial—deep enough to draw blood, but unlikely to leave a lasting scar. Fíli was relieved to see that while Kíli had other scratches on him as well (caused by branches overshadowing the path, no doubt. Fíli had been smacked by quite a few himself, but hadn't been moving quickly enough to sustain any real injury from them), that one seemed to be the most severe.

"Here, Oin gave me this." The blond Dwarf fished the green vial out of his pocket. "He suspected something might've happened."

Kíli fixed him with a doubtful stare. "He thought trees would attack my face?"

Was Kíli purposely being difficult? Fíli pressed the medicine into his brother's hand.

"Not exactly, no." he admitted. "We're worried for you, Kee. All of us. I remember when you woke up, you seemed to be in so much pain… So miserable. We wondered if… if you'd decided to find a way to end the pain once and for all."

Kíli drew in a sharp breath. "You thought I was going to kill myself?"

Fíli nodded, already feeling embarrassed and ashamed that the thought had even crossed his mind. Kíli's expression was one of shock and hurt—he should've known that his brother was stronger than that. "We didn't know what you were thinking. All we knew was that you were hurting and that you were alone." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I was afraid, and all of these changes didn't happen to me. For the first time, I couldn't help you. You're my brother, and I promise to always be there."

Kíli slumped down even further. "But you won't always be there for me. I'm immortal. You're not."

"I know. You were always going to outlive me, Kíli," Fíli gently reminded him.

"But only by a few years!" The dark-haired Elf protested. "Not a few thousand years! It's not fair—I never asked to be an Elf, I don't want to be one! I'm scared, Fee…" His dark eyes met Fíli's own beseechingly. "Why didn't Tauriel let me die?"

"I'm glad she saved you," Fíli admitted. "I know it's selfish, but it's true. I almost lost you—we almost lost you. And now you're safe and alive, and part of me is glad. Very guilty and upset as well, but also glad. I don't want to live in a world without my brother."

"Neither do I."

"We'll find a way to reverse this, and then you won't have to," Fíli promised. It felt like a lie as soon as the words left his mouth. He knew nothing about what fate had befallen his brother—even Tauriel didn't know, and she was the one who'd healed him. What were the odds Kíli would ever be a Dwarf again? However, his promise seemed to comfort his brother, so Fíli let the moment slip by.

"Thank you," Kíli murmured, briefly resting his forehead against Fíli's own. The blond heir allowed himself a small smile.

"The others are pretty much packed up and ready to go," he said, drawing back. "Are we ready?"

"As I'll ever be." An uncertain shrug and a lopsided grin were Kíli's response.

"Do you need any help?" Fíli asked as Kíli rose to stand.

The dark-haired Elf shook his head, pulling himself to his feet with almost catlike grace. "I'm good," he said, "Think I finally figured out the trick to it this morning." He still looked upset, but Fíli could see a glint of humor in his eyes. "You're a lot shorter than I remembered."

"And you're very tall," Fíli replied. "You're my little brother—I'm the older one. I hardly see how this is fair."

"Admit it, you've always looked up to me."

The blond Dwarf gave a skeptical snort. He was relieved to see Kíli back in good spirits, and decided to humor his brother. "Only in your wildest dreams, Kee."

"So I don't suppose you'd want to race me back to camp then?" Kíli asked, grinning for real that time.

Fíli knew he had no chance of even keeping pace with an Elf, never mind beating one, but he agreed anyway. "Wash up first, then we'll race."

Kíli nodded. "Deal."

Tauriel kept herself busy, tidying up around the campfire before sitting down to mend the torn hem of her dress. She hoped that with enough to do, her mind would be far too occupied to wander, but that didn't seem to be the case. Worry for Kíli gnawed at her insides, and her fingers trembled. She kept her ears pricked, hoping to hear Kíli and his brother return.

When she heard a soft footfall behind her, she whirled around quickly. "Kíli?"

It was Legolas.

Chapter Text

If Legolas recognized the Dwarf's name, he made no comment of it.

"Tauriel." His expression remained as schooled and calm as ever, but his voice betrayed his relief at seeing her alive and well. Not for the first time, the Silvan elleth found herself struck by how closely he resembled his father, yet how different he truly was. She was certain that the Elvenking's eyes had never shown with such fondness—as hidden and reserved as it often was—or gone to such lengths to help a friend. Meanwhile, Legolas came closer. "I have been looking for you since the dragon's attack. Where have you been?"

Why didn't you come find me?

Tauriel almost told him the truth. She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him about what a disaster their stay in Laketown had been, how she'd dabbled in forbidden magic, and how that went awry and because of it, Kíli was stuck as an Elf—

But as soon as the words bubbled up, she pressed them back down, feeling strangely reluctant to tell anything to Legolas.

She was saved from saying anything however when they were interrupted by a messenger astride a white horse, the crest of Mirkwood proudly emblazoned on the clasp of his cape. A messenger from the Elvenking.

"Prince Legolas, I bear a message from your father. He wishes for you to return to Mirkwood."

"Come, Tauriel."

"Not her." The messenger shifted uneasily, but otherwise kept his manner brisk. "The Elvenking has decreed her banished."

The last word cut into Tauriel's mind and heart, more sharp and biting than any blade of steel. Could she have heard the messenger right— Banished?

No... The Elvenking was harsh, but he wasn't that callous. Was he?

Forget the blade, a knife to the ribs was a merciful way to die compared to this. Tauriel felt more like she was drowning. For years she'd trod on thin ice with King Thranduil—testing his patience, testing his limits—but always confident in her footing. But now she'd fallen through. The messenger's words were ice water, crashing over her head and smothering her cry, driving every other thought from her mind. Banished?

Yes… He was that callous, wasn't he?

She should've known her King wouldn't have been so lenient in saving the life of a Dwarf. Stricken with her own thoughts, Tauriel nearly jumped when Legolas abruptly spoke.

"You may tell my father that if there's no place for Tauriel, then there's no place for me."

The messenger wasn't the only one surprised by the emotion in the prince's voice. Tauriel felt a rush of affection for her friend, but it was quickly followed by dismay. Mirkwood needed Legolas, he being Thranduil's sole heir aside. Who else would be prepared to face the oncoming darkness? Certainly not the Elvenking, looking down his nose at the world beyond. Nor the Men of Laketown, already worn ragged by the rage of Smaug.

"Legolas, it is your king's command." said Tauriel.

What she really wanted to say was forget the Elvenking, our people need you or, as horribly weak and cliched it sounded, don't go, I need you. For centuries they had fought together, laughed together, lived together. No matter what Thranduil said, he was her best friend.

"Yes, he is my king, but he does not command my heart," Legolas replied softly in Sindarin. His gaze warmed her, but Tauriel felt a flicker of uncertainty. Was there something other than friendship in his eyes? The Mirkwood prince hesitated for a moment, as if there was more that he wished to say, but decided against it. Abruptly, he switched back to Westron. "I ride north, will you come with me?"

"To where?" Tauriel asked, already dreading the answer. Thranduil was already furious no doubt, and He would only make things worse by acting against the Elvenking's orders, but Legolas didn't seem to care. Part of Tauriel felt proud of her mellon for taking a stand against his father, but another part felt only worried. What end did he hope to achieve through his defiance?

Do not give him hope where there is none.

Once, Tauriel assumed that the Elvenking spoke only to warn her that no possible future could exist between her and Legolas, but now she wasn't so sure. In all of her six hundred years, she'd never seen her friend behave so recklessly, and couldn't help but wonder how much of it was bolstered on her behalf.

Was this what Thranduil had truly feared?

"To Gundabad," said Legolas.

Gundabad. The infamous Orc stronghold. It was said to have been purged of Orcs since the War of The Dwarves and Orcs, but with darkness yet again on the rise, its complete abandonment seemed unlikely. It would be a dangerous place for two Elves to venture to. Doubly dangerous for one to venture alone. Yet how could she go, when Kíli needed her?

Tauriel hesitated. But Legolas needs me as well, she thought to herself. I cannot leave him to hunt the darkness alone. Kíli will soon be with his Uncle and friends at Erebor, he's in no immediate danger. But however she tried to convince herself of that, her reluctance remained.

He has much to learn about being an Elf, there's still so much I haven't taught him. Will he be able to manage on his own? Will his Uncle even accept him?

"Tauriel? Are you feeling ill?"

Concern shone bright in the eyes of her friend, and Tauriel felt her stomach clench up with guilt. "I am fine, mellon." The response came quick and cool, almost scathing with its guarded edge, and the Silvan elleth immediately wished she could take it back. The corners of Legolas's mouth turned down almost imperceptibly.

"My father was wrong to banish you," he said, misreading her expression. "I meant what I said to that messenger—as long as you cannot return to Mirkwood, neither shall I. He will change his mind soon, I'm sure, once he sees that I intend to uphold my word."

"You shouldn't allow me to come between you and your father. You've done more than enough for me, more than I could ever repay you for. Go home, Legolas."

"It's not home without you, Tauriel."

He extended his hand to her, and she nearly took it, wondering if indeed the air in Mirkwood affected Elves as much as it affected other beings. Her people had always been proud of their natural resilience to the sickening enchantments of the forest—the Mirkwood Elves never suffered from disorientation and confusion induced by the forest, and didn't require the path to navigate its treacherous and timeless expanse. Mirkwood had near developed a mind of its own, becoming more sly and ruthless with every year the darkness grew.

But with every passing year, we grow more sly and ruthless too, thought Tauriel. More centered on our own wishes, more ignorant to the world around us. Perhaps that's why we Silvan Elves are considered less wise and more dangerous than our kin. Outwardly, there was very little difference between a Silvan and Sindarin Elf; the main contrasts seemed to be behavioral. The only key difference Tauriel could see between the two was subtle—the shape of a Silvan ear tended to be slightly more exaggerated, the pointed tip more distinct.

She thought of Kíli, with his familiar dark hair and eyes, and his newly minted features. She then studied Legolas, with his pale complexion, golden hair, and distinctly Sindarin ears, though she had heard the whispered tales of Thranduil's Silvan queen. She had no idea of how Dwarves classified themselves—or if they even had subdivisions within their own race at all—but Kíli's ears held a closer resemblance to her own. The prestigious descendant of Durin was a mere Silvan Elf.

Vaguely, she wondered if he would inherit their reputation for secrecy and darkness as well. Tauriel hoped not. Kíli was as bright as mithril; a quality she hoped he would never lose.

Legolas tensed suddenly, pulling back his hand and drawing his bow with fluid speed as there came the sound of snapped twigs and rustling undergrowth from the forest to the right of them. Someone was running towards them, making no effort to muffle their footsteps as they went. Tauriel stepped back as Legolas pulled back further on his bow—no doubt still wary and ready for combat if necessary due to the previous night—ready to loose an arrow on whatever foe was foolish enough to charge a fully armed Elf.

Kíli burst from the foilage, loud and ungainly, looking over his shoulder and oblivious to the astonished Mirkwood prince in front of him. "I won, Fee!" he called, laughing. "Do you think the others have—" Whatever Kíli was going to say next died in his throat as he caught sight of Legolas. The dark-haired Elf's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed in hostility. "You."

"You seem to recognize me, but I don't recognize you," said Legolas. He lowered his bow, his features going from grim to confused as he eyed the unfamiliar Elf's tattered garments. "But if you are a messenger from my father, I have already told him, I will not return until he revokes Tauriel's banishment."

"Er… what?" Kíli looked to Tauriel for guidance. "I didn't get a word of what he just said. Except your name. He did say Tauriel, right?"

Legolas had spoken in Sindarin, and while the two true Elves understood every word of what he'd said, Kíli did not.

An Elf who couldn't comprehend Sindarin, the most common of the Elvish languages? As much as he found it hard to believe, Legolas sensed that the strange Elf spoke the truth. There was no understanding in the depths of those brown eyes. His confusion only grew as a second figure emerged from the forest.

"Kíli, wait up! Where are you—oh." Like his dark-haired Elven companion, he stiffened at the sight of the Mirkwood prince.

The second intruder was a Dwarf; a relatively young one with a braided mustache. Who on Middle Earth braided their mustache? Legolas resisted the urge to shake his head. Dwarves were even stranger than he thought. This Dwarf, however, as strange as he was, looked familiar.

He was one of the twelve Dwarves from the Company of Thorin Oakensheild; Legolas remembered giving the order to have him and his fellow thieves imprisoned. Despite Thranduil's wrath and a good deal of effort on the part of the Elves of Mirkwood, they still had yet to discover how the Dwarves had managed to escape…

But that was a matter for another time.

The blond Dwarf—Fee, his name was? It was what his companion called him at least—seemed to realize that it wouldn't be wise to anger two Elves (he counted both himself and Tauriel), and shouldered his way almost imperceptibly in front of the dark-haired Elf, who looked as if he was considering launching himself at Legolas any moment.

"We're not looking for trouble," he said, his tone carefully honed and diplomatic. He shot his companion a sharp look, and to Legolas's surprise, the Elf obliged, curtly nodding his head and taking a step back. What self-respecting Elf took orders from a Dwarf? Legolas found himself liking the stranger less and less—even his name sounded odd. Kíli. It sounded almost Dwarvish.

"We are outside the borders of Mirkwood, and mean you no harm," Fee continued with the same, irritatingly reasonable tone. "You have no cause to arrest us. Smaug is dead, and my brother and I only wish to join our uncle and friends at Erebor, our rightful home."

"Your brother?"

The blond Dwarf quickly tried to backtrack, but it was too late. He'd had a companion with him, Legolas recalled, during their capture—the tall archer that Tauriel was so taken with. At the time the Mirkwood prince had assumed they were close friends, not brothers, so different they were in appearances. Suddenly, the dark-haired Elf seemed hauntingly familiar.

Kíli…

Another thought occurred to him; the names of Dwarvish siblings tended to rhyme… Fee. What parent- even a Dwarf one—would name their child Fee? It had to be a nickname, Legolas deduced. Fee… Fee-li… Fili! Fíli and Kíli! The names sounded right, and vaguely familiar. Legolas wondered where he had heard them before. Perhaps his father had mentioned them during one of his many tirades about the so-called King Thorin and the perils of dragon fire.

But if Fíli and Kíli were relatives of Thorin…

"That's right, my brother!" The dark-haired Elf—Kíli—all but snarled. "A Dwarf of Erebor!"

There was a frightened sort of defiance in his eyes, as if there was an invisible weight attached to the importance of claiming relation to a Dwarf. Legolas had seen that same light blazing in those same eyes in a different time and place. The Elf who stood before him hadn't been an Elf then, but a young Dwarf.

One of the nephews of Thorin Oakensheild.

But how had..?

"Tauriel."

Her mother had been one of the last great practitioners of Fëa Evaliir, had she not? And while becoming an Elf was not among the list of side effects Legolas heard rumored for the ancient art, he could see no other plausible explanation. After all, Dwarves didn't spontaneously transform into Elves.

His worst fear had come true—Tauriel loved the Dwarf. She loved him with the same kind of fierce, protective love that he reserved only for her. He thought back to the night he'd seen the two speaking in the caverns, all smiles and light laughter, talk of promises and starlight. He'd been jealous then; jealous that Tauriel had opened up more to that Dwarf in a single night than she'd done to him over six hundred years.

But love… how could he have missed it?

"You care for the Dwarf," said Legolas, slipping back into Sindarin so Kili would be unable to hear. "I've seen it in your eyes since the day his kind set foot in Mirkwood. I do not understand it, nor do I think I ever will, but I wish you well on your travels. May the Valar protect you and guide you."

"You won't tell the Elvenking what I've done?" The relief was palpable in her eyes.

He shook his head, the words catching in his throat. She loved another, but by the Valar, he would do anything to see her safe. "No. I won't tell him. I promised you, I will not be returning to Mirkwood when we face such a threat from Gundabad."

"Legolas—mellon—you can't ride north alone!"

"But who would go north with me?" The Mirkwood prince gave a sad, almost sardonic smile. "Certainly not my father, nor any Elf under his command. You won't, not when you have another mission to see through. I will rejoin you in less than a fortnight. Go to Erebor with your Dwarf, Tauriel. You care more for him and your secrets more than you care for Mirkwood, for your place among our people. More than you care for me."

He quickly turned and left, feelings threatening to boil over. Tauriel had made her choice, now he made his.

Kíli glanced from Tauriel to the rapidly retreating form of Legolas with obvious confusion. He turned towards the Silvan elleth. "What was that all about?" he asked.

Tauriel shook her head. "It was nothing. I'm going with you to Erebor."

There was regret in her eyes, but Kíli didn't ask why.

By the time they returned Bofur and Oin were waiting, the ragtag group's meager possessions neatly packed and bundled inside the boat. The boat itself was still in exceptional condition, considering all that it had been through.

"Bard has been generous enough to lend it to us," said Oin, placing a hand on its wooden helm.

Fíli frowned. "I'm glad we have a boat and all, but won't he need to use it?"

"He has no further use of it, not where they're going." Before Fíli could ask who they were, Oin continued. "The people of Laketown are regrouping in the ruins of Dale. They'll be walking through the mainland, not sailing downriver. It would be a shame to let such a boat go to waste. Besides, once we get settled into Erebor, Bard will be paid for his expenses ten times over."

Remembering the promise Thorin made to the Master of Laketown two nights previous, Kili nodded. He noticed Tauriel's look of poorly hidden skepticism, and felt a twinge of defensiveness. His uncle was an honorable Dwarf- he would uphold his word to the people of Laketown, Kíli was sure of it.

Not all dwarves were as greedy as Thrain, his great-grandfather. How could Tauriel harbor any doubts? Their quest was a noble one, his Uncle's intentions pure. And what if their Company was protective of their treasure? It was rightfully theirs.

Stupid Elves, I didn't see them risking their lives to help us, Kíli thought in exasperation, feeling guilty as soon as he put his feelings to words. Tauriel was an Elf, and she'd been nothing but kind to him. The young prince's stomach lurched. He too was an Elf as well now, so what did that make him?

The dark-haired Elf hesitated. He didn't feel any different—deep down inside he was still Kíli; his new body hadn't changed that. But old habits died hard it seemed—as much as he cared for Tauriel, the lingering ghost of Uncle Thorin's lectures and distaste for the Fair Folk remained.

"Oi, Kíli! It seems I've lost my pipe. You wouldn't mind putting those keen eyes of yours to use and helping me look for it, would you?' It was Bofur. Abruptly pulled from his thoughts, Kíli turned in the direction of the toy maker.

"I'll look too," volunteered Fíli, but Bofur quickly shook his head, cutting him off.

"I'm sure Kíli and I can find it," he said cheerfully. "It'll only take a moment, stay with the boat."

Kíli tensed. Bofur's tone was too light, too casual. Whatever he wanted, Kíli was sure it was more than just a pipe. Fíli seemed to notice the disparity between Bofur's words and demeanor as well—anxiety flashed for the briefest moment in his blue eyes—but he said nothing.

Reluctant yet not wanting to offend Bofur, Kíli headed over to the toy maker.

"I probably left it over there," said Bofur, nodding in the general direction of where they'd set up camp. "Would you mind coming with me?"

Kíli said no, he didn't mind, and fell in step beside him. The sun had already risen high in the sky—it was a surprisingly warm day for mid-November—and Kili knew that if they didn't set out for Erebor soon, they wouldn't make it there before night fell. Bofur couldn't be that addicted to his pipe. Couldn't he have simply waited to replace it once they reached Erebor? The uncomfortable silence between them only grew with every passing second. Kili was only heartbeats away from sharing his observations when suddenly—

"How are you holdin' up, laddie?"

"I'm fine." The answer came swiftly and automatically, with hardly a second thought. Bofur merely sighed.

"That's the same thing you said when you took an Orcish arrow to the knee. You weren't fine then, and it's alright if you're not fine now. There's a difference between showing pain and weakness, you know." He glanced over his shoulder, then shot Kíli a conspirational look. They were far enough from the lake shore that no one—not even Tauriel—would be able to hear them. His voice was rough with sympathy. "I wouldn't think of you any less for it."

Kíli shrugged, blinking back tears. He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing over his runestone. The stone was reassuring, familiar to the touch. His thumb ran over the front side of it, exploring all the little ravines and gullies the Khuzdul runes carved into its expanse.

"You're one of Durin's folk, alright. Just like your uncle. Stubborn, and never lets anyone forget it either. Doesn't give them time to." Bofur added, almost reminiscently. At Kili's questioning glare, he chuckled. "I don't think I've ever met anyone more stubborn than Thorin. You're probably too young to remember it, but when he and your mum came to the Blue Mountains, he had difficulty adjusting to his new life. He was a prince—he never expected to have to work for a living. The only trade he knew anything in was blacksmithing- and we have plenty of those already."

The dark-haired Elf swallowed, remembering the Blue Mountains. Thorin called it a pitiful excuse for a home, but to Kíli and Fíli, it was the only place they knew. It was home. He'd gone with his uncle to Erebor—because Erebor was their real home, right?—craving adventure and an escape from the tedious routines of everyday life, but he found himself missing the Blue Mountains.

I wonder what Mum's doing right now, Kíli thought to himself. Was she still just as worried about them as she was the day they left? Mahal, what was she going to say when she found out her youngest son was an Elf?

I need to get back to normal, and soon. Or else…

No. I can't be stuck like this. I can't. Kíli pushed away the dark train of thought and forced himself to listen to what Bofur was saying.

"…So he decided to try his hand at bein' a lumberjack. Not a bad way to make a livin'- all you really need to know how to do is swing an axe, and there are plenty of trees in the mountains. Some of the dwarrows more experienced in the trade offered to help him start out but no, he was Thorin Oakensheild, he didn't need help from anybody. Not for something as mundane as chopping down a tree, anyway.

"So first day on the job, he headed out into the woods not too far from the town. Found himself a tree and started chopping. It wasn't until the last blow that he realized he hadn't paid attention to the angle at which he was hackin'- or the way the wind was blowin'. When the tree started to fall over, it fell towards him."

"Was he hurt?" asked Kíli in spite of himself. They'd all had to learn survival in the mountains, but this was a tale of Thorin he hadn't heard yet. The dark-haired Elf couldn't picture his uncle being bested by a tree—and he definitely couldn't picture him ever admitting that he was if that were the case.

"Aye, but not badly. Part of the trunk landed on his foot, but it wasn't enough to do any lasting damage. I suspect that what was injured more was his pride—he'd been so angry and full of himself. But this was over some sixty-odd years ago, and your uncle's learned a lot since then. He's learned to survive in his new life and some day, so will you."

Kíli narrowed his eyes. "No, you're wrong. This isn't permanent." It can't be. He didn't like the direction Bofur was taking this. The toy maker made it sound like he was going to be an Elf for, well… forever. "One day," he said hoarsely, "I will be a Dwarf again. Like you."

"Maybe lad, maybe." Bofur replied, but in his eyes he looked doubtful.

"Weren't we looking for your pipe?"

Bofur recognized the intentional change in subject and latched on to it. "Right you are, Kíli." He dug through his pockets for a moment, muttering quietly to himself. "Ah! There it is. It was right in my pocket the whole time." He drew out the pipe, to neither he nor Kíli's surprise.

He made a move to clasp the dark-haired Elf on the shoulder, realizing rather belatedly that Thorin's younger nephew had become too tall for that. He settled for patting Kíli on the arm instead. "Let's get back to the boat. I'm sure the others are waiting."

By mid-afternoon, it became clear that they were making good progress downriver—unless any further complications arose, they would reach Erebor before the sun set. The current of the Celduin was no longer as sluggish as it had been on the outskirts of Laketown nor as turbulent as it had been in Mirkwood, and bore their small them swiftly towards their destination.

The sky was blue and the water seemed even bluer, the constant current sweeping the river bottom clear of any potential algae or pond scum. The Lonely Mountain stood tall and proud, no longer quite so in the distance, as if to welcome the weary travelers to its halls.

The relative ease of the journey meant that there was very little work for the occupants of the boat to do besides ensure that the boat remained on course. They had paddles, which every once in a while they'd have to use to steer around a particularly sharp rock, but they encountered little else.

While grateful for the reprieve, Fili soon wished that they had something to be doing. Not an hour had gone by after setting out before the group lasped into an uncomfortable silence.

Kíli—whom Fíli had been certain would've once been the most animated on their return to Erebor—sat almost sullenly beside him, absentmindedly fiddling with his rune stone and staring out over the water. Something must've happened between he and Bofur, Fíli deduced, for the toy maker looked equally uneasy, worrying his pipe between his teeth as he struck his paddle lightly against the water, propelling the boat forward.

The blond heir was tempted to sigh. This is going to be a long trip.

Chapter Text

All too soon, they reached the foot of the mountain.

“I can’t do this,” murmured Kíli, looking up towards the entryway to Erebor, which was little more than a gaping hole torn asunder by Smaug, with apprehension. “I can’t see him. Not like this. I shouldn’t have come.” His voice rose in hysteria, and no one had to ask who he was. They knew.

He was none other than Thorin Oakenshield.

“Uncle loves you, Kíli,” said Fíli, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s arm and gently pushing him forward. Kíli had the same skittish look of a horse getting ready to bolt. “No matter what.” He kept his tone calm, certain. “You can’t let this get the best of you. Listen to me, brother. Listen. There’s no turning back. We’re going to go in there, march up to Uncle Thorin, and then… and then everything’s going to be alright.”

Is it? Kíli wanted to ask, but he was too afraid of the answer. All he could think of were the hundreds—wait, where they hundreds? They might’ve been thousands—of times Thorin had declared his hatred for Elves.

“We’ve gone too far to give up now,” agreed Oin. “The only way left is forward.”

Kíli felt lightheaded, his mouth dry. Back at Laketown, everything had been a haze, a fog of disbelief. Now, in front of Erebor, it all seemed so real. His heart pounded out a sickening rhythm in his chest. I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

He looked pleadingly at Fíli, but Fíli’s eyes, while reflecting sympathy, remained resolute. Please don’t make me do this, he thought again. I can’t.

“You can do this, Kee. We’re with you.” His brother said, as if reading his mind. Kíli took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I will stay behind, if it will make things easier,” Tauriel offered. “Your uncle has no great love of Elves and my presence is more than likely to only enrage him. I will keep watch over the boat and wait for your return.” She hesitated, and Kíli could see that her reluctance stemmed from more than wishing to not stir up trouble; she was afraid. Afraid of being locked underground, away from her beloved starlight. Afraid of being in the home of the enemy, surrounded by those she’d once imprisoned. But when she spoke again, her voice rang true. “But if you want me to come with you, you only need to give the word.”

She was close to him, oh so close. Her auburn hair reflected the fading light of the autumn evening like a forge, a deep russet in some places and a brilliant copper in others.

“Come with me.” Gingerly, he took his hand in hers. It was warm. “Please.”

A small smile traced her lips. “Always,” she replied.

From behind them came a disapproving snort. Oin, most likely. Neither Elf glanced back to see.

Together, the group headed towards the archway, Kíli and Tauriel pulling away from each other as they drew nearer. To their surprise, it was Bilbo who dashed out to meet them.

“It’s Thorin,” the hobbit began without preamble, panting the words out between breaths. Kíli froze. What could be wrong with his uncle? Had Smaug left him gravely injured? Dead? The dark-haired Elf wished Bilbo would just catch his breath already. “…he’s been like this for days. He won’t come out—not even to eat or drink.”

So he’s still alive, Kíli thought with relief. As long as his uncle wasn’t dead, he could handle anything else.

But Bilbo wasn’t done with his rant just yet. His eyes widened almost comically as caught sight of Kíli and Tauriel. “Are those Elves? No, no, no, Thorin will not allow Elves under the mountain, he’ll lose it if he sees you.” The hobbit twitched his mouth nervously in that rabbit-like fashion of his and waved his hands as if shooing away flies. “I’m terribly sorry, but we can’t have any visitors here right now. Not today. Please, go back to Mirkwood or Rivendell or wherever you came from.” Shoving his hands in his pockets in a very agitated manner, he nodded his head and began walking back into the mouth of Erebor. “Good night!”

Somehow, Bilbo managed to make the greeting sound like a dismissal.

“Master Boggins, wait!” called Kíli before he could stop himself.

“It’s Baggins, Kíli, Baggins. I’ve told you a hundred times!” Bilbo corrected, more out of habit than out of actual awareness of what he was saying. He stopped short as his words caught up to him, whirling around to face the startled Elf, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. The funny thing is, you remind me of somebody I know. Somebody who should be here, actually…”

Kíli could see the cogs in Bilbo’s mind turning as his gaze raked the group, searching for the Dwarf he used to be. He was relieved when Fíli cut in.

“This is important, Bilbo. These two Elves need to speak with Thorin.”

Reluctantly, the hobbit nodded. “Alright. But don’t blame me if Thorin completely snaps.”

Some might’ve called it madness. In any other circumstance, Thorin, would’ve called it madness. But madness it was not, he decided, dropping to his knees to once again scoop up another handful of gold. So beautiful, so cold. It was his. Rising to his feet, Thorin allowed the precious coins—only a fraction of Erebor’s great wealth—to slip through his grasp, tumbling down the side of the golden pile in glorious disarray, mere grains of sand in the hourglass of riches of which the halls of his fathers were.

The newly made and self-declared (for that was what he was, at least until the Arkenstone was found) King Under the Mountain scowled, his contentment fading as his mind drifted towards his all-consuming obsession.

 The Arkenstone. 

Until he could get his hands on the Arkenstone—literally get his hands on it— for then and only then would he hold the authority to unite the seven Clans under one banner, he held no true power. He had taken back their homeland, but what good would that be if he hadn’t the strength to defend it? The Arkenstone grew in Thorin’s mind until it blotted out everything else, and even the magnificent throne room and the resplendent throne of Thror grew small in comparison. He wanted it. He craved it. He needed it.

He called together the Dwarves of his Company and ordered them to search for it. Only Balin—old, faithful Balin, whose back was stiff and eyesight was not as good as it once was- remained, hovering dutifully by his side as Thorin busied himself in perusing through the treasure, finding a ruby the size of his fist within minutes. It wasn’t the Arkenstone, but upon closer inspection of its rose-tinted, multifaceted sides, he marveled at how he’d ever done without such a gem.

His gaze swept across the throne room, hungrily taking in the impressive display of old, stone pillars and pile upon pile of glimmering riches. It was his—all of it his, and he couldn’t be more pleased with himself or his fine, brave Company.

A particularly loud shout from Gloin, who for the briefest moment, had thought he’d come across the king’s long-lost prize, pulled him from his reverie, hopeful and expectant. But it wasn’t the Arkenstone,  Gloin regretfully affirmed, and Thorin’s shoulders sagged. He looked out again at the wealth he’d amassed, but this time it failed to bring warmth to his heart. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the Arkenstone, and it was out of his reach.

The thin line of his mouth hardened and there was darkness in his eyes.

I will not part with a single stone!

The simple tone at which he’d said it didn’t match the angry roar inside his head. How dare anyone suggest otherwise? Thorin rounded on Ori, the young Dwarf foolish enough to incense- albeit unknowingly- the king’s wrath.

The scribe quailed under his icy gaze, nearly dropping his books and pen in the process. Ori was quiet and timid enough as it was, and no doubt it had taken him a good deal of time and courage to work up the strength to approach Thorin and cautiously broach the subject of his deal with the Men of Laketown. Evidently, Ori clearly regretted it; he shook his head, frightened, and stumbled over an apology.

“We did make a deal with the Master of Laketown, it would be wise to honor it. Otherwise, we may be looking at a potential war,” cautioned Balin, though even he sounded reluctant to part with Erebor’s treasure, Thorin noted with some satisfaction.

“There will be no dealings with the Men of Laketown,” he bit back, “nor any other race who wishes to challenge us. This is ours and ours alone.”

Nobody said otherwise, but Thorin did hear Bombur mutter once he thought the king was out of range, “Aye, we’ll have plenty of gold, but then what? We’ll have war and nothing to eat! We’ll be besieged.” Stupid, fat Bombur. Always thinking with his stomach.

Thorin ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that warned him Bombur’s words may have held truth, but became warier still.

That night he wrote to his cousin, Dain of the Iron Hills, seeking his aid in help against their enemies. If there was to be a war, Thorin thought darkly, then let there be a war.

On the third day, the trickery of the Elves came. Surrounded by his gold in the center of the throne room he stood, waiting, eager for the arrival of his sister-sons. In his haste and desire for the Arkenstone he’d all but forgotten about them, but on that particular day he’d woken from a restless sleep, Fíli and Kíli fresh on his mind.

A pang of guilt—as sharp and pricking as any Warg’s claw—ran through him at that. How could he have forgotten his beloved nephews? For the first time since their arrival at Erebor, Thorin surveyed the mountains of wealth around him with unease. The gold called to him more strongly than any of his kin, glinting and whispering soft secrets in the dim lighting and for the first time, he was reminded of his grandfather.

I understand how you felt now, the king thought to himself, remembering the way Thrór would wander the halls of their kingdom, his love reserved only for the precious metals within. But the thought was fleeting and he quickly pushed it away, thinking instead, all of this, I did for them.

Fíli and Kíli would understand.

And so he waited, thoughts on the Arkenstone conflicting with those of his nephews. He’d been forced to leave Kíli behind at Laketown, and Fíli—damn his attachment to his brother sometimes!—had opted to stay behind with him. When they had left, Kíli had barely been able to walk, and it was only out of concern for his youngest nephew that he forced Kili to remain behind.

Dís, Fíli, and Kíli were the only true family he had left, and Kíli… Kíli was much like Frerin. Certainly not in looks—his little brother had been more stocky, with stormy blue eyes that had bordered on green. Frerin and his nephew were more alike in manner, in spirit. Frerin had been a dreamer as well, and Thorin couldn’t count the number of times he’d gotten into trouble for something his little brother had done when they were younger. He wasn’t made for the world, a fact Thorin had understood only all too well as his brother had lain in his arms, dying.

Kíli had to survive—he had to. Because if he didn’t….

It would be like losing Frerin all over again.

The king’s contemplative mood only lasted as long as the quiet around him—as soon as Balin reported to him that the Arkenstone had yet to be found, his volatile temper reared its head and he forced himself to rein in the urge to answer his old confidant with a scathing reply. The tug of the gold was stronger now, almost tangible, and Thorin ran a hand across the precious metal in a slow caress. And waited.

Late in the evening, with the muffled echo of footsteps clambering down the great hall and a call from Bilbo, they arrived.

Elves.

The King Under the Mountain almost scoffed at his own foolishness. Almost. Of course the Elves were the first to come, seeking gold and favors that he wouldn’t grant. He could see past their lies and trickery, for what else could be expected from Elves who groveled at the feet of Thranduil the Oath-breaker? The Elvenking must’ve sent them, but Thorin would not be fooled. Not by Thranduil.

Nor ever again. 

Elves. Why had Bilbo let them in?

Thorin braced himself for a confrontation—or quite possibly an attack—as one of the Elves; the taller, dark-haired one that he was fairly certain was male (though it was hard to tell with those pale, smooth-skinned faces—blasted Elves!) took a fluid step towards him, arms outstretched in what was either a pleading gesture or an embrace.

“Uncle!”

Thorin knew that voice and despite all the changes, he knew that face. Kíli. Shock, horror, pity, and anger flooded his mind, stunning him speechless until at last the barrage of emotions subsided, leaving only one behind to take root in his heart—anger.

How dare Thranduil seek to destroy him by sending one of his own in the guise of Thorin’s own kin.

The Elves were masters of deception, Thorin had seen it for himself in Mirkwood when Thranduil lowered the glamor that hid his hideous scarring for a moment. A well-placed concealment spell was all it took, and an Elf could fashion themselves into the likeness of anyone.

How dare that Elf parade around pretending to be Kíli.

“Do I know you, Elf?” Thorin demanded, relishing the way the Elf flinched as he spat its race name as if it were a curse word. Surprise and hurt flitted across its face, and achingly familiar dark brown eyes glinted with tears, which Thorin pretended not to notice. They were only crocodile tears, meant to trick and ensnare him. They were not real. It was not Kíli—

He ground his teeth as he continued. “You have no right to be here, defiling the halls of my fathers! You are a curse, you and all your kin. I have no dealings with Elves, or that cowardly Elf you call a king. Get out now, before I make you. I swear by Durin’s beard, if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

The Elf let out a choked sob, dropping to its knees so that they stood—or in its case, crouched—at the same height. “Uncle, it’s me—Kíli! Kíli, your nephew. Kíli! I’m trapped in this body, but I promise, it’s still me!”

It even managed to perfectly imitate his nephew’s voice. Anguished rage simmered in his chest, and Thorin reached out and slammed it against the ground, grasping it by the collar and wrapping his hands around its neck so tightly that it struggled to breathe. It offered no resistance, only looked up at Thorin with terrified disbelief. It had every right to be afraid. It shouldn’t have chosen to mock him.

“I don’t know what you are,” Thorin growled, “or what your purpose in coming here is, but you are not my nephew.”

“Uncle, stop! You’re hurting him!” He was shoved roughly aside by Fíli, the blond heir hastening to help the Elf, the abomination, to its feet. The Elf still looked shaken, gasping for air and rubbing its neck, where red marks in the shape of a hand had blossomed across its throat.

“You’ve got to believe him. He really is Kíli!” Fíli placed himself protectively in front of the Elf, and it was Thorin’s turn to stare in disbelief. The accursed Elf had bewitched Fíli as well. But how was that possible? This Elf was weak, pathetic. He didn’t even put up a fight when Thorin attacked him! His gaze snapped to the female Elf, who had remained silent and relatively unnoticed up until that point.

“You.” snarled Thorin, “I should’ve known. You’re the Elf-witch behind this.”

“I may have used magic, but I am no witch,” the elleth replied. She stood to her full height, firm and resolute, but Thorin could detect a flicker of fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He recognized her; she was the Captain of the Guard who detained them at Mirkwood. His distaste for the elleth grew.

“I saved his life, but at a price. Fea Evaliir is dangerous and unpredictable, my people have not practiced it even at the best of times. He was dying, and I healed him. I had no control over what happened next, and neither did he. But if anyone is to blame, it is I. I poured life from my own soul into his, it is what sustains him. If he were to become a Dwarf again, the poison would once again catch up and kill him.”

“Tauriel—“ Began the Elf, eyes wide with surprise, but Thorin didn’t allow him to finish.

“No Elf is kin of mine.” It's not Kíli, he fervently told himself. It's not. If it was, I would’ve known. It’s a trick from Thranduil, he wants to steal what is rightfully mine.  “And you will not claim a single gem under this mountain.”

He was tempted to banish the Elf right then and there, but one glance at Fíli and he knew it would not be wise. His remaining nephew was still under the enchantment of the Elves, and until Thorin knew how to break it, he would be forced to play along.  He nodded formally to the Captain of the Guard and her treacherous companion.

“You may stay under the mountain for three days or until I say otherwise. Then you must return to your own, on pain of death.” Hopefully, Dain’s army would be arriving soon, and he could figure out how to break the hold the blasted Elves had over Fíli.

In the meantime though, he would watch and wait, and find out what they were really up to.

Chapter Text

If he had been alone, Kíli didn't know what he would've done. He still didn't know what to do. Even with Fíli, Tauriel, Bofur, and even Oin- although the old healer seemed to have gone selectively deaf, choosing to ignore Thorin's angry shouts and the Elf's shuddering cry, but offering a sympathetic glance and a promise to check back in on how his scratches were healing once he'd properly restocked and his remedy kit afterward.

The rest of the Company was a different story, however.

Between the not-so-inconspicuous walkway to the throne room and the cavernous palace's unfortunate efficiency at carrying echoes (and perhaps a word from Nori, who may or may not have been lingering near the mouth of the archway), their arrival in Erebor was no secret.

Kíli had been hopeful for acceptance but dreading hatred. The one thing he hadn't expected was this.

It was as if the whole Company was walking on eggshells around him and Thorin, or scrutinizing him under a magnifying glass; like he was some odd, brightly colored beetle that no one was quite sure what to do with. Whenever his gaze darted to one of theirs—which was quite often—he always found them staring back, with a pitying or uncertain expression on their face. He even thought he almost caught Ori trying to make a quick sketch of him in his notebook once.

Even when he looked away, he could feel the weight of their gazes boring into the back of his skull. Mahal, didn't they realize how unnerving that was?

Yet no one wanted to say anything, they were too afraid of angering Thorin.

Kíli supposed that they were trying though, at least some of them were. Gloin merely huffed and made a big deal out of sharpening his axe when Kili hovered uncertainly nearby, debating whether or not to sit down next to the redheaded Dwarf. A pointed glance and another meaningful scape of his whetstone against his axe sent the former Dwarf quickly on his way.

But later that night, Bombur slipped him a second helping of stew—of which he vaguely remembered as being one of the better-tasting recipes from their journey—so the dark-haired Elf supposed that at least some of them were on his side, thankfully.

The hardest part was being around Thorin. Kíli longed to call the king uncle, but the ice in Thorin's eyes and the memory of sturdy hands with an iron grip around his throat made the familiar and much-loved familial title die before the words even left his mouth. It didn't help that Thorin seemed adamant not to call him by name.

"Elf," he said instead, with barely restrained civility. Kíli tried not to flinch.

"Thorin," he replied with a respectful nod of his head, testing the name out on his tongue. How wrong it felt without the word uncle in front of it!

But for the most part, Thorin preferred to leave his younger nephew alone. And for that, Kíli wasn't certain whether to be upset or relieved. He was practically bursting to get away from the Company with their judgemental stares and poorly concealed curiosity. He wanted only to be in the company of Tauriel and his brother and maybe get a good night's sleep afterward.

I haven't truly slept since that night at Bard's, how is it that I'm still awake? The former Dwarf thought, incredulous. He felt exhausted, both mentally and physically, but closing his eyes and rolling over on his stomach seemed to no longer do the trick. Having unnaturally good hearing certainly didn't help things either.

There were so many things he needed to ask Tauriel.

Is it true—I'll never be a Dwarf again? Of all his questions, that was the one most pressing—and the most difficult to ask. Kíli wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

But at last, the bustle and activity of the day died down as the Dwarves got ready for sleep. They had made a temporary camp near the mouth of the mountain—blankets were strewn across the floor near the entryway, which was partially obscured by stones. It looked as though Thorin intended to provide a barrier between Erebor and the outside world. From their vantage point, they could easily see anyone coming miles before they reached the gate.

Their sleeping arrangements weren't too close to the entrance though—it was too chilly, and an icy late fall breeze could sweep through the opening with ease. Even without the draft, Erebor grew cold quickly. Kili noticed that the blankets were circled around a fire, its light and warmth waning as it faded into embers.

"Kíli?" The former Dwarf's keen ears detected the pad of bare feet before their owner had even spoken. "Bofur told me about what happened. And—and I believe him. I know you're still in there."

"Master Boggins," said Kíli, turning around to face their burglar.

"It's Baggins, actually." Bilbo corrected gently. The hobbit offered a small, sad smile. "I should've known it was you at the gate, just because of that. I shouldn't have snapped at you, though. Do you forgive me?"

Kíli supposed that in his own fussy, proper way the hobbit was actually trying to be comforting. He shrugged in response. "Of course."

If only seeking forgiveness from Uncle was this easy. But what did he have to apologize for—being an Elf?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why had he even come in the first place? He knew that Thorin hated Elves, so why should he have expected to be treated any differently? Because you're his nephew, that's why, his quiet internal voice chided. He loves you and Fili—or at least he did. You're not the only one who's changed. Thorin had changed as well.

Bilbo seemed uncomfortable—and a little unnerved—at how quiet the youngest Durin was being. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well. Right then, I guess I'll be on my way." He started to turn, only to stop in his tracks. "Hypothetically, if Thorin got the Arkenstone, do you think he'd stop this madness?"

Kíli paused and considered this. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I've never seen Uncle act this way before. It might make him better, but it might make him worse. Why are you asking?"

"Oh. Ah, no reason," the hobbit answered evasively, and Kíli was too tired to pursue it further. "Just wondering. Good night, Kíli!"

With Bilbo headed off to bed, the former Dwarf decided to seek out Tauriel. He hadn't seen her since dinner, where she'd quickly drained her bowl and slipped away, leaving him to awkwardly try and bond with the Company. As irritated as he was by her disappearance, he couldn't deny that her presence probably wouldn't help prove that he wasn't really an Elf.

He carefully walked around the resting company towards the mouth of Erebor, pausing as he reached the pile of stones. They only came up to his waist. With only a moment of decision, the dark-haired Elf gathered his strength and leaped, landing lightly on top of them. He staggered for a moment, trying to regain his balance—he'd only been half expecting to clear the jump, but his new Elven muscles responded with surprising fluidity—before straightening to his full height.

A gentle wind blew through his hair and the moon hung high in the sky as full and round as a silver coin, casting everything below it in a soft, grayish light. The sky was clear, the stars glittering down on him coldly. Kíli let out a slow breath. It had been a while since he'd looked at the stars—truly looked at them, with more than a passing glance.

As his gaze drifted lower, he caught sight of something (or in his case, someone) that made his heart skip a beat.

Tauriel. She too was looking at the stars.

Jumping down from his perch, he made his way over to her. She was Elven—of course long spans of time spent underground were uncomfortable for her. Kili supposed that he should've tried looking for her outside sooner. He pointedly ignored the fact that above ground, under the open sky, he felt significantly more relaxed as well.

She straightened slightly as he came near, acknowledging his presence, but her gaze remained fixed on the stars. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" she asked.

Kíli murmured in agreement. "Mm, you are."

She turned towards him in surprise, and Kili could almost swear that she was blushing, even though her voice remained serious as she replied, "I was talking about the stars."

"What did you think I was talking about?" asked Kíli, arching his brow innocently. A smile—albeit a small one, but a smile all the same—twitched at the corners of his mouth, and he fought it down. "You must've misheard me." Mahal, she was fun to tease.

"You mock me," said Tauriel, but her eyes danced with mirth.

"Who, me? I would never dream of it, my lady. Or should I say Captain? I'd have to be pretty foolish to mess with the Captain of the Guard."

Her cheerfulness faded at that, and Kíli knew that he'd said the wrong thing. But what? Tauriel lowered her eyes, shamefaced.

"I am no longer Captain of the Guard, the Elvenking has decreed me banished. I cannot return to Mirkwood."

For a fleeting moment, the former Dwarf almost offered the Silvan elleth a place at Erebor. Then he remembered that even he wouldn't be allowed at Erebor in three days' time, if he couldn't convince Thorin of who he was. Dread clawed at his stomach, and Kíli suddenly felt sick with fear. "Then where will we go? You can't be with your people, and I can't be with mine. I'm frightened," he admitted, as hard as it was to get the words out in front of Tauriel. "I've never been anywhere without my brother. Not for a very long time, at least."

"You and your brother must be very close." There was a note of wistfulness in her voice that Kili hadn't heard before.

He nodded. "Fíli's five years older than I am. The best big brother I could ask for. We used to get into trouble all the time when we were younger. Wait, no—we still do. There was this one time on our quest where we got…sidetracked… and when we turned around, two of the ponies were gone! Trolls had taken them!"

"Trolls?" Tauriel asked, clearly skeptical.

"Aye, trolls. Stupid, ugly, and huge!" The dark-haired Elf spread his arms for emphasis. When Tauriel still looked doubtful, he huffed in mock indignation. "I'll have you know that I have witnesses, thirteen of them! Ask any Dwarf—or Master Boggins. Fili and I sent him to take back the ponies."

"You sent the Hobbit to face the trolls all on his own?"

"We were right behind him! Well, sort of," Kíli amended. "But that's what he was meant for. What's the point of having a burglar if he doesn't do burglarly things?"

They both laughed at that, neither sure of who started to first or what exactly it was they were laughing over, the mental image of poor Bilbo, so proper that he wanted to postpone the quest to head back to Bag End to grab his handkerchief, up against trolls or Kili's use of the word burglarly. Perhaps stress had taken its toll on both of them and they'd finally cracked.

Whatever the case, as their laughter subsided, Kíli asked, "What about you and your family? Any brothers or sisters? What are your parents like?"

"I have no siblings, and as for my parents, they were killed in an Orc raid." said Tauriel.

"I'm sorry," said Kíli, mentally kicking himself. There he went ruining the mood—again. But Tauriel merely shook her head.

"It's not your fault, you weren't the ones who killed them. My father was a member of the King's Guard, and I vowed to follow in his footsteps. His name was Caranor, from the words "red fire" in Sindarin. It matched his appearance as well—I inherited my hair color from him. He was brave and had a warrior's spirit."

"That's another thing you inherited from him then," said Kíli, and Tauriel smiled.

"My mother's name was Imril," the elleth continued, "and she was a healer. I learned some from her before she passed. She was one of the last great practitioners of fea evaliir, the same magic I used to save you."

The former Dwarf's breath caught in his throat as he was once again given a reminder of earlier. "Tauriel, is it true that…" He paused, struggling to find the words. "…that I'll never be a Dwarf again?"

Tauriel paused, reluctant. Uncertainty and fear shone in Kíli's eyes, but underneath she could still detect a glimmer of hope. Don't give him hope where there is none, part of her cautioned, but she quickly pushed it away. It sounded too much like Thranduil. Besides, who was to say that there was no hope? She didn't have the power to reverse what she'd done, but perhaps there was some entity out there that could. Tauriel decided that honesty would probably be the best option.

"I don't know, but it is unlikely." The Silvan elleth admitted, watching as the dark-haired Elf seemed to deflate. He seemed miserable, exhausted. She reached out and took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "But much of which was once impossible has become possible. I never imagined that this fate would become yours, so why is it not possible that such a thing can't be reversed? "

Kíli nodded and started to say something, but then yawned. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes. "Do Elves ever go to sleep?"

"Yes, but it is not the kind of sleep you would think of it as." Her eyes widened as she realized what Kili was implying. "You haven't slept yet?"

"Nope." Kíli huffed. "Not a wink. Not since before all of this at least. You know that saying, 'evil doesn't sleep?' I was starting to think it applied to Elves as well. What do you mean, Elves don't sleep the way Dwarves do?” Then, reluctantly, “Tauriel, I'm so tired. How do I do it?"

"Well, for one… Elves sleep with their eyes open."

She almost laughed as Kíli jumped, astonishment written all over his face. "I have to what? How is that possible? Won't my eyes go dry?”

She didn't manage to suppress a small laugh at that, especially as Kíli indignantly spluttered, "This isn't funny! I'm being serious!"

"So am I, meleth nin." replied Tauriel, still chuckling. "All Elves sleep with their eyes open, it is the way of the Eldar. I've been alive for hundreds of years, and I've never heard of any Elf getting anything in their eyes while they slept.

"It's normal and safe," she added as Kíli continued staring at her, doubtful. "and far more restful than the sleep of either Men or Dwarves. I prefer to lie on my back and watch as dreams and starlight fade into one, but others do it differently. You're already tired, so it should come easily to you. Lie down so that you're comfortable, then breathe deeply and focus your gaze on a single spot. Think peaceful, soothing thoughts."

"Soothing? Uncle Thorin hates me. Something's going to land in my eye!" Kíli's breathing began to grow rapid with panic. "In three days' time, I'm going to be exiled from Erebor!"

Tauriel's heart twisted in sympathy for the still newly-turned Elf. She understood how difficult it was to lose a home. "Don't say that, there's still time to convince your uncle. A lot can happen in three days time. There is always hope."

A heavy sigh came in response, but when the former Dwarf once again spoke, he sounded a good deal calmer. "I know. We still have a few more days, and I won't waste a single one of them." A pause. Then, "Tauriel? What does meleth nin mean?"

My love. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she was saved from answering by an unexpected cry of, "Kíli!"

Both Elves turned to Fíli racing towards them.

"There you are, brother," he said as soon as he reached Kíli. The moonlight washed his hair in an almost silver sheen and the relief reflected in his eyes was evident. "I've been looking everywhere for you, and was starting to worry you'd run away."

"I'm not going anywhere." Kíli squared his shoulders defensively. He bent over to hug his brother, and Fili and Tauriel exchanged a long, meaningful look over his shoulder while unaware. If they couldn't convince Thorin—and soon—then Kili might not have any choice.

After Kíli and Fíli parted from their embrace, Tauriel bid the brothers goodnight and quietly strode away to give the two some time together alone.

"You've been up exceptionally early lately, Kee," said Fíli, stifling a yawn. "Are you ready to go back inside and get some rest?"

"Who says I ever went to sleep in the first place?"

"You haven't—how did you—?" For once, Fíli- Thorin's golden heir, the diplomatic one- seemed to be at a loss for words. Kili grinned slightly at his brother's confusion and astonishment. "Do Elves not—" Fíli at last choked out,"—not sleep?"

"They sleep, it's just different." said Kíli, not bothering to explain any of the said differences. He still wasn't sure if he understood the mechanics of Elven sleep himself. Waiting until starlight and dreams blend into one? It sounded terribly confusing. He yawned as well. "I'm so tired."

"Then let's go inside," Fíli offered again.

Kíli tensed up. He didn't want to go back inside the mountain. That was where the walls threatened to close in all around him. Where the moon cast dark shadows on the walls. Where Thorin attacked him. He didn't want to set foot back in the mountain, not at the moment at least.

"Er, Fíli?" The dark-haired Elf cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I think I'd rather stay out here and sleep." At his brother's stunned expression, he quickly explained. "I don't feel comfortable down there. Not after Uncle… I won't stay out here forever. Just for tonight."

"Alright," said Fíli, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. As his brother lay down and got himself situated in the grass, he turned to leave. "Good night, Kili."

"Fee?" The blond heir stopped in his tracks.

"Yes, Kee?"

"Will you stay with me, please?" Kíli's voice had become small, pleading. It reminded Fíli of when they were younger, and Kíli would have nightmares about goblins under his bed. He would then clamber into Fíli's bed and make Fíli promise to fight off all the goblins if they came. It reminded him of simpler times. He glanced back at the Elf- his brother- and shivered. The night air was cool and crisp, much different from the warm, inviting fire within Erebor.

"Of couse I will," said Fíli, and Kíli relaxed, a small but grateful smile on his lips. Fíli lay down next to his brother, nestling against his side for warmth.

Kíli sighed in contentment. His brother was with him, and Tauriel was with him as well. Metaphorically speaking, that was. Despite his earlier misgivings, he felt sleep begin to overtake him. It felt different than it had before—his eyelids didn't get heavy—but his body loosened and his thoughts slowed. The starlight seemed to swirl above him, and he was only dimly aware of Fíli beside him.

Tauriel was right—the stars were beautiful, especially as they seemed to leap and dance across the sky. He wanted to wake Fíli and show him as well, but his arm felt too heavy to move… Come to think of it, his entire body felt like it was weighted to the ground… But that was okay, for the sky above him shimmered with color…

I wonder… Began Kíli, but that was as far as he got.

Elven sleep had overtaken him.

Chapter Text

Kíli… Kíli? Kíli! Get up! KíLI!"

Rough hands shook him, and Kíli bolted upright, everything sharpening back into focus as he regained consciousness. Fíli! Concern shot through him like a lightning bolt. The former Dwarf hastily blinked a few times, clearing the last remnants of dreams and the memory of starlight from his mind.

Fíli sat beside him, one hand still clasped on his arm. "Thank Mahal," he sighed in utter relief.

Kíli stared at him in as if he were mad, not quite sure what was running through his brother's mind. Fíli looked calm now, though there was still an uncertain look in his eyes. He stole a quick around them, but the mountain was quiet. No signs of danger.

His confusion only deepened as Fíli drew him into an embrace. "You're alive." His voice was slightly muffled, pressed up against the front of Kíli's shirt. "I'd thought something had happened to you."

"Wait—what?" was Kíli's very eloquent reply. What could Fíli possibly be talking about?

"You looked dead," said Fíli, drawing back and looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "Your eyes were open and you weren't moving. You weren't looking at anything either. Your gaze was glassy, and when I called your name you didn't respond."

"I was sleeping," said Kíli, slightly awed himself. The sun had already risen- had he really spent the entire night like that?

"Sleeping." Fíli murmured, dazed. "Are there any other strange Elvish habits I need to know about before you give me another heart attack?"

"Hmm... No, I think that covers it." said Kíli. He had absolutely no idea whether or not there was anything else Fíli should know of. If Elves instinctively did anything else bizarre, Kíli had a nagging feeling that he would find out about it pretty soon, whether he wanted to or not. Pushing the feeling away, he turned back towards his brother, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

"But if I develop a craving for green foods and start wanting to play the harp, please put me out of my misery," he said.

Fíli cast him a sidelong glance, unsure of whether or not he was serious. To this Kíli merely rolled his eyes. "I'm joking, Fee. Absolutely joking. I'm not that much of an Elf, I'm more of a Dwelf, really."

"A Dwelf?"

"You know, part Dwarf, part Elf?"

"That I do believe, is the most stupid thing I've ever heard of." said Fíli lightly, still recovering from the near-panic he'd felt at mistaking his sleeping brother for dead. "Only you would joke in a situation like this."

Kíli shrugged. "I'm an Elf on the outside, but a Dwarf on the inside. That'll never change." But what about last night? Part of him whispered darkly. When you were too afraid to go inside the mountain? Was that not a change? An Elven change? He was already an Elf physically, but what if he became one mentally as well? The idea made his stomach churn.

They betrayed our people, the former Dwarf reminded himself. I'm not really one of them. I'm not.

Why did he joke about his condition?

Because the only other option was to despair.

"Why did you do that?"

"Why did I do what?" Thorin's gaze evenly met Fíli's own, but to Fíli, the only thing it seemed was distant. Vacant, even. Uncaring. So remote— so different—from the uncle he knew. One of Thorin's hands roved again over the gossamer surface of the crystal-inlaid bureau beside them, and he felt the urge to slap it away. "You know what I'm talking about, Uncle," he pressed quickly, almost desperately. "Why did you hurt Kíli?"

Something in Thorin's expression shifted. "The Elf?" A certain coldness—one that Fíli realized with a sinking heart that he reserved only for the Fair Folk—seeped in his eyes, and his uncle turned away in response. "I do not trust Elves, and neither should you. You're my heir, Fíli, you must understand. You will be king one day, and that Elf has filled your head with nothing but lies and deceit."

"His name is Kíli—"

"He is not Kíli!" Thorin hissed, so suddenly that Fíli took a step back. It sounded so resolved, so rehearsed, that the blonde Dwarf wondered if it had become a mantra he told himself. "He's not. If your brother is not here with you, then he's dead." For the first time, Fíli could see genuine grief in Thorin's countenance and felt a flare of hope. Perhaps, amid all this madness, Thorin could be reached after all.

His uncle reached out and clasped a hand on his shoulder. "I understand what it's like to lose a brother-"

The weight of his hand on Fíli's shoulder was familiar, comforting. But Fíli could not allow himself to be comforted. He shook his hand off. "Yes, but Kíli's not dead. He's alive! The other Elf—Tauriel—she healed him, back in Laketown. He's the Elf, Uncle. It's him!"

"So this is how you handle your grief?" demanded Thorin. "You imagine that he is that Elf?"

"I don't imagine, I know—"

"Enough!" A sharp intake of breath and rapidly clenched fists were all Fíli needed to know that his Uncle was barely holding together. "Do not dishonor your brother's memory by associating him with that thrice-dammed Elf. He's gone, Fíli. You've lost your brother, and I've lost a sister-son." His gaze wandered over the droves of treasure—they stood alone atop a mountain of valuables, and across the room, they could see Bombur doling out portions of stew—and Fíli wondered what possibly was going through his mind.

"Do not dishonor your brother's memory," Thorin repeated, softer that time, as if afraid that another besides them might overhear. His fears weren't entirely unfounded; at that moment Kíli glanced up from the corner he'd tucked himself away in, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth before giving a small shrug and resuming his meal. Tauriel sat a few feet beside him.

His uncle was right. Fíli had momentarily forgotten about the sharp ears of Elves.

"You do not understand what it is you speak of. You are my heir, but your mother was right. You and your brother were too young to come on this quest. You know nothing of the world. The Elves have you under their control, and you have no idea. They are oath-breakers and traitors, servants of Thranduil here to steal what belongs to our people—"

"Do you even hear yourself?" challenged Fíli.

A narrow but unyielding line had been drawn between them, one that had been invisible up to that point, one that Fíli hadn't even been aware of nor realized he'd crossed. Never before had he spoken to his uncle so blatantly.

Yet he knew which side of it he stood on; he also knew that there was no turning back.

"Think about it," he urged, willing his uncle to see reason. "Why would the Elvenking send two Elves—unarmed, worn ragged—into Erebor when he could send an entire army? What could there possibly be to gain from this? They could be spies, yes, but if they were then it would be foolish for them to enter deep inside the mountain. If Thranduil wished to invade then we would have two easy hostages."

Thorin's eyes darkened as he saw Bofur pick up his bowl and go sit beside the dark-haired Elf, Ori not far behind, sketchbook in hand. Fíli wondered if he still held his uncle's attention.

"If he is Kíli," said the Dwarf king at last, "then why has he not anything to convince me of it?"

Noting the deliberate transition from referring to Kíli as a he and not an it, Fíli felt a good deal more optimistic. However, he chose his words carefully. "You frightened him, Uncle. He came seeking help and acceptance, and you nearly choked him to death. Give him a chance, and he'll prove it."

"He is not Kíli," Thorin scowled as the two Dwarves began making their way toward the others. He sounded angrier than before, but Fíli thought he caught a twinge of uncertainty. He certainly covered it up well enough behind a mask of hostility though. His tone was distinctly confrontational as he asked, "And if I banish this Elf from our homeland, what will you do?"

Fíli didn't break stride, even as Thorin's steps slowed.

"I told you," he said, brushing past his uncle without even a backward glance, "my place is with my brother."

And with that, he left behind a very stunned and troubled Thorin Oakenshield, ruminating over his older nephew and his attachment to that accursed Elf.

The Elf with the eyes of Kíli.

It seemed, perhaps, that Mahal was in his side after all.

By lunch, Kili was certain that he'd convinced several more members of the company of his true identity, and he was all the more grateful for it. Maybe it was the absence of Thorin's watchful presence, or that they were finally beginning to recover from the shock of the previous night, but whatever the case, the interactions between him and the rest of the Company had taken a definite turn for the better. They were still hesitant around him, Kíli noticed, but less guarded. Freer.

The dark-haired Elf allowed himself a small smile. If Bifur hadn't directed a comment towards him earlier that morning—the gruff, axe-wielding dwarrow voicing his own suspicion, not truly expecting Kíli to understand it—and if he hadn't responded as equally fluently in Khuzdul, their native language feeling familiar and right on his lips, even if they were Elven ones, Kíli supposed that they'd still be back on square one of the trust phase.

He was very happy that the Dwarven language was such a secretive one; there was no possible way an outsider could've learned it, especially an Elf.

After that, it seemed that he quickly gained acceptance from the vast majority of the Company, although they approached him with varying degrees of friendliness and trust. Even Gloin- who had scared the dark-haired Elf off earlier, sharpening his axe, gave a curt nod of approval.

While it was a definite improvement from the night before, Kíli could sense the unspoken question hanging above them. It was the same question he'd been asking himself: how much had becoming an Elf changed him? While they were no longer openly hostile, Kíli had a feeling he wouldn't be privy to any conversations involving personal secrets or information regarding Dwarven conflict with Elves anytime soon.

He wore the body of the enemy.

But that didn't stop some of the Dwarves. Ori was becoming comfortable around him once again—although the scribe still refused to show him what he kept scribbling down in his journal, and his brothers followed suit. Kíli may not have known the brothers of Ri as well as some of the others in the Company, but they showed no outward signs of discomfort at hanging around the former Dwarf.

Maybe the axe stuck in his forehead interfered with his judgment as well, but after their brief confrontation earlier, Bifur seemed to trust him as well, even agreeing to show the two Elves the basic layout of Erebor.

"We're almost there. Only a few more passageways to go until we reach Prince Frerin's old room if my memory serves me correctly." said Bofur, translating for Tauriel as his exclusively Khuzdul-speaking brother guided them through the halls. Of course, the toymaker added his own comments in as well. "Although it's been more than a few years," he admitted cheerfully, "so we may be wandering around for a while. But there's no shame in that, right lad?"

"No," said Kíli, managing to find his voice. "This place is amazing. Just like it is in Uncle's stories just… bigger. More real. It's incredible."

Indeed, the dark-haired Elf found Erebor far more bearable during the daytime, away from the vast throne room and Thorin, the glittering piles of gold. Madness. That's what Bofur had called it. His uncle had fallen prey to madness, the dragon sickness consuming his mind. It was the only thing that would've driven Thorin to attack him, both the toymaker and Fíli assured him, though Kíli wasn't so sure. Was it?

Pleased with Kíli's reaction, Bofur grinned. "Aye, at this rate you might be able to see most of Erebor within a few days' time." He turned to Tauriel, still grinning. "And I do believe that you're the first Elf to get your own private tour of these halls. What do you think of that, lass?"

Tauriel returned his smile graciously. "I am honored, Master Dwarf."

The four of them walked through the hall in an easy, companionable fashion. He'd originally planned on spending the morning with Fíli, but after seeing his brother approach Thorin he'd hastily headed off the other way, deciding that he wanted no part in that. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the previous evening.

Coward, part of him chastised. He's your uncle, you shouldn't be afraid of him! But then Kíli remembered strong hands wrapping around his throat, and his fears felt well-founded. You only have three days to convince him of who you are, and you're wasting them!

His dark thoughts were interrupted when Tauriel suddenly came to a stop.

"This is an Elvish blade." The warmth in her tone had faded somewhat, to be replaced by an uncertain, almost hostile tone. Kíli felt his stomach do a nervous flip-flop. Tauriel and Bofur couldn't fight. As small as it was, he was enjoying the temporary peace between their races, even if it was only between two Dwarves, an Elf, and a Dwelf.

Tauriel bent down, picking up the sheathed blade that lay almost haphazardly across the floor in the doorway of one of the doorways on the side of the hall, dusting off the sheath. "Anga," she read, translating the name inscribed in Elvish runes. "Iron."

Kíli snorted, somewhat breaking the tension. "That's not very creative. That's like calling your pony steed or naming a dog puppy."

"There wasn't always war between the Dwarves and Elves." Bofur pushed the door open a little further, stepping inside. The hinges groaned in protest, and as the door opened, the smell of must and something that Kíli could only describe as old swept out. He wrinkled his nose, stepping gingerly inside. Everything seemed to be covered in a fine layer of dust.

"There was once a time where the two races were allies, though that hasn't been for hundreds of years." Bofur brushed the dust coating off an old shield, Elvish runes inscribed on it as well. "Though who knows how long it has been since this room was used."

Tauriel seemed to relax, placing Anga inside a box of swords that sat adjacent to the door. The sword must've originally been knocked out of there in the first place. "However, not everything Elvish under the mountain is here because my people wanted it to be. Some of it was given unwillingly as tribute." Unease crept into her voice. "The Elvenking will stop at nothing to regain the white gems of starlight."

"That may be," replied Bofur stiffly, and Kíli quickly looked away.

There had been a time—and it hadn't been that long ago—that he would've fought viciously for the riches of Erebor, but now… he wasn't so sure. He saw the light of hunger and desire in the eyes of his kin as they surveyed the wealth around them and while he didn't ever want to be as bad as Thorin, he almost envied them for it.

He was of Durin's Folk—fine craftsmanship and an appreciation of fine stones ran in his blood—but when he walked past the mountains of gold or examined a crystal in the palm of his hand, he felt nothing. Certainly a sense of awe and admiration at its beauty, but nothing deeper. No desire to hold it close, to keep it for himself. At first, he worried that such a thing was an Elf trait- greed was a desire less associated with the Elves, so maybe he was changed—but it didn't seem that all Elves were immune.

The king of Mirkwood didn't seem to be, after all. Kíli found it oddly reassuring. Maybe I never really cared that much in the first place, he reflected. However, his eyes brightened as he caught sight of something he did desire.

Bows and arrows.

Several of them were lined up against the back wall, all of decidedly Elvish make. He ran a practiced hand across their limbs admiringly. His old bow no longer fit him—in fact, it looked more like a child's first bow rather than a dangerous weapon in contrast to his new form, and as loathe as he was to part with it, he definitely needed a new one.

He also had to admit that he was a little excited; he'd asked for a new bow before leaving Ered Luin, but had been unable to get one. Any extra money was being saved to buy provisions for their quest.

Picking out the most Dwarven looking of the bows—a sturdy recurve bow, crafted from dark painted wood, but still painstakingly Elvish with its elegant curves and design, Kíli picked it up and flexed its limb, pleased to find that it was still strong and supple. It needed to be restrung, but that wouldn't be too much of a problem. He knew where the extra string was kept.

Relaxing his hold, he gestured eagerly for Tauriel to come over. "Tauriel! Come over here and we can get you a new one. These old bows are in great condition!"

Tauriel came beside him, eyes running over the collection as well.

"Will your king allow me to take one?" She asked, clearly doubtful.

Kíli shrugged, busy counting how many arrows he had in his quiver. Ten. Not bad, but he would definitely need to find more. "I don't know, but I have a claim to a thirteenth of Erebor's treasure. I'll claim it as part of my share." Before Tauriel could protest, he added, "Think of it as a gift, from me to you."

"Thank you."

Gifts were part of a traditional Dwarven courtship, and the acceptance of such a gift meant that the dwarrowdam in question had accepted its giver as a suitor. The dark-haired Elf could feel the color rising to his cheeks; even if they weren't truly courting, and Tauriel didn't understand the significance of such a gift, his mind lingered on it. Yes, a new bow would make an excellent first courtship gift.

Not that that's what it was, of course. Kíli cleared his throat, forcing down a small smile.

"You're welcome." He replied in all seriousness. "Your bow's larger than mine, but it's not the size of the bow but the size of the arrow that matters, if you know what I mean." The innuendo would've worked better had he still been a Dwarf, but he was determined to use it anyway. Payback for the quip about nothing in his trousers at Mirkwood.

"I have no idea what you mean by that," Tauriel said with a straight face, the picture of innocence. "Could you explain it to me?"

Kíli felt his face burn even further, and she flashed him a small grin. The elleth knew he wasn't going to try and explain that to her! She knew perfectly well what he was talking about—

Wait. Was she flirting with him?

His mood once again brightened considerably.

With the exception of Bofur, any other poor Dwarf probably would've been traumatized by their exchange.

Tauriel picked up a pale longbow, but instead of keeping it for herself as Kíli had expected, she handed it to him, taking the recurve bow out of his hands. "Here. This one's better."

But it's too Elven! Kíli wanted to protest, handling the weapon unhappily. Knowing that such a comment, wouldn't go over well with Tauriel, he kept it to himself. "I don't want this one," he said instead. "The other is more like my old bow, I'll be able to use it better."

"As a Dwarf, perhaps," said Tauriel, "a recurve bow is smaller sized, fitting as much strength as possible into its frame. It works for a Dwarf or a rider on horseback. Elves are tall, and we fight on foot." Kíli flinched slightly at being included in that we. "A longbow has more power and a longer range, you should use it."

Kíli sighed, accepting the weapon as Tauriel picked one similar.

They then continued to explore the room, Kíli drifting towards the center of the room when suddenly, a glint of gold caught his eye. Curious, the former Dwarf made his way over to it. Encrusted in dust, it stood taller than him, rectangular and narrow. He brought his hand up and rubbed it, stepping back as the dust fell away.

It was a mirror.

And in the mirror, he saw himself.

Kíli froze upon seeing his altered reflection for the first time. A startled Elf gazed back at him, foreign yet familiar at the same time. Pointed ears stuck out from behind dark, unruly hair, but worst of all was the face. Smooth, flawless skin. No beard. Mahal, why did Elves have to look so feminine?

Mortified, he remembered his accidental flirtation with that male Elf at Rivendell. Dwarf girls were manlier than Elf men.

A hand wrapped around his arm, drawing him away from the terrible reflection. Bofur's hand. "Come away from it, lad." The toymaker advised, correctly reading Kíli's staggered expression. "Don't look."

Numbly, Kíli obeyed, and they left the Elven room behind.

Chapter Text

Is that really what I look like? Kíli plucked another arrow from his quiver and drew back his bow. What everyone sees when they look at me?

He steadied himself, placing the foot opposite from his dominant hand forward and adjusting his grip near the end of the arrow, long and still foreign-feeling fingers holding it in place. It was in moments like this that he most keenly felt the differences his new body provided.

They—he and Tauriel—were back outside the mountain, breaking in the new bows. The side of the mountain was a treacherous terrain; reluctant to stray far from Erebor, the two Elves decided to make do with the uneven ground around them, and Kíli's boots scrabbled for purchase on the dry, barren ground. He hastily—far too hastily—released his arrow, swearing softly under his breath in Khuzdul as it missed his target, a rather scrawny rowan tree that seemed to stand an impossibly far distance away.

Or, it should've seemed an impossibly far distance away. He could see every twist and knot in the tree's gnarled branches. Mahal, he possessed the eyesight every mortal archer dreamed about.

Was it a blessing or a curse?

The glowy-light thing in his chest leaped to life again, flickering with concern. Kíli grimaced, lowering his bow to rub at his collarbone. Stupid Light of the Eldar. He didn't need it reminding him that he was no longer a Dwarf. He already had everything else to help him out with that one.

Unbidden, the sight of himself in the mirror floated to the front of his mind.

He caught Tauriel looking at him, worry written clear across her features, and dropped his hand.

"It's nothing," he said.

"I didn't ask if it was nothing," replied Tauriel, lowering her own bow. They hadn't been practicing for very long, but even in that short amount of time, she'd already struck the tree more than a couple of times. He had yet to hit it once. She tilted her head slightly to the side, calculating. "I didn't even ask if it was something. What's troubling you?"

"It's stupid, really." He was one of Durin's Folk. They weren't supposed to show weakness. They weren't supposed to despair. They especially weren't supposed to turn into Elves.

His breath caught in his throat.

"How about you?" he asked instead.

It was wrong, everything was wrong. Every problem seemed to revolve around him. When facing the spiders in Mirkwood, Tauriel had been the one to save him. When he clambered out of the barrel to open the gate, she had come to his rescue once again. Then, as he lay dying, poison in his blood, who had saved his life?

And now she was exiled from the only home she'd ever known, saddled with him, a useless Dwelf who couldn't even go to sleep without help. She'd risked so much, and he wasn't even sure if what they had was love. Did she feel the same way he did?

"I'm doing well enough, I suppose." She looked thoughtful, honest but surprised to be asked such a question, moistening her lips with her tongue before continuing. Kíli didn't care if what he felt was wrong or not; he wanted to kiss those lips. She gazed off into the direction of Mirkwood. "I miss the forest, but I couldn't stay. My people, we look out for our own and for our realm, but care not for what surrounds it. This fight is our fight, just as much as it is for Men and Dwarves."

"But we've won back the mountain," Kíli argued. "The hardest part is over, Smaug is dead. My uncle will find the Arkenstone and unite the Dwarf clans, and those of us that are scatted will return to the mountain. If Azog returns—"

"Azog—?"

"The pale Orc whose army invaded Mirkwood. He's been chasing us since before we reached the borders of Rivendell. He's obsessed. They even chased us up trees once! Luckily Gandalf was there and we all threw flaming pinecones at him! Not Gandalf of course, but the pale Orc. I even managed to hit his Warg."

"A powerful Orc army has been chasing you for months, and you all survived?"

Kíli huffed. "No need to sound surprised about it. We do an excellent job of looking out for ourselves."

"Except when you need to be saved from the spiders," replied Tauriel.

And everything else, it seems. A bitter part of himself added. Did she harbor any true feelings toward him? Vaguely, Kíli remembered mumbling something about starlight and another world while feverish at Bard's. It felt like a punch in his stomach. He'd written it off as part of a fevered dream, but he'd assumed the same thing about Tauriel at first. And she'd been real.

Mahal. Had he actually said all that?

But even worse… Tauriel had said nothing back. Nothing. Not even a tender murmur.

He knew it had been unconventional—a Dwarf and an Elf? Impossible!—but he'd hoped. Even with his uncle and his hatred of Elves, even with his mortal life and her immortal one, he'd desperately hoped. He that if it wasn't for his bloodline, he'd hardly been considered a catch.

What dwarrow couldn't grow a proper beard?

As far as Elves went… Well, Kíli wasn't so sure. What did an Elf consider attractive? He'd seen himself in a mirror, yes, but he couldn't make much of it. All he knew was that he probably would've been deemed by his Dwarf self as "pretty" enough to flirt with, and that wasn't remotely reassuring. But what did Tauriel think?

Mahal, was it possible for one's unattractiveness to transcend a racial transformation?

"Tauriel?" asked Kíli.

Chills raced down Tauriel's spine. Ai Valar, she loved it when he said her name. How could a single voice, three mere syllables, contain so much? She locked eyes with the uncertain dark-haired Elf beside her. "Yes, Kíli?"

The question that came was not the one she expected.

"Am I… AmIattractiveforanElf?" The words came out in a wild, hurried jumble. She blinked in surprise.

"Are you what?"

She watched as Kíli took another breath, stumbling over his words. He ducked his head nervously, staring at his feet for a moment before darting his gaze back to her. "Am I attractive for an Elf?" Every word was clearly and carefully articulated.

He sounded like he was about to die from embarrassment.

"Yes," she said, finding that it was no lie. "I think you are."

Kíli looked uncertain at that, and Tauriel was unsure of where his hesitancy originated from. Did he not believe her, or was it because Dwarven standards of beauty were so different from Elven ones that he found it difficult to accept? Whatever the case, he looked choked, gripping his bow so forcefully his knuckles turned white.

She hesitated. He had gone through so much already, more than any one being should have to endure, especially not one as young and bright as Kíli.

But he was adapting to his life far better than she'd hoped. Every day he looked stronger, more like himself again. She was no longer worried that he would fade from grief, even though she knew he struggled with his new existence. He still wasn't fully alright, deep down inside.

But he will be, thought Tauriel, because that's the kind of person he is.

If there was anything she knew about Kili, it was that nothing could keep him down for long.

Gently, she reached out one hand and ran it alongside his jawline. It was different than she'd expected; strong and sleek instead of covered in stubble and rough against her hand like she'd used to imagine it.

"But I found you handsome before," she said.

Kíli's eyes lit up, and her heart sped up, pounding out a frantic rhythm in her chest. What was it—disbelief, joy? She wasn't sure. They were close, too close. Wonderfully, terribly, amazingly close. This was the first time she'd initiated contact between them, and it felt right. Even as the back of her mind screamed you don't know what you're doing, this is happening too quickly-

But she didn't draw away. Not this time. Instead, she leaned in even closer to him.

And then she saw him.

Not simply as an Elf, or a former Dwarf, or even as the nephew of Thorin Oakenshield. No, she saw him as Kíli, spirited and reckless Kíli, the one who showed her that there was life and love outside of Mirkwood, whose eyes blazed with insecurity.

She vowed to make that insecurity disappear.

"…Tauriel?" he said.

"Kíli," she said, grasping the tall Elf's shoulders and gently pulling him downwards until her lips met his.

Tauriel was kissing him.

Tauriel was kissing him. Kíli stiffened in disbelief, the feeling of her lips soft and inviting against his own. Perhaps the Morgul poison was still in his veins and in reality, he still lay unconscious atop Bard's table in Laketown, because this was all too bizarre to be real. It was a chaste kiss, quick and gentle, but it left him reeling.

She loved him back.

And then it was he who was kissing her.

Kíli flung his bow aside, drawing her into his embrace. Tauriel let out a sharp gasp of surprise as his mouth passionately met hers. He hesitated for a moment, relaxing once again as the Silvan elleth dropped her own bow. He felt her reach back, twining her hands in his hair.

The former Dwarf cupped the sides of her face with both hands, running a deft finger along the side of her left ear. A shudder ran through her body, and Kíli wanted to smirk. He was just beginning to understand how sensitive an Elf's ear truly was.

Their kiss began to grow more heated and they were just about to break away for air when suddenly, Kíli heard the snap of a twig and the sharp hiss of a surprised breath drawn in behind them.

"Ahem," a very stern voice said, wavering on losing composure. "And what are you doing?"

Uncle Thorin! The youngest Durin felt his stomach drop. Hastily, he untangled himself from Tauriel. His uncle stood with his arms crossed across his chest, storm clouds gathering in his eyes as a scowl settled on the lower half of his face. Although he towered over his uncle, Kíli once again felt very small. A dwarfling caught raiding the cookie jar.

But this time, the situation was so much worse.

"We were, erm…. Practicing archery?"

It came out more like a question than an actual answer.

"Were you now?" said Thorin, scathing. Kíli cringed, knowing that his uncle's tone was more of a challenge than an open-ended question.

"We were," said Tauriel, raising her chin defensively, "We were practicing on that rowan tree over there." She gestured in the direction they'd been shooting, though Kíli doubted he could see their target as clearly.

"Tauriel," Kíli breathed softly, quietly enough that only their sharp ears would hear. "He's my uncle, I need to be able to talk to him eventually. Stand down."

"I will not stand down." She bristled, whirling to face him. "He has no right to speak to you that way—"

"I have every right," said Thorin, though to Kíli he sounded slightly regretful, less harsh. "You are the one who has no right to speak to me, or my kin. I wish to speak to my nephew alone."

He called me nephew. A fierce joy rekindled in his heart, and he nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. Does he believe me now?

He called me nephew.

"Very well," said Tauriel. She stole one last look at Kíli and, upon seeing the acceptance in his eyes, strode away.

They waited until even the bright flame of Tauriel's hair disappeared from sight, the former Dwarf uneasy and nervous as his uncle stood beside him, as firm and unyielding as the very walls of the mountain. It was difficult to read the expression on Thorin's face, and Kíli considered being the one to break the uncomfortable silence.

But it was Thorin who spoke first. "I want honesty, Elf." he said, the demand lacking any of its previous venom. It was haggard, weary. The fight was drained from it, it only waited on and trusted the reply that came next. "Are you Kíli? Are you really my nephew?"

Kíli swallowed.

"Yes, Uncle." he said, lapsing into Khuzdul. It worked with the Company, so he fervently prayed it would work with his uncle. He stared fixedly at the ground, struggling to keep his breathing steady. Maybe if he stared at it long enough, the earth would rise up and swallow him. "It really is me… Kíli."

Tentatively, he looked up to see Thorin's response, only to wish that he hadn't.

Something in his uncle's eyes had shattered.

"Uncle?" Kíli's mouth went dry, heart hammering in his chest. "A—are you alright?"

"Kíli," murmured Thorin, voice scarcely above a whisper. He looked up at his nephew, stricken, and the raw emotion in his eyes was enough to take Kili's breath away. Grief. Uncertainty. Loss. They were all emotions the dark-haired Elf had perceived before, but never to such an extent. And never from his uncle, whom Kili knew had suffered much, but masked his feelings behind the Durin strength he tended to wear as naturally as a coat of armor.

"I could have killed you, and I was going to banish you from our lands." His voice, though soft, was rough and made Kíli's heart twist in pain. Too well he remembered Thorin's hands around his throat, his head connecting with the stone floor; it was the first time his uncle had ever struck him.

Thorin seemed to realize this as well, and he bowed his head. "Gajut men," he said. Forgive me. "I have failed you."

"No, you haven't!" Kíli protested, fervently shaking his head. "You are the best uncle Fili and I could ask for. You haven't failed anyone." He blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, the fear of his uncle's wrath evaporating like dew.

"Menu gajatu," he told Thorin. You are forgiven. But it didn't look like Thorin believed him, so he repeated it again, more firmly this time. "Menu gajatu!"

A bit of resolve made its way back into the Dwarf king's eyes—eyes that glistened almost as much as Kíli's own, and he straightened. "I don't know if I can forgive myself," he said, "but I hardly expected to find my sister-son under a curse." Kíli winced, and Thorin's countenance softened. "I didn't mean it like that, but you're cursed. It's the doing of that Elf-witch."

Kíli didn't like Thorin's tone when he spoke of Tauriel.

"She saved my life—" He began, but Thorin cut him off.

"We will find a cure." His uncle had begun pacing, continuing as if he hadn't heard his nephew's protest. "No matter what it takes, even if it means scouring the darkest pits of Mordor. We will have you back to normal. You are not an Elf, so I do not want you consorting with Thranduil's she-elf anymore. You are a son of Durin, you must fight it-"

"I love Tauriel. I loved her before all of—all of this!" The former Dward's voice broke, and he gestured to himself. "I had feelings for her the moment she saved me from the spiders."

Thorin turned and stopped. "Don't be ridiculous, Kíli, she's an Elf—"

"And so am I! Do you think of me any less for it? Do you see me as a faithless woodland sprite? I saw myself in a mirror, Uncle." He may call himself a Dwelf, but others looked at him and saw only an Elf. It was a terrible, uncomfortable revelation. Kíli suppressed a shudder, and held his chin high. "I know what I am. Is that all I am to you?"

Thorin shook his head. "This is not permanent. We will wait for Gandalf. The wizard will know what to do; he'll reverse it."

This conversation is feeling very one-sided, Kíli thought bitterly. Why couldn't his uncle understand? Anger loosened his tongue and made him reckless, and he voiced the thought that even he feared to consider.

"But what if it can't be reversed?" It was frightening that a small part of him began to accept the idea as a fact, and his throat tightened.

"You are not courting an Elf, and that's final. If you wish to marry, you will wait until you're older, choose a dwarrowdam from a respectable family—"

"And what dwarrowdam would want me like this?"

Kíli was being difficult, and he knew it. Thorin looked downright murderous.

"You'd be willing to shame your bloodline by lying with one of them? Your children would be Elves!" Thorin said Elves the way most people would say Orcs. "Treasonous woodland sprites, like their mother! They wouldn't even be half-Dwarf. We have enough enemies already without you wanting to spawn more. Our ancestors must be rolling in their graves!"

The thought of siring an Elfling left him with mixed emotions, both shame and pride warring in his heart. Becoming a father, especially to a little Elf, hadn't really crossed his mind.

But what else would the child be?

The question seemed painstakingly obvious as soon as it occurred to Kíli. He didn't feel ready for fatherhood—and doubted that he would anytime soon—but the more he thought about it, the less bad it seemed. If—sometime far in the future—the day came, he would treasure his child, no matter its race. An Elfling wouldn't be so terrible; especially if its mother was Tauriel. Kíli's hands curled into fists.

"Don't insult Tauriel or I like that ever again!" he snarled, explosive. "She saved me, while you left me behind to die in Laketown!"

"Durin's axe, Kíli!" Frustration cast dark shadows under Thorin's eyes, giving them an almost haunted, sunken appearance. "Do you want to be an Elf?!"

Silence. All Kíli could hear was the sound of his own breaths, ragged and angry, while his heart pounded furiously in his chest. The light within his chest flickered as well, as if it sensed his anger and sought to soothe him. But Kíli wouldn't be soothed. He was angry, and finally realized why. It wasn't at himself for being careless or Tauriel transforming him as he'd previously thought, but at his uncle for abandoning him.

"You left me, uncle, standing on the dock. Why?" Kíli demanded, hating how hurt he sounded. He was trying to be angry, fierce. Not despondent.

"I did what I had to do. You were too weak to fight a dragon. Oin, Bofur, and your brother stayed behind to help you."

"Bofur had too much wine the night before, he didn't mean to get left behind." The dark-haired Elf deflated. His initial burst of anger had passed, taking all of its wild energy with it. Now he only felt weary, drained. Resentful. "Oin volunteered. When Fíli climbed out of the boat, you tried to stop him. I was going to be alone."

"I didn't realize the poison from that arrow was so strong it would kill you." Thorin's eyes flashed in reply, his countenance challenging. "If you hadn't insisted you were fine and kept on lying to the rest of the Company, I would've insisted you see a healer!"

"But you still would've gone to Erebor without me."

"Aye." There was reluctance in his uncle's voice. "I would have. We had come too far and traveled too long to give up. I would've left behind any member of the Company had they been in your position because the good of the many outweighs the good of one. Even you, my sister-son. If you hadn't been so stubborn—"

"Stubborn?" Kíli spat. "I wonder where I got that trait from."

He closed his eyes, sinking to his knees. A particularly sharp pebble stuck into his kneecap, but he didn't care. Thorin's shouting made his mind ring. His sensitive Elf ears weren't quite yet adjusted to the noise. Perhaps they never would be.

"I don't want to be an Elf," he admitted quietly. "I never wanted this. It was an accident, Tauriel meant only to heal me, but she ended up channeling her life force into mine and I transformed. Do you know what that's like? Having something creep up inside you, crushing you and making you into something you're not?"

A tear rolled down his cheek and this time, Kíli did nothing to stop it.

"It hurts. It hurts so bad, and there's nothing you can do to change it. I should be dead, but Tauriel saved my life. She put the Light of the Eldar inside of me, it's the only reason I'm still alive." He opened his eyes, blinking through a haze of tears, and took Thorin's hand, pressing it to his collarbone. He felt his uncle's fingers curve against the warmth, his face slack with surprise.

"It's… like a hearth," the king said hesitantly, unsure of how to complement this strange feature of Elven anatomy. Thorin was unsure of how to complement Elves in general, Kíli reflected. His expression was guarded. "What is it?"

"A life force. It makes me immortal." I will not cry, I will not cry— He took a deep, shuddering breath instead, trying to stop his face from scrunching up. He closed his eyes again. Some things were easier to bear in the dark. "I'm going to outlive Fee… Everyone I know will be gone, and I'll still be... here."

A racking sob shook his body, but no sooner than it had, strong arms enveloped him. A beard tickled the bare skin of his neck and gentle fingers rubbed in comforting circles on his back.

Kíli could take it no more. He buried his head into the broad shoulder, the pain, confusion, and fear of the past several days washing over him. He wept as Thorin held him close, letting out all the tears he'd held back, and it wasn't until he felt something warm and wet slide past his ear that he realized his uncle was crying as well.

"You are brave, my sister-son," Thorin murmured, his breath hot and thick against Kíli's skin. "I'm so proud of you."

"I don't feel very brave," Kíli mumbled in reply. "I feel scared, mostly. Where will I go if I'm not welcome at Erebor?"

"You will always be welcome at Erebor, any Dwarf who says otherwise will have to challenge me. But I refuse to accept this as permanent." The comforting hands left his back and the two released their embrace. A wild, defiant light had entered Thorin's eyes and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Kíli's own. "And I refuse to lose you to the Elves."

"You'll never lose me," Kíli promised as he soaked in the Dwarf king's words, which were as soothing as any healing balm. Despite their previous confrontation, he felt good again. Whole. Peaceful.

Kíli collected his bow, and then the Dwarf and the Elf walked side by side back into Erebor, their bond repaired in the end by neither what was left said or unsaid, but the actions that spoke for them. Never in all his years did Thorin imagine that he'd willingly hug an Elf, but what else was there to do?

For a fleeting moment, his mind was free.

There was no quest, no thirst for glory. There was only his Company and his sister-sons, and their new place at Erebor. The Arkenstone be damned; it held no power over him. But as they headed back inside, away from the fresh, clean air and back to the droves of gold and the half-lit hallways where the dragon sickness spawned, it crept back into his mind, as creeping as a shadow.

And Thorin Oakenshield was about to learn for the second time that he'd never been so wrong in all his life.

Chapter Text

Pain. Darkness. Fear.

Kíli ran as fast as he could through the dark, twisting passageways of the tunnel. His heart pounded and his breathing was ragged, every gasp curling into mist in the cold air. His lungs ached and his tongue was dry and tasted like ash.

Where was he, and how did he get here?

Kíli didn't know, but he had never seen this maze-like tunnel before. It reminded him a little bit of the old mining network back in Ered Luin, but this was nothing like the Blue Mountains. Everything around him was gray and twisted, the walls of the tunnel seeming to shimmer and grow clear only as he approached them, and he could hardly hear anything over the sound of wind howling all around him. Kíli moved as if in a daze. Even his own footsteps sounded muffled.

An Orcish horn sounded faintly in the distance.

He stopped suddenly as a gaping hole opened up right in front of him, nearly wide and tall enough that he could stand up straight and peer outside into the crystallized air. The sky as well was gray, and Kíli gripped even tighter to his sword.

Where was he, and why couldn't he remember?

The dark-haired Elf shivered, and not just from the cold bite of the slow-falling snow. He was looking for something, for someone. It was important, but he just couldn't remember…

Kíli's head whipped up at the sound of an unexpected voice. "Ekenskeld!"

Oakenshield. Kíli didn't know Black Speech, but he knew that word. Even worse than that, he knew that voice. It was Azog, his voice cutting ruthlessly through the cold, muffled air. As bits of rubble flew past the entryway, Kíli slipped further back into the shadows.

Azog. What was the Pale Orc doing here?

He remained silent as the Pale Orc began to speak, his voice reverberating through the desolate chambers. "Za ashmat ashurz. Snu golog bolvagz."

Kíli stepped closer to the entryway, daring to look at the high tower above. He gasped at what he saw. Several yards above was the Pale Orc, and he had Fili with him. He was dangling the blond Dwarf over the ledge by a fistful of his own hair. Kíli felt his blood turn to ice. The most of his brother Kíli could see was the boot bottoms of his precariously swinging feet.

Azog's voice curled in a jubilant sneer. "Snu lat, Ekenskeld. Lat mat mabram. Katu matuk grishdurb onrein!"

"Run!" Fili cried, but it was already too late. Before Kíli could piece together what was happening, he saw the bright flash of a blade.

Fili let out a chocked cry as it embedded in his middle.

"No!" Kíli tried to shout, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Instead, he stood silent, his body paralyzed by rage and fear.

Azog let his brother's body drop like a stone.

Crash! Fili landed on the ground with the resounding crack of earth against bone.

Kíli felt his whole world come apart as Fili stared up at him with sightless blue eyes. He tore his gaze from the blond Dwarf to glare up at Azog, hating him more than he'd ever hated anyone in his whole life. His voice returned to him with a wordless cry. He was going to find Azog, and kill him. No matter what. By Mahal's Hammer, he was going to make that monster suffer; tear him apart just as he'd torn apart Fili—

Kíli bolted upright, his heart still racing. In the darkness and gloom, it took him a moment to realize where he was.

Kíli blinked once, then twice, as the frightening remnants of his dream began to fade. Fili was alive, and he was safe. The Pale Orc was nowhere to be found. He was inside Erebor, surrounded by his kin and their mountain home. The dusty smell of the halls greeted him. It was his first night back under the mountain, and Kíli knew he should be relieved. He wasn't going to be banished now, because Thorin believed him. His uncle had welcomed him and Tauriel back inside, and they'd all taken portions of Bombur's thin, watery stew together, just like they had before.

It wasn't until now that Kíli felt something was wrong.

Something dark pulsed in time with his blood, something dangerous.

He found himself wanting to escape; to get away from the dead, heavy underground air and—no. Kíli caught himself midway through the train of thought. He did not want to leave Erebor. He certainly did not long for the open sky and the company of green, growing things, even if that would mean seeing Tauriel, who had still opted to spend her nights outside before winter made it too cold.

What are you, a son of Durin or a tree-shagging pixie? He asked himself bitingly, feeling more than a little hypocritical as he dredged up the most condescending terms he could think of to describe Elf-kind. I know what I am, he had told Thorin earlier; boldly, desperately. Is that all that I am to you? His mind instantly flickered to Tauriel. A slight to her race felt like a slight to her as well (but not against him—he wasn't an Elf, not completely at least); but he shook the guilt off. He needed to snap himself out of this new sickness.

You must fight it. Thorin had been adamant about that. Kíli's new nature called to him, and he sought to master it.

However, as much as he tried to deny it, Kíli knew he couldn't ignore his instincts forever.

It was only a matter of time before that nagging call became irresistible, drawing him away from the deep halls of Erebor and the company of his own kin. Kíli felt a twinge of guilt: his place was with the Company, and their place was in the mountain.

They belonged there. He belonged there.

I must fight it, he thought with new resolve. I am not leaving the mountain. He'd already lost his body to the Elf he'd become; but what if he lost his mind to it as well? Would he forget what it meant to be a Dwarf, or even worse... Would he forget what it was that made him Kíli, and not some random Elf?

After all he was going through, would he still be himself?

No longer in the mood to sleep, Kíli threw off the covers and grabbed his heavy leather boots from Bard's.

After shoving them on, he then grabbed his canteen and splashed a little water on his face. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore how strange the bare skin felt beneath his hands as he worked. His cheeks and jaw felt soft and smooth, almost childlike. How he missed his beard! It hadn't been much, but at least he'd had some stubble. A few decades more, and it might've even been a proper beard.

Nothing like Gloin's, but he would've been proud of it all the same. He could've decorated it with beads, or worn it short yet respectable like Uncle Thorin. But now Kíli realized he might never have that chance. Would Gandalf be able to restore him to normal when he returned?

It seemed unlikely.

Kíli took a large gulp from the canteen before placing it back with the rest of his belongings. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, looking wistfully around at his sleeping companions.

Being the only one up was boring.

He may have accidentally-on-purpose given a little too drawn-out sigh and kicked a loose pebble, sending it skittering noisily across the stone floor, but to no avail. Not a single Dwarf woke. Not one even stirred.

Kíli waited for a few more minutes, pacing back and forth as he thought of ways to keep himself occupied. He could easily wander off and explore more of Erebor- although he had done some of that yesterday, there were still countless more rooms to explore and even what he had seen, he certainly wouldn't mind seeing again- but the thought of heading deeper underground, especially alone, made his stomach churn.

Time to try another tactic.

"Fili?" Kíli whispered, going over prodding Fili's sleeping form. "Fee?"

Fili groaned, burying his head deeper into the pillow. "G'way, Kee. Too early."

"Okay." Kíli said, his tone disheartened. Fili rolled over and fell right back to sleep.

Kíli retreated from his brother's sleeping form, feeling even more discouraged. What else was there to do in the meantime? It couldn't be that early in the morning. However, the Company slept on, as noisy as a hive of bees.

He really, really hated his newfound hearing and would've tugged on his ridiculous ears if he didn't already know that if he did, he'd regret it.

How come no one else was up? At that moment, his stomach rumbled. His eyes brightened. He could have breakfast!

Mind made up, he stealthily crept over to where Bombur kept the cooking supplies. He certainly wasn't going to try and cook anything, but surely there was something there worth eating that didn't require heating or brewing. It was worth a try, wasn't it?

He sifted through the supplies, getting more careless and impatient as he found nothing. They were running low in food, it wouldn't be long before they'd be forced to restock. But where will get more? Kíli wondered. If we make enemies of Laketown, where else will we restock? Tauriel's ominous prediction of war came back to him, but he pushed it away. His uncle would never let it come to that, would he?

So absorbed in his thoughts, Kíli didn't notice as he absentmindedly tossed one cooking pot against another until it was too late. With a resounding clang they clattered against each other, and he was too slow to stop them. The noise was abrupt and jarring—Kíli waited with bated breath as the long seconds stretched out—but he was greeted only by the thunderous snores in an otherwise silent room.

Pressing his luck a little further, he resumed his search. Spoons? No. Knives? No. The former Dwarf set the items aside in an ever-growing stack. Sour smelling only-Mahal-knew-how-old pickled root vegetables? No. Definitely not.

Maybe he should—

"What are you doing, lad?"

Kíli nearly jumped at the unexpected interruption, nearly dropping the container of nasty vegetables. Whirling around, he realized that it was Balin who addressed him, the old Dwarf barely visible in the dark. He looked at Kíli, puzzled, but not unkindly, his narrow-eyed look of confusion only deepening the wrinkles set around his eyes.

"I thought I'd get something to eat," said the former Dwarf, setting down the jar. He lowered his head, careful to keep his voice low. "I know our food supplies are getting low, I wasn't going to have breakfast later. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't disturb me, Kíli," Balin sighed, looking aged even beyond his years. Older than the stones themselves. "I was already up, lying awake and thinking."

"About what?" asked Kíli.

"A great many things, some more probable and worrisome than others. Nothing for you to be concerned about, though. Much of what I have on my mind concerns things that happened long ago, some of which may have no meaning in the present." Balin replied. Seeing Kíli's perturbed expression, the old advisor only shook his head ruefully. "Don't mind me, lad. You're young, and have other things to worry about than what's on the mind of an old Dwarf."

Kíli shrugged, careful to keep his smile carefree. "I'm not tired. We've got time."

Balin looked at him closely, his expression growing thoughtful. "So I see. The rumors about Elven-sleep are true." Kíli looked at him, slightly lost and slightly embarrassed. "It is not like the sleep of Men and Dwarves. It is shorter and more restful. Some even say that older, wiser Elves don't need to sleep at all, and can learn to dream while they're awake, though their dreams may set them on strange trails."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to do that." Kíli admitted, even though he remembered what Tauriel had told him about Elven-sleep being deeper than the sleep of Dwarves and Men.

He looked down at the ground. Balin's words only served to remind him strongly of his Elvish potential. And don't want that. He didn't want to spend the next thousand years growing older and wiser as an Elf; even if Tauriel remained by his side the prospect seemed daunting. Kíli felt his mouth grow dry. I can't risk losing who I am.

He considered telling Balin about the strange dream he had, even if only to change the subject. However, older Dwarf broke in before he had a chance.

"Perhaps not, but many would if given the chance. I'm at an age now where I wish there was more I could do with these remaining hours than rest, even though my body needs it. This journey has been hard on all of us, even Thorin." He tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "When we first got here, he wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, not until we found the Arkenstone. By the time you arrived he was at his worst."

Kíli tried not to remember the rage in his uncle's eyes, or the vice-like grip tightening around his throat.

"He's asleep now," he pointed out instead.

"Aye, that he is," said Balin, "and it's the first time he's done so since we retook the mountain. Despite what you might think, you being back is good for him."

Despite the initial burst of pride, Kíli felt himself deflate as he remembered what had transpired. "But even now he won't accept me and Tauriel."

Balin merely shook his head. "He accepts you, and that's a start. The Elf-maid will come later. He might not like it, but Thorin will come around. If there's anything I know about Thorin, it's that he's proud as an ox but won't deny his own kin. You are just as stubborn. No matter what happens you are still a Longbeard and his sister-son."

Kíli smiled, warmed by the advisor's reassurance.

He started to thank Balin, but the advisor firmly waved it away. "Quite frankly, it's taken away a great deal of my cares and worries. Don't worry about me lad, I feel lighter already." He added, after a moment's pause. "All's well that ends well; the hard part is just figuring the stuff in the middle. Now, it's time to leave an old Dwarf to get some rest." His weary look briefly shifted into something more conspiratorial. "But if you're looking for something to do, there's no shame in going out to see the stars."

Chapter Text

"Durin's beard, Kíli. You looked like a corpse," was the first thing out of Thorin's mouth that morning. It had been about a week since Kíli rejoined the Company in Erebor, and a few days since Thorin accepted him. Kíli was steadily adjusting to his new sleep schedule, resting for only four or five hours at a time before slipping outside to see Tauriel. The fact Thorin had caught him sleeping took him by surprise.

"That's what Fili said as well," replied Kíli, shooting his brother a teasing glance. Despite being uncomfortable with the whole situation, he was very glad he'd warned the others about Elven-sleep in advance. "Only he didn't say it— he just reacted! I had woken me up from the first good night's sleep I'd had in days!"

Fíli's only response was a sharp elbow to his stomach, smiling slightly as his decidedly too-cheery younger brother gave a started oaf in reply.

"Fíli," Kíli groaned indignantly. "I just ate!"

"I was aiming for your ribs, brother. It's not my fault you're too tall for me to reach."

"Too lazy for you to reach, you mean," Kíli retorted. Thorin allowed himself a small smile at the playful banter between his two nephews." You could definitely hit me in the ribs if you tried." The dark-haired Elf took on a thoughtful expression. "Do you think that if I ever took Bofur's hat and held it above his head, he would ever get it back?"

"I wouldn't suggest it." Fíli's braids twitched slightly as he smiled. "He could just get Bifur to help him take it back."

"Are you implying that couldn't hold my own against Bifur in a fight?" asked Kíli, mock-indignant.

"Not a chance. He'd have you flat on the ground with a sword to your throat before you could draw that pretty bow of yours. I wouldn't try taking anything from Dwalin either."

"My bow is not pretty!" Kíli objected, and Thorin could see that Fili had struck a nerve, albeit accidentally. If anything, the younger of the two looked embarrassed, and he could sympathize. The bow was of painfully Elvish make. He wore it slung over his shoulder, touching it self-consciously. "It's just… different. That's all."

Fíli seemed to realize his mistake as well, and hastily drew Kili's attention away from it. "What's that?" he asked, gesturing to one of the carvings he could see etched onto the tip of the limb poking out from behind the former Dwarf's shoulder. The ruse worked, and Kíli looked a little less brooding.

"Oh. That." He took the bow off, displaying it for them to see, glancing uneasily at Thorin. His uncle nodded, attentive. "I carved a few runes on it this morning after a bit of practice," he hastily explained. "To give it a little more character. Make it a little more… Dwarven. Tauriel liked the idea."

The Dwarf-king's expression darkened at the mention of the Silvan elleth, but he gave no response, instead running his fingers lightly over the carvings. A few wasn't the proper way to describe them—many wouldn't have been an exaggeration. It looked as if Kíli had been determined to mark every spare inch along the back of the wood in Khuzdul runes.

There were words like courage and honor and Durin. Thorin looked up, seeing the question in Kili's eyes—was it still alright to call himself a son of Durin, even in his current state? —and realized with no small amount of shame that Kili's fear wasn't entirely unfounded. He hadn't exactly been overly welcoming to his nephew. Wordlessly, he assented.

The relief in the dark-haired Elf's eyes was palpable.

Thorin came to a stop when his fingers traced over an unusual rune, one he'd never seen before. Dwelf. Was that what Kíli considered himself?

He gave a gruff snort. It sounded like something his nephew would say.

"So, where is that lovely Elf-maid of yours today?" Fili asked as Kíli put his bow back on.

"She's not my Elf-maid, she's her own Elf-maid," Kíli retorted, looking slightly flustered.

He and Fíli really needed to develop a secret signal for Uncle-is-nearby-so-we-shall-not-speak-of-that-or-else, but he suspected that the blond Dwarf's lack of subtlety was intentional. Anxiously, he ran a hand across the still strangely smooth surface of his chin. Nothing on Middle Earth could be more awkward than discussing Tauriel around Thorin.

"She's still outside," Kíli shrugged. Keep it casual. "You know how she doesn't like being underground. She prefers starlight and open sky, as do most Elves, she said." A pause. Then, " Do you think that's the only reason the Elvenking wants those white gems? Because they remind him of starlight?"

The cheer in Thorin's eyes faded, only to be replaced by the eerie hunger Kíli had learned to dread. "I will see the mountain torn apart before I let one jewel fall into the hands of Thranduil the Oath-breaker." He leaned forward, clasping his hands under his chin. "Nothing matters as of now except the Arkenstone."

"Uncle…" said Fíli cautiously, but the warning in his tone went unheeded.

"Kíli." Thorin turned expectantly to his younger nephew, an almost feverish light burning brightly in his eyes. He placed a hand on Kili's arm, the dark-haired Elf straightening with rapt attention.

"Yes, uncle?"

"Bofur tells me you have sharp eyes. Put them to use, my sister-son. Head to the outer corridors. Smaug may have scattered the Arkenstone along with the other coins when he tried to break into the forges. I want it found!"

"If it's out there I'll find it," Kíli vowed, rising to his feet and heading quickly in the direction of the archway.

Thorin nodded, then turned to Fíli. "No one rests until we find the Arkenstone. I want everyone looking."

Fíli dipped his head in acceptance. He missed Ered Luin. He missed the old Kíli and Thorin—especially the old Thorin. There was a time- not too long ago—when his uncle would never make such unreasonable demands of the Company. He was a fair, generous leader. Or at least he used to be. Fili feared that the dragon sickness was beginning to take hold of his uncle. Sometimes Thorin was calm and collected, but at other times he seemed as obsessive and mercurial-tempered as he'd heard that described the old king Thrór.

What would he do next—start accusing members of the Company of stealing the stone? As soon as the idea rose up in his mind, Fili pushed it down. It was ludicrous. His uncle would never do such a thing; he was simply being paranoid.

He turned to leave, but Thorin stopped him in his tracks.

"I was wrong about your brother," the Dwarf king admitted. "I didn't see what was right before my eyes. As long as I am King Under the Mountain, he will always have a place among us. You didn't give up on him, he doesn't realize how fortunate he is to have you."

"He's Kíli, no matter what. I consider myself lucky that he's still alive." said Fili.

Thorin murmured in agreement. "He looks up to you."

Fíli looked Thorin squarely in the eyes, blue falling into blue. "No uncle," he said, "Kíli looks up to you."

Kíli swept down the passageways with a renewed sense of determination. If the Arkenstone was out there, he would find it. At least his sharp eyes were good for something—even in the more dimly-lit chambers, his keen Elvish eyesight was like that of a dragon. He could see the small details of every little stone and coin stacked high in the endless piles of gold.

"Mind if I look with you, lad?"

Kíli turned towards the unexpected voice. It was Glóin. His red-bearded kinsman had hardly spoken to him since the whole Elf debacle thing started, and Kíli was unsure of what prompted him to do so now. However, the dark-haired Elf nodded. "Sure. I still don't really know where I am going. This place is so big."

The first part of that statement was a lie—Kíli had been in Erebor long enough now to get a general sense of its layout—but it seemed to put the older Dwarf at ease. Glóin puffed out his chest with a new sense of purpose. "Aye. I can help you with that."

They had been searching for about an hour, meandered out of the hall and into another chamber when Glóin finally plucked up the courage to ask-

"What's it like, being, you know." He gestured vaguely to all of Kíli.

His ears burned with embarrassment. "It's... odd." How could he even begin to describe it? "I miss my beard, and I don't like being this much taller than everyone else." He didn't dare mention any of the mental differences out loud, even to himself. What kind of Dwarf would he be then? He was even reluctant to use the word Dwelf. "It was an accident, you know." Kíli said instead. "Tauriel was only trying to save my life."

Gloin made a scoffing sound that was meant to be sympathetic. "That's a crying shame. You're a good lad, and don't deserve this. That Elf-witch should a' let you heal on yer own. The only good news is at least Gimli an' the rest of yer kin aren't here to see it."

Kíli looked at Glóin sharply, but the Dwarf paid no heed to it, already rummaging through yet another pile of precious stones. He tossed a ruby off the top of it.

"Hammer and tongs!" He swore out loud. "You'd think it'd be here somewhere!"

Kíli watched him, a sinking feeling slowly growing in his chest. Mahal, he thought, they're all ashamed of me.

Tauriel was collecting mushrooms outside when she heard Kíli approach.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"It's nothing." Kíli swept by her, sounding distracted. "It's just something Glóin said." Noticing Tauriel's startled look, he elaborated. "He didn't mean anything by it, but he said he was glad Gimli's not here to see me like this. Gimli's my cousin," he added, "A few years younger than me. Uncle wouldn't let him come on the quest so he's back home at Ered Luin. He'll see me soon enough though when all the Longbeards come back to Erebor."

He dropped his head, looking miserable and defeated.

Gently, Tauriel set down the half-full basket of mushrooms and took his hand. "This fate may not be yours," she said. "And if it is, we will face it together. If Gimli is part of your family, he will see you for who you really are, just like Fíli. But now is not the time to give up hope." Even if she did not fully understand it, she knew that being a Dwarf again meant everything to Kíli. It tied him to his clan, his birthright, and his family.

When Kíli looked up again, there was a flicker of hope and good humor in his eyes.

"Tauriel," he murmured, "amrâlimê, when did you get so wise?"

Despite herself, Tauriel felt herself stiffen. "I don't know what that means."

"I think you do." Kíli said, grinning for real this time. A slight pause. "Nin meleth?"

"It's meleth nin," Tauriel corrected, before the full meaning his words caught up to her. Her eyes widened. "Where did you learn that?"

This time, the dark-haired Elf was unable to hold back his laughter. "From you, a few nights ago. When I asked you how to sleep, that's what you called me. I thought I knew what it meant."

Unexpected heat rushed to her cheeks, though Tauriel did her best to keep her outward composure calm. It felt though as if her face was burning as red as her hair. Meleth nin. How recklessly, how easily the words had slipped by her. Yet there was nothing she could say to take them back. Meleth nin. Was that what Kíli had become to her?

The former Dwarf leaned in closer. "I think it's beautiful. Though in Khuzdul I'd call you amrâlimê or maybe even my thatrûna—my lady of starlight."

He was smiling that bright, easy smile that made her go weak in the knees. Tauriel stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words.

"I did not think your king and uncle would allow you to pledge yourself to a lowly Silvan Elf." She said at last. The words burned bitter and familiar in her throat.

Kili's expression changed almost immediately, and Tauriel knew that she was right. Despite all her hopes and wishes otherwise, Thorin would not permit his nephew to court an Elf. Guilt prodded at the back of her mind. Keeping Kíli would mean drawing him even further away from the rest of his kin.

"It doesn't matter," said Kíli, though for a moment pain flashed in his eyes. It was gone so quickly Tauriel hardly had time to register it was there. "I don't care what Thorin thinks. I know how I feel. You make me feel alive. That's not going to change. Even as a Dwarf again I'll still want to be with you."

He wore his heart so openly, his voice so sincere. Kíli was unlike any Mirkwood Elf she'd ever known.

Tauriel felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest. Kíli was not Legolas, and Thorin was not Thranduil.

He was reckless, yes, but so was she.

"Meleth nin," She began, savoring as the spark of joy in her chest caught light. However, that was as far as she got, before something ominous sounded in the distance.

"Amralime, what's wrong?" Kíli frowned as she immediately straightened.

"Someone's coming. Listen." Heavy footsteps, all marching in file. Sturdy lakeman's boots, and the softer, lighter tread of Elves. Woodland people, much like herself. Tauriel's heart twisted uneasily inside her chest. Was it just her imagination, or could she also hear the tip-toe fine tread of an Elk? They were all coming closer.

"What? I don't hear anth... Oh." Kili's expression changed to one of alarm as he listened to the footsteps echoing through the ground as well. "What's that?"

"Men." Tauriel replied grimly. "And Elves. They're coming towards the mountain."

Thorin didn't take the news of Erebor's latest arrivals very well. As soon as Kíli woke him, breathless and wild, the words tumbling out of him in a disorganized jumble, he'd clambered to his feet and woke the others, and the heavy task of reinforcing the mountain's defenses resumed. Kíli had darted back outside hastily, before the wall was built up entirely, hopeful he could persuade Tauriel to join them inside.

Moments later, he returned with the Silvan elleth. His uncle grudgingly obliged.

By midday, the wall was sealed and his back ached from their efforts. He sat with his back against the wall, head tilted back against it, Tauriel beside him. The rest of the Company stood at the battlements above, anticipating the approach of the Men and Elves.

Kíli had tried to go up as well, only to be ushered back down.

"Sorry, lad." said Bofur apologetically. "But it's for the best. Thorin certainly doesn't want for them to know that we're harboring Elves within our walls and even if he did, you'd still have to explain your…condition. And we don't want that, do we?"

The former Dwarf reluctantly agreed, no he didn't want to have to do that, and plopped himself down unceremoniously next to Tauriel, placing his head in his hands and resigning himself to a very long, very dull, wait. Fili stood a little further down from the others, closer to the stairs, promising to keep them informed on whatever happened above, but still.

It wasn't the same.

"Be still," Tauriel chided him after several minutes of waiting. Or maybe it was a few minutes. Or maybe a few hours. Kíli wasn't sure.

"It doesn't matter if I'm still or not," said Kíli, and it was true. They were sitting against several solid feet of stone, for Mahal's sake! He was quite capable of holding still when he needed to—Thorin and Dwalin had trained him well after all, but he would rather not. "No one out there will be able to see us from here."

"No, but your constant fidgeting is distracting. I can see you, and you're making me nervous."

"Sorry." Kíli stopped squirming. Still bored and impatient, he reached over and found a small stone discovered on the floor. He flung it as far away from them as he could, and it hit a distant wall with a satisfying ting. "It truly bothers you?"

"Yes."

"Oh." The dark-haired Elf resolved to stop.

"I know what we could do," said Tauriel, only moments later. They knew that they could leave the wall at any moment, but both were determined to wait and hear of what would happen once the Men of Laketown and the Mirkwood Elves confronted Thorin, waiting in equal parts dread and anticipation.

"I could think of many things we could do." Kíli leaned forward, one brow arched teasingly.

Despite herself, Tauriel could feel her lips soften into the faintest beginnings of a smile. "Do I even want to know?"

"I don't know. Do you?" The former Dwarf gave her his best "Elf-stare" as he'd half-jokingly dubbed it, long and inscrutable. He couldn't maintain it for very long though, before his boisterous nature got the best of him. Tauriel didn't say anything to him about it, but it was actually quite good.

"Careful, brother." Fili warned, overhearing their conversation.

The Elf-stare vanished as Kíli looked tempted to roll his eyes. "When am I not?" he asked, only to hastily add, "Don't answer that!" as Fili opened his mouth to reply. "It's fine, it won't be like that incident with Uncle, Dwalin, and the fishing twine in our forties. I'm seventy-eight years old!"

"Only seventy-eight?" Tauriel asked, stunned.

"Only seventy-eight?" Kíli puffed out his chest a little, then deflated. "Let me guess, this is another Elves aren't quite like Dwarves situation." He eyed Tauriel a little warily, curious. "So how old are you, then?"

"Six hundred and thirty-two," she replied smoothly, doing her best to cover her surprise. Kíli was less than a century old? She knew Dwarves had short lifespans compared to that of Elves, but it still came as somewhat of a shock. "I'm still young, for an Elf. I came of age when I reached my hundredth year."

Fíli laughed as Kíli made a choked gasp of surprise. To the dark-haired Elf's dismay, Tauriel joined in, her voice a low chuckle. "Looks like you'll be waiting another twenty-two years before we can go to the tavern together again, Kíli," said Fíli.

"I'm still a child?"

"You're an adult," said Tauriel, stifling—was that a giggle? Kíli didn't know the elleth was capable of such a thing. She smiled more often lately, but when she laughed, it was typically a low, breathy sort of laughter. Like she'd accidentally breathed out too hard, but different. More graceful. Vaguely amused. But never a giggle.

"Oi, what's going on down there?" called Dori, and the three quickly quieted.

"Sure about that?" Fíli asked Tauriel. "Because sometimes I doubt it."

She nodded. "Physically, he is as young as an Elf as he was as a Dwarf."

"So… I'm closer to seven hundred and seventy-eight then?"

Tauriel cast him a sidelong look, green eyes glinting in the low light. "Perhaps. It often becomes difficult to tell once an Elf reaches maturity. But yes, give or take a couple hundred years, seven hundred and seventy-eight would be accurate."

"Hail Thorin, son of Thrain. We are glad to find you alive beyond hope."

From behind the wall, Kíli could hear the clip-clop approach of a horse's hooves come to a stop and its rider dismount.

"It's Bard," Fíli supplied unnecessarily. "And Thranduil comes behind, riding an elk." Unease crept into the blond heir's voice. "It looks like he brought his entire army!"

"Why do you come to the gates of the king under the mountain armed for war?" Thorin demanded. Looking up, Kíli couldn't see his uncle's face, but he could easily picture his reaction. Thunderous eyes, mouth drawn in a thin, hard line. Neither Bard nor the Elvenking were welcome.

"Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in like a robber in his hole?" Bard countered.

"Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed."

"My lord, we have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement." The Man was truly doing his best to remain reasonable, but his patience was already worn thin. "Will you not speak with me?" He asked, after the silence had been stretched for too long.

Another pause, which the listeners down below could only assume was accompanied by a nod. Then Thorin descended the steps, followed in silent agreement by the rest of the Company. Kíli leapt to his feet. In the center of the otherwise impenetrable wall there remained a small opening, large enough for Kíli to fit both fists through. Slowly, almost reluctantly, with his hands clasped behind his back, Thorin walked over to it.

"I'm listening."

"On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask you to honor your pledge. A share of the treasure, I ask so that they might rebuild their lives."

"I will not treat with any man while an armed host waits before my door. "

"That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms." Bard pointed out wryly.

Thorin peered sullenly through the gap. "Your threats do not sway me."

"What of your conscience?" The bargeman pleaded. " Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help and in return, you only brought upon them ruin and death."

"When did the Men of Laketown come to our aid, except for the offer of a rich reward?"

"A bargain was struck!"

"A bargain? What choice did we have, but to barter our birthright for blankets and food, to ransom our future in exchange for freedom. You call that a fair trade? Tell me, Bard the Dragon Slayer, why should I honor such terms?"

"Thranduil's approaching," Fíli whispered, terse

"That isn't the only price your Company has paid, Thorin Oakenshield." Came the unmistakable drawl of the Elvenking, sounding nearly unaffected by the entire affair. Only the slightest sliver of triumph gave him away. "Word has reached my ears that another bargain has been unwillingly paid as well. It appears that my former Captain of the Guard did more than merely save the life of the young Dwarf prince."

Kili's blood turned to ice. Mahal, no. How….?

The smugness in Thranduil's tone was blatant now. "How does it feel, King Under the Mountain," he asked, goading the Dwarf king on, "to be related to an Elf? Do you treat him the way you do the rest of his kind?"

"How I treat my nephew is none of your concern," Thorin growled, voice dangerously low.

"But it is. It is a matter of great concern to me. Why is it that life of a Dwarf has been spared, when so many more other lives have not? What has he done to deserve the gift of the Eldar?" Nothing, absolutely nothing, thought Kíli fiercely. I don't even think of it as a gift!

Thorin remained silent, and the Elvenking took it as a sign to continue. "As you know, the Elves were meant to be the first beings in creation. Aulë, in his impatience, crafted his own creations."

"Of course," snorted Nori. "We all know that. Tell us something we don't know."

He was quickly shushed by Bilbo.

" …Your race, which stole our intended destiny from us at the dawn of time. Perhaps this is the Valar's way of righting your mistakes. You took the destiny from us, and now we get to take the destiny from one of you. Would your creator truly watch over an Elf? I find it doubtful. He has passed into the care of the Ilúvatar."

"He wouldn't dare…" muttered Dwalin. The dark-haired Elf shot him a confused look.

"The Ilúvatar intended for his Firstborn to remain with their own, under the dominion of the rulers of their realm. From what I could glean your heir seems to be much like one of my own people, a Silvan Elf. Therefore, by blood, his life belongs to me. Give me the boy, Thorin Oakenshield, and I will stay my hand. The lives of your Dwarves will be spared. "

"You gave me your word!" The betrayal in Bard's voice was directed more towards the Elvenking than Thorin this time.

"I promised you nothing," said Thranduil. "I merely provided aid for your people. My quarrel with Oakenshield has nothing to do with the safety of mortals, but the white gems of Lasgalen. But this turn of events is far more interesting."

Traitor.

Roars of outrage came from the assembled Dwarves. Inside though, he felt numb. Taken from Erebor by the Elvenking? He didn't want to return to Mirkwood! What if… what if being around all those Elves made his mental transformation progress even faster?

Dwalin cursed violently in Khuzdul. "He's making that up!"

Others joined in.

"Codswallop, I say!"

"Never!"

"Kili's one of us!"

Thorin held up a hand for silence. The former Dwarf shrank back, heart pounding in his uncle's expression was remote, cut off. And while Kili's mind fervently rebelled against the idea of living life as a Mirkwood Elf, he couldn't help but wonder, should he? He certainly didn't want to, but the Company… Thranduil promised he would leave them in peace if he could take Kíli…

"I will not part with a single treasure under this mountain," said Thorin, and if looks could kill, Thranduil would've been dead. Kíli could've wept in relief. "and that includes my sister-son. Do you hear me, Thranduil? You will have nothing! Begone, ere our arrows fly!"

"As you wish, Thorin, King Under the Mountain," Thranduil replied, coldly mocking. "But if you wish to uncover treachery, look no further than the enemy within your own walls."

"What do we do now?" Ori asked, hesitant, once the Elves and Bard had receded from view.

"Now," said Thorin, eyes darkening. "We prepare for war."

Chapter Text

"You're being ridiculous.."

"No."

"Ori, tell my idiot brother he needs to actually wear it. It fits him fine."

"…It looks fine, Kíli. It really does."

"No, it doesn't. You two look amazing! I, on the other hand, look ridiculous." Kíli sighed, trying to tug the chain mail of his hauberk down a little lower. The three youngest members of the Company stood together, examining and putting on the armor the Dwarves had dug out of the old armory. Kíli gave another self-conscious tug but to no avail. Fíli was right, the armor did fit him—it fit him all wrong. He glanced at Ori. "And you hesitated."

The chain mail was too tight where it should've been loose and too loose where it should've been tight. Instead of going down to just above the knee, like it should've, the bronzed armor ended a little below his stomach. It was meant for the thickset middle and the broad shoulders of a Dwarf, not the thin, wiry build of an Elf. His arms, now much too long, poked too far out of their sleeves. The metal chafed uncomfortably against his skin.

Fili was already pulling on his gambeson— the heavy protective overcoat a striking Durin blue—and fastening the leather-and-gold bracers around his wrists. Kíli only glared at his own, similar-looking armor, as if it were all its fault he could no longer fit it.

"Kee. You need to wear it." said Fíli, as if sensing his glare. "This isn't the time to be reckless. You could go search that old room for some Elf armor if you want-"

"No."

Fíli sighed in exasperation, and Ori fidgeted, unsure of what to do. But even he looked more impressive and battle-ready.

"Then go look in a mirror. It's not as bad as you think."

"No!" The forcefulness of his response took all three of them by surprise. As Fíli and Ori whirled around to face him, Kíli curled his hands into fists, taking an unsteady breath. "I can't… I won't… Not after…"

"After what, Kíli?" Ori prompted quietly.

"The last time I looked in a mirror," the former Dwarf miserably informed them, "I saw myself. It. Him. The Elf. What everyone else sees."

The young scribe paused, considering it. "You're not that ugly for an Elf… Are you?"

Kíli shook his head, face burning with embarrassment. "No, not according to Tauriel at least. She says I'm actually handsome… from an Elf's perspective." It felt like such a thing to be shamed by—as a Dwarf, he hadn't been considered attractive, but his appearance hadn't bothered him the slightest. " I don't really care how I look. But then I saw the Elf, and I hated it. I looked in the mirror and… how could that be me?" His voice felt hoarse, although he hadn't been screaming.

Seeing it made his present state all the more real.

Understanding dawned in Fili's eyes, and they spoke no more of it.

They were down to short strokes.

Privately, Fíli ran down his mental checklist. Armor in good condition? Yes. Knives sharpened? He didn't even need to bother with a question like that. Draw a deep breath and prepare to face tomorrow? The blond Dwarf inhaled slowly. Check. Make sure Kíli was prepared as well? Another check, he almost thought, but paused. The past two weeks had changed his brother, and not entirely for the better. Yes, Kíli claimed he was ready, but Fili had his doubts. The encounter with Thranduil had unnerved him. It had unnerved them all.

And now the battle. How would Kíli fare in that? His brother was a grown Dwarf—er, Elf—and certainly capable of taking care of himself, provided that he didn't do anything remarkably stupid or reckless. But now was different. The dark-haired Elf was still adjusting to his new body; his coordination and reflexes, while much improved, still remained poorly controlled.

Two weeks was too little time to re-learn old skills—aiming a bow with deadly precision, timing leaps and blows—in a new body.

"Promise me you will return to me. Promise!" Their mother had said, not ceasing in her insistence until at last, she had Kili's word for it. Fili had stood off to the side, waiting silently. She took Kili's hand in hers, and opening it, placed a small object inside. 

"Return to me," read Kíli, staring at the rune stone. 

"So that you will remember your promise."

He nodded sharply, Adam’s apple bobbing. Dís was a blunt, practical, dwarrowdam, and it startled Fíli to see her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Before you do anything, think." She said roughly, biting her lower lip. "I don't care what Thorin says, if you are ever in a situation and you find yourself in more danger than what is absolutely necessary, get out. You and your brother look out for each other, you hear?" 

"Yes, mum." Although he was sincere, Fíli could see that his younger brother was eager to leave Ered Luin. His dark eyes kept darting towards the door. 

"And for you." Their mother gave him a small knife, lined with what looked like Mithril. Fíli took it from her reverently. "I trust that you don't need a rune stone as well. You have good sense, trust yourself. I count on you, Azultorak." The blond stiffened upon hearing his hidden name. "It's your brother I'm worried about. Promise me you'll look out for him."

"I promise." Then she drew him into her arms as well. He held back tightly, trying to commit every detail to memory—the sound of her voice, the feel her dark, braided beard against his cheek, even the creaking hardwood floor beneath their feet. 

After all, if their quest happened to be unsuccessful, he would never see her or their home again. 

But like Kíli, he was excited to be leaving Ered Luin behind as well. As they set off down the road there was a spring in their step and a thrill racing in their hearts. 

They were ready for whatever happened next, they were sure.

Or so they thought. 

"Look out for him," Fíli murmured under his breath. It was easier said than done. But in the end, neither he nor all of the magic supposedly concealed inside Kili's rune stone had done any good in saving Kili's life. No, his brother had been spared by the will of an Elf and even then, at a price. What was he to do?

Mum. 

I need to write Mum. 

The ravens had returned to Erebor, and despite the long years of absence, the clever birds still remembered their job of relaying messages. Fili knew—just a few days ago he'd seen Thorin send a letter, though to where or to whom he wasn't so sure. But that didn't matter, the only thing that mattered now was that he had a way of communication outside of the mountain.

After he finished sharpening his blades, he set to work on his letter. Finding parchment, dry and yellowed with age in one of the forgotten rooms, he sat down to write.

Mum, he began, then paused.

Or should he have addressed the letter to the esteemed Lady Dis and the Dwarves of Ered Luin? Would anyone back at home find it odd that the first letter sent back to the Blue Mountain be addressed to only his mother? Perhaps he should write the letter to Ered Luin as a whole, then have a separate letter sent containing his private thoughts. But after another moment's hesitation, he shook his head. No, it was Thorin's right as King Under the Mountain to send that message. Besides, his worry for Kíli was too pressing.

We are all alive and well. He nearly put down safe, but decided against it. Instead, he merely dipped the quill back in the inkpot. Smaug is dead—slain by a bowman from Laketown—and we are one step closer to reclaiming Erebor. 

So many possibilities of what to say surged through his mind, and the blond Dwarf was unsure of which were safe to use. How much should he divulge—the Elves and Men threatening war? Thorin's mercurial moods, possibly even dragon sickness?

In the end, he decided to omit it all. There was no use in worrying her over things she would be powerless against, nearly half a world away. The quill scratched against the parchment as he hastily continued.

We're at Erebor presently, but not without picking up an unexpected guest along the way. She's –an Elf, Fili thought—a healer, and she saved Kili's life after he was injured passing through Mirkwood. He's better now though. The blond Dwarf's brow furrowed in frustration. How was he supposed to continue this? He couldn't very well write but now Kee's a pointy-eared Elf! There was no possible way to put that predicament into writing. He sighed. I promise he's fine—we both are—but… it's difficult to explain. Come to Erebor. As soon as possible. 

He leaned back in his chair, re-reading what he wrote.

He then added, Give everyone back home our best wishes, and tell Gimli that Kíli and I are thinking of him. The younger Dwarf had been furious to find that his two older cousins were going on an adventure without him. Now though, he was grateful that Glóin's son hadn't come.

Miss you, 

-Fíli 

It wasn't nearly as good as he'd hoped it would be, but it would have to be enough. Without further ado, Fili rolled the letter up, bound it, and sought out one of the ravens. The one he found was merely a common Raven, not one of The Ravens—the ones gifted with the speech of Men, like Roäc and his line—but there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence in its beady eyes. It extended a taloned leg to him, allowing the blond Dwarf to fasten the message to its leg.

"Erm, thank you," he told it, unused to speaking to a bird, and a little uncomfortable with its unblinking gaze. "Remember, this letter goes only to Lady Dís. No one else. Now hurry!"

The Raven cawed once, then in a wild beating of wings, took off into the sky. Fili watched it go, hoping that it would be enough.

"I cannot fight my people." Tauriel said, looking Kíli resolutely in the eyes. The dark-haired Elf nodded.

"I understand, and I would never ask you to," he replied, unusually solemn. "I don't think I could either if our positions were reversed." They stood in the throne room, and would've had a rare alone moment under the mountain if it wasn't for Thorin, watching the two with hawk-like disapproval. Swallowing, Kíli turned to his uncle.

"She can stay under the mountain, then?" he asked, hopeful. "Until the fighting is finished? She isn't fighting for Thranduil-"

"Kíli—" began Tauriel, but Thorin was faster.

"No."

"What?" Kíli demanded, incredulous. "But where else is she to go? The Elvenking made her an exile! She has no home to go to! Surely we can offer her shelter. She saved my life!"

Thorin remained dour. The better he could remove the She-Elf from his nephew, the better. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so he hoped. "And my answer is no. She saved your life, and we spared hers, even after an army of Mirkwood Elves arrived at our gate. Our debt is repaid, my sister-son. We will not host her any longer."

"But—"

"—Kíli," Tauriel said again, with more insistence this time. "But I cannot fight for you either. I can't stop this war, but I will not stand by like a coward under this mountain while you fight."

"Then where will you go?"

"North." Her answer came swiftly and prepared, and Kíli wondered for how long exactly she'd been planning it. She seemed so out of place in the massive room, her forest green and brown muted against the golden brilliance, uncomfortable among it all. Perhaps that was why she wanted to leave. "I will find Prince Legolas and see if he made it to Gundabad. It's several days past when he said he would return."

"Gundabad?" said Thorin, brow arched. Tauriel nodded but didn't elaborate. The Dwarf king nodded in return. "Very well. See to it that you leave at once."

She bowed lightly, then turned to Kíli. "Don't make me rush all the way back here to save you," she said lightly, but there was a glimmer of worry in her eyes and a tightness around her mouth. The only cracks in her flawless Elven mask of neutrality. "Although I've already done it once."

"Tauriel." Kíli paused. His place was with his kin. With his uncle and brother. At Erebor. Tauriel understood. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but none of it he could say with his uncle present. However, that didn't discourage him entirely. He dug through his pockets.

"I want you to have this," he said, taking out his rune stone and pressing it into the palm of her hand. Her eyes widened and she began to protest, but he shook his head. "Keep it—as a promise. We'll see each other again."

Her fingers curled slowly around the stone.

Kíli watched her leave, gaze never wavering until at last, she disappeared from sight.

"That wasn't wise," Thorin growled, and the former Dwarf bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing back in response. His uncle was drifting further and further away again, into a realm all of his own. Dragon sickness, Balin's voice echoed darkly in his mind, but he pushed it away. No. He thought. That wasn't possible. His uncle would never… Thorin was always stronger… 

He turned to Thorin, but his uncle didn't speak. He had his back turned to Kíli, and from the distant hunger in his eyes, Kíli could tell that to the Dwarf king, he was hardly even there. The knowledge stung, but the dark-haired Elf slowly crept away.

It was less than an hour later he caught sight of Bilbo, the Hobbit alone in a shadowed corridor. There was something in his hands. Something…bright. Even concealed behind cupped hands, his keen Elf eyes could see it. Instantly, Kíli was on high alert.

He walked so quickly over to Bilbo that the Hobbit had hardly any time to give a start of surprise and shove his hands in his coat.

"What was that?" Kíli demanded.

"What was what?" Bilbo replied, a little too hasty. " It's nothing."

"That. In your pocket, Master Baggins." The former Dwarf nodded in the general direction, acutely aware of how high he towered over the much smaller Hobbit. Bilbo's face crumpled into something resembling a smile. One hand reached into the pocket.

He drew out an acorn. "I picked it up in Beorn's garden. I'm going to plant it in my garden, in Bag End. I will remind me of what has happened; the good, the bad, and how lucky I am to have made it home."

There was sincerity in his voice and Kíli almost relaxed. Until he saw a telltale bulge in the other pocket.

"What about in that one?"

There was that panicked look again. The dark-haired Elf's stomach lurched in alarm, especially as Bilbo shifted nervously. The Hobbit held his hands out in a wary gesture. "I was going to tell Thorin, or at least one of you. So many times I was tempted to, I really was-"

Hypothetically, if Thorin got the Arkenstone, do you think he'd stop this madness?" 

Kíli recalled Bilbo's words from earlier. But even that couldn't stifle his gasp of astonishment when Bilbo revealed the King's Jewel, hesitantly removing it from its shabby wrappings.

"The Arkenstone?!" He couldn't help but exclaim.

"Shh! Keep it down!" Bilbo hissed, glancing around wildly. "Kíli, listen to me. You've got to promise me you'll keep this quiet. At least until Thorin snaps out of it."

"He has been looking everywhere for that stone, and you withheld it from him? He trusts you, and you've been lying to him this whole time! How could you? That stone is our birthright!" Anger coursed through his entire body. This was the cause of Thorin's distress. This was why the Company searched for days and nights without rest. It was because of—because of him!

The gem was mesmerizing. All shining and clear, haloed in a blue light yet the stone itself wasn't a single set color. He could hardly keep his eyes of it. Was this why their burglar wanted to steal it?

"Master Baggins-"

"Kíli, please. You'll only draw attention to ourselves—“

All the color drained from Bilbo's face as he stared with abject horror over Kili's shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly, Kíli turned around as well.

Thorin was standing behind them, his whole body shaking with fury. "You would dare steal from me?"

Chapter Text

"You." Thorin's maddened gaze darted first to Bilbo. To his credit, the Hobbit didn't balk as Thorin took a threatening step towards him, although he swallowed nervously and curled his fingers a little more tightly around the Arkenstone, drawing it back as if by doing do, he'd be able to keep it from the Dwarf king's grasp.

"I took it as my fourteenth share." said Bilbo, voice surprisingly steady. Kíli still reeled in surprise. Their burglar—Master Baggins, the kindly Hobbit who went with him and Fili when the ponies went missing, who had appeared to want nothing more than his cozy Hobbit hole back in the Shire, who Uncle had seemed to trust most of all—he had betrayed them. Of everyone in the Company. It was almost unimaginable.

Thorin must have realized this as well, for when he spoke again, his voice rang with incredulity. "You would steal from me."

It was a statement though, not a question.

"Steal from you?" A short, uneasy laugh escaped Bilbo's mouth. "No. I am a burglar, but I like to think I'm an honest one." He drew himself up to his full height—which, as a Hobbit, wasn't very impressive, but admirable all the same—and said, "I am willing to let it stand against my claim."

"Against your claim?" Thorin sneered. "Your claim." Danger! Danger! The warning bells in the dark-haired Elf's mind clanged. Something dark and ugly contorted Thorin's features, the same way it had the night he attacked Kíli. Unbridled rage.

"You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!" He snarled to Kili's dismay, lunging at the Hobbit and wrestling the Arkenstone from his hands. It didn't stop there though. Thorin continued to fight, pinning Bilbo and slamming him against the ground.

"Uncle, no!" Despite what Bilbo had done—and Kíli wholeheartedly agreed that he shouldn't get away with it—this wasn't the way to go about solving it. Wasn't a king supposed to be just? Bilbo was wrong, Kíli thought, but he could see how Bilbo's motives were understandable. Bilbo had thought he was protecting the Company by withholding the stone.

More importantly though, Thorin should have the self-control not to kill somebody in a fit of rage.

Kíli bent down and dragged his uncle off the Hobbit, Thorin struggling and cursing the entire time. Angered even further, he whirled around and struck Kíli. Hard.

It was only a glancing blow—Kíli managed to twist sideways to avoid the brunt of it—but still, it hurt. Thorin had placed all his strength behind the strike and due to their warrior lifestyle and his previous work in the forges, that strength was substantial.

"You would dare stand in my way?" The Dwarf King's voice rose in crescendo, echoing off the stone walls and down the corridors. The uproar must've alerted the other Dwarves; Kíli could see them gathering warily around, keeping a safe distance between themselves and the unfolding scene before them. Thorin's gaze pierced Kíli, hot and accusing. "What are you, a Dwarf or an Elf?"

"I'm…" Kíli spied a shock of blond hair near the front of the crowd. Fili! His brother stood tense, eyes darting uncertainly between Thorin, Kíli, and Bilbo. At last, his eyes settled on Kíli, silently asking, what's going on here?

"Well?"

I'm a Dwelf, a somehow still cheeky voice in the back of his mind supplied helpfully, but Kíli knew it would not be an acceptable answer to give his uncle. His next—and perhaps strongest—instinct was to say a Dwarf. Yet he couldn't get the words past his mouth.

"I'm… " Kíli began again. He felt lightheaded. This can't be happening. He was both. Neither. Some strange mix of the two. "I don't know!"

"You don't know," said Thorin, and his sharp ears could detect the uneasy murmurings of the Company behind them. Many—such as Dori, Oin, and Gloin—eyed him with renewed distrust. Nori looked disgusted. Dwalin's gaze held none of the anger Kíli expected, but was one heavy with disappointment. Somehow, coming from he and Fili's old mentor, anger would've been easier to bear. Ori looked shocked, Balin weary, and Bofur unsettlingly sad.

Kíli tried swallowing down the lump in his throat. Maybe it would've been better for him to have died a good Dwarf than to have lived on as an awful Elf.

However, any further tension over Kili's plight was momentarily averted as Bilbo spoke up.

"I was going to give it to you," the Hobbit said, gesturing towards the Arkenstone. Thorin picked it up off the ground. "Many times, I wanted to. But…"

"But what, thief?" The Dwarf king's glare dared him to continue.

Bilbo hesitated, then said, "You are changed, Thorin. The Dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word." The Company burglar seemed to gain confidence, his tone becoming almost accusatory as he spoke. He glanced meaningfully at Kíli. "Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin."

"Do not speak to me of loyalty. " Thorin growled. He turned towards the Company, and this time, the dark-haired Elf could see the madness in his eyes. His chest tightened at the realization as his uncle pointed toward Bilbo. "Kill him!"

The Dwarves hesitated, but Bilbo didn't. In the blink of an eye, he snatched something out of his pocket—something bright and golden, but Kíli could feel an uncomfortable tug of darkness—and put it on his finger. Before their eyes, the Hobbit vanished. The Company shouted in alarm.

"What was that?"

"Where'd he go?"

"Impossible!"

Over the clamor, Kíli thought he heard the faint sound of bare feet pattering in the opposite direction, but he said nothing, even as Thorin grew more and more furious. The Company—who only searched halfheartedly in the spot where Bilbo had been—quieted. None had truly wanted to harm the burglar many had come to consider a friend, and there were expressions of secret relief on their faces.

"Enough!" called Thorin at last. "We'll never find him now. Let the Shire rat slink away. He is no longer welcome in Erebor. We must continue to prepare for war. And you." Kíli flinched in surprise as his uncle addressed him. "Decide whose side you're on."

Kíli nodded, heart pounding in his throat. Fili came to stand worriedly beside him as the Dwarf king swept away, and they both watched him leave.

"Yours," murmured Kíli, so quietly his brother could hardly hear. "I have always been on yours."

A steady sense of determination growing in his mind, the former Dwarf took a deep breath. He now knew what he must do.

That night, Kíli stole quietly out of Erebor. He wanted to wait, wanted to at least tell Fili and Bofur and possibly Thorin goodbye, but he didn't dare. They might try to stop him, and to see them again would be too much. He'd stay with them.

He didn't want to leave the mountain at all.

But he did, and there was nothing in all of Arda that could stop him. The dark-haired Elf paused in his stride. A full moon hung in the sky, the night clear and cloudless, a sharp chill cutting through the air. The breath spilled from his mouth like smoke and for a moment Kíli imagined that he was like a dragon, fierce and indomitable. Erebor lay behind and before him, he could see the tents of the Laketown refugees and the Elf army, and he hesitated.

I must do this, he told himself, and continued on his way.

All too soon, he was in the camp. His strange, poorly-fitting armor earned him many strange looks until at last, he was approached by a brown-haired Mirkwood Elf clad in armor and the sigil of the Guard proudly emblazoned on his chest. He called out something in Sindarin, and Kíli shook his head.

"I don't speak Elvish."

The Guard cocked his head, pale green eyes bright and thoughtful. "You must be Kíli," he said, placing a hand over his heart and dipping his head in the traditional Elven greeting. "Well met. My name is Feren Thorndirion. Our King has been expecting you."

Has he now? Kíli didn't feel encouraged by this news. Nor did he feel comfortable in the fact that this strange Elf knew his name.

He simply nodded in return, uncertain.

"Come," said Feren. "I will take you to him."

Mahal, he was actually inside the Elvenking's tent.

"I knew it would only be a matter of time before he sent you to me." Thranduil's voice cut through the terse atmosphere like a knife edge, sharp and entirely unwelcome. "Thorin Oakenshield has little patience for an Elf. He places far too much trust in his desire for the Arkenstone and the splendor of your mountain home. Even the bonds of blood pale in comparison."

"Don't speak about my uncle that way," bristled Kíli, though there was no heat behind the words. There was no denying it any longer. The gold lust shone clearly in Thorin's eyes, how could he have possibly not seen it sooner? "He didn't send me. I came myself."

"You came yourself? I find that most…intriguing." The Elvenking leaned forward, clearly interested, and it took a conscious effort for Kíli not to recoil. "Perhaps you have grown tired of your treatment at the hands of your kin. Tell me, are you tired of pretending to be a Dwarf?"

Shut up, thought Kíli.

"No." In some ways Thranduil came uncomfortably close to the truth; but Kíli quickly banished the thought from his mind as quickly as it came. "I came because I have to. To save them." Quickly, another idea occurred to him as well. "But only on one condition."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed.

"You revoke Tauriel's banishment."

Kíli doubted that when—and if—she returned to Erebor, she would be accepted. With him gone and Thorin most likely in the thralls of dragon sickness, there wasn't a chance. However, he remembered the longing in Tauriel's eyes, even after she claimed that Mirkwood was no longer her home. It seemed to be the least he could do.

A grudging pause. Then, "Very well. Tauriel will be exonerated from her defiance and acts of treason, but she will not be returned to her post as Captain of the Guard. If she accepts. You, on the other hand, are now a subject and prisoner of the Mirkwood realm."

Wonderful. Kíli wondered if he'd make the situation even worse for himself if he were to "accidentally" tread on the Elvenking's trailing robe.

However, he didn't end up debating for too long, because at that moment, Bard and Gandalf entered the tent.

Both Elves gave a small start of surprise.

"Gandalf!" Kíli exclaimed, louder than he meant to. He locked eyes with the gray wizard, wanting—no, begging to be recognized. Surely Gandalf would know it was him, then change him back. He could return to Erebor, not Mirkwood. Thranduil wanted Kíli the Elf, not Kíli the Dwarf. Right? And the Company… things could return to the way they were before. Kíli felt a sharp pang of longing at the very idea. And sleep! He could sleep with his eyes closed again.

Gandalf stared at him for a long moment. "It cannot be," he murmured. "Kíli!"

The wizard recovered quickly from his alarm though, the only signal of distress being an anxious tug on his beard.

Aye, and a beard. A foolish grin tugged ever so slightly at the corners of his mouth. He could grow a beard again once he was a Dwarf. And even if it never grew out, Kíli no longer found the idea quite so appalling after all he'd been through. Even his sparse stubble would be a welcome change from the smooth face of an Elf.

He couldn't ask Gandalf to de-transform him at the moment—Thranduil would doubtlessly try and interfere—but the dark-haired Elf vowed that as soon as he could get the wizard alone, he would. In the meantime though, he had to listen to the blasted Elvenking reiterate what had happened to him, from Tauriel's soul magic to Thranduil's outrageous claim on him.

By the end of it, Gandalf seemed almost livid with the Mirkwood king.

"Now is not the time to settle this score! You must set aside your petty grievances for the Dwarves. War is almost upon us, the cesspits of Dul Guldur have been emptied. You're all in mortal danger!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Bard

Thranduil waved an airy hand in dismissal, sighing as he turned towards the dragonslayer. "I can see you know nothing of wizards. They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from the distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes, a storm is just a storm."

"Not this time." said Gandalf. "Armies of Orcs are on the move. These are fighters, they have been bred for war. Our Enemy has summoned his full strength."

Enemy? Kíli wondered with rekindled interest. Somehow, he didn't think that the enemy Gandalf referred to was the Pale Orc. He shot a questioning look at Bard, but the Man, while grim and focused, looked as lost as he was. Annoyingly enough, neither Gandalf or Thranduil bothered to elaborate on who exactly this foe was.

"Why show his hand now?" Thranduil demanded.

"Because we forced him to. We forced him when the Company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor. Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain."

"You can't leave the Dwarves to fight an army of Orcs on their own!" Kíli burst out, unable to stand it any longer. Not if this "master" is strong enough to command Azog. He'd always assumed the Pale Orc was the undisputed leader. Thranduil focused his cool gaze upon the dark-haired Elf, thoroughly unimpressed. Kili's heart hammered against his ribcage. No, no, no! This was all wrong. He'd left the mountain so his kin could be safe, not so that the Elves would leave and they'd be slaughtered by Orcs instead!

He knew that Dain Ironfoot would soon arrive with his army, but the army had yet to arrive. The least he could do was stall for time. Even if it meant pleading with the cold-hearted Elvenking.

"And why can I not?" The king in question drawled, either oblivious to the ever-growing urge Kíli felt to try and strangle the much older Elf, or, more likely, completely aware of the frustration he caused but willing to goad the former Dwarf further.

"Because," Kíli faltered. Where was Fili when he needed him? Fili would know how to negotiate with this impossible Elf. He, on the other hand, did not. "Because I will not leave them. I will not hide while others die!"

"You overestimate your value," said Thranduil slowly, with the same long-suffering air of one explaining a simple concept to a particularly dull child. "You hold no power, have nothing left to barter that could possibly equal the lives of my subjects. There is nothing you can do to help the Dwarves. Let go of your foolish attachment to them. You are a prisoner of the Mirkwood realm, and I have already allowed you a boon by granting pardon to my former Captain of the Guard."

"You can't do this," said Kíli. The scattered faces of the Company swept across his mind. Had it all been for nothing? He refused to admit defeat, shaking his head in frantic denial. "No."

"If you try anything, I will stop you. You cannot fight me."

A bitter laugh bubbled up inside him, startling even himself. "I will always keep fighting. For the rest of my life, I'll keep fighting you." Which might as well be forever, part of him added. "But... If you help them—just this once—I promise, I won't fight. I'll willingly go to Mirkwood. I'll obey orders. And I'll do whatever you want."

By the end Kíli hung his head, the words feeling bitter on his tongue. You're reckless, screamed the age-old rebuke, but this time he didn't bother to deny it.

Yes.

He was reckless. Determined. A warrior.

Kíli raised his eyes, searching the Elvenking's face for a sign of consent. Prepared to fight if he accepted and prepared to try and escape the camp and make it back to Erebor if he didn't. Everything hung in the balance.

"The Enemy seeks control not just for the treasure within, but where it lies. It's strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north." Gandalf decided to break in, after watching the heated exchange solemnly. "If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall."

Thranduil swiveled sharply towards Gandalf, keen eyes searching. "This Orc army you speak of, Mithrandir, where are they?"

"Almost upon us as we speak," said the wizard.

Thranduil nodded and turned, silvery hair and gray silk swishing in his wake. He knew what his decision would be, and it wasn't at all influenced by his newest subject. Still, Thorin's nephew didn't know that, so the Elvenking fully intended to hold the young Silvan to his word.

So rash and easily manipulated by his feelings, Thranduil almost felt a pang of pity. Almost.

"Go," he told Kíli. "Find Feren. He will show you to a tent and get you something more... suitable to wear." Disdainfully, he eyed the dark-haired Elf's mismatched, poorly fitting armor.

The colors of Mirkwood would suit him far better than anything of Dwarvish make, thought Thranduil, and what would be a more fitting way to take his revenge? He was not a bloodthirsty Elf—seldom of the Eldar were—and while he didn't desire to shed the blood of the Dwarves, he was not afraid to if pressed to do so. But his animosity towards Thorin Oakenshield was undeniable.

Kíli looked like he wanted to argue—he was not going to dress like an Elf—but then seemed to remember his agreement and, giving a curt nod, quickly walked out of the tent.

"Is it really necessary," asked Bard, after a moment's pause. "To take him away from his kin?"

The dragonslayer looked dubious, but Thranduil felt not a shadow of doubt. He folded his hands together, long fingers interlacing smoothly as gave a slight tilt of his head. "I deem it wise. Thorin's young nephew will attempt to deny it, but his resistance will be foolish and short-lived. I am confident that within a century, his loyalty will lie with me."

He could see the uncertainty still lingered on Bard's face at referring to the span of a century as "short-lived," but made no comment of it. To a Man, that may be over a lifetime, but to himself, merely the blink of an eye. He'd been alive for thousands of years and expected to live at least a thousand more. Time was the best teacher for patience.

"And as long as his life lies in my hands, I expect that future negotiations will go far more smoothly. Even if Thorin Oakenshield recognizes the boy's true nature, his heir—the brother—won't. I have seen for myself their attachment to one another. As long as the younger remains my subject, the elder will not wish to war with our realm. I can see any future treaties between us as… highly beneficial. Foresight is a valuable skill to acquire," said Thranduil, "once you become king."

"I'm not—"

"Not going to be king? I heard about what you told your people in the wake of Smaug's wrath. You do not desire power, yet it has come to you. I advise you take it, lest another takes it from you. One less prudent, less wise. You have led the people so far, they will look to you. You are Girion's heir."

"You speak as if destiny were fixed. Like what one wants and their destiny are two separate things entirely," said Bard.

Thranduil smiled his wry, humorless smile. "Oh, but they often are, aren't they?"

Chapter Text

Kíli hastily pulled on the tunic that had been laid out for him, no more comfortable with the sight of the bare Elvish skin on his chest and down his navel than he'd been the first time he had been changing his shirt, back in Erebor.

After he finished fastening the thin belt around his waist, he carefully tucked the discarded Dwarvish armor in one of the corners of the tent, hopeful that no one would find it and confiscate it. Getting rid of the armor felt like a betrayal and besides, he would need it for later.

After Gandalf changed him back, he would need something that would fit. Currently though, the tunic provided for him fit perfectly. It was less gaudy than many of the garments the Elves in Rivendell seemed to favor, and for that Kíli was relieved. Mirkwood Elves—with the exception of the Elvenking—seemed more practical and utilitarian.

His tunic, while finely made, consisted of a tough, durable material, longer in the back than it was in the front, ended just above the knees at its longest point and was a vivid shade of green. Over it he wore the traditional armor of the Mirkwood Elves, the shoulders and breastplate a burnished bronze-green and shaped with a swirling pattern of autumn leaves. Despite his shorter, more unruly hair, there was nothing about him that suggested that he was anything more than an ordinary Silvan Elf.

Except for one thing.

Kili's hand stayed to the silver clasp in his hair. That was staying, no matter what.

Slinging his quiver over his shoulder and picking up his bow, the dark-haired Elf slipped out of the tent and into the cold night air.

He kept his ear pricked, listening closely for any sign of Gandalf above the clamor of the camp, his hearing far more formidable a thing than his eyesight at the moment being. Now that he was dressed as one of them, most of the Elves hardly spared him a second glance, most likely mistakenly assuming that that's precisely what he was. Many of the Men from Laketown however, watched him with an almost awed sort of reverence. It was a little unnerving, but Kíli reminded himself that they had probably never seen an Elf before, but only heard the tales and legends.

No, not an Elf. The former Dwarf caught himself too late. A Dwelf. Self-consciously, he pulled a few tendrils of hair farther over his pointed ear tips. I'm Kíli, of Durin's Folk. I was a Dwarf, and I will be again. I just need to find…

Gandalf! 

Kíli caught sight of the wizard, standing near one of the tents and speaking with Bilbo. He paused. So their burglar had returned to Gandalf. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but in a way, it was. Kíli hadn't expected to see the Hobbit again. He went over to the pair.

"Gandalf," he said, keeping his gaze trained only on the gray wizard.

"Ah, Kíli." Gandalf sounded tired. His eyes remained bright and watchful within his weathered face, but a frown had begun to form, half concealed by the thickness of his beard. As if he already knew—or had a good suspicion—of what Kíli wanted to ask. "A great darkness is almost upon us, I fear. Too few know about it, and even fewer wish to fight it. It was a good thing you did, back in Erebor, intervening on the behalf of my Hobbit. Bilbo just finished telling me about it. I only wish that we could have met again under happier circumstances."

"He shouldn't have stolen the Arkenstone though," said Kíli, remembering what it was that made his uncle turn on him once again. Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn't have taken it, and I shouldn't have found it. Then neither of us would be in this mess.

"Perhaps not. But it is impossible to see what may have been, for even the wise cannot see all ends."

"But you're wise. And very powerful." Perhaps he was overstretching it a bit—after all, the most powerful thing the young Durin had seen Gandalf do was light pinecones on fire to hurl at Wargs—but his heart pounded wildly in his chest. It couldn't hurt to hope. Besides, Gandalf was an Istari, surely he could do something about his present condition. "I was wondering if—if y-you could change me back."

"There is an ancient magic about you, Kíli son of Dis. The wizard scrutinized him closely, then shook his head. "It appears to have taken root in your very soul. Even if I could reverse it, I am not sure I would. It would not be wise," he said, not unkindly. "For I have not seen such a thing in over a thousand years. Soul magic like this is remarkable… Truly, no signs of fractured energy at all. Your life force is thriving in its new state."

"But I don't want to be an Elf," Kíli pleaded, hating how childish his tone began to sound.

"I wish there was more I could do for you," Gandalf said solemnly, "I would not leave you as such if it were in my power to undo it, but even then I am not sure it would be wise, for not even the wise can see all ends. You were spared for a reason, Kíli, and it is neither for me nor you to decide. All you must do now is choose how to lead the life you have been given."

The sun had barely risen, and Fíli's whole world was sliding toward disaster. Kíli was gone and Thorin was slipping further into madness. Even deep within the mountain, the blond heir could hear the sounds of battle—the fierce roars of the Orcs, the battle cries of the Dwarves and Elves, the clash of steel on steel—and he traced a hand over his blades, longing to rush to their aid.

Was his brother among them?

Give the boy to me, and I will stay my hand, the Elvenking had promised. Chills ran up Fíli's spine at the words. Would Kíli have gone to him on his own, especially without saying a word to him about it? Yes, of course he would, Fili thought, answering his own question. If he thought he was doing the right thing. It would be just like Kíli, jumping at a chance to be the hero without thinking it all the way through. Even with that knowledge though, Kili's absence stung like a physical blow.

He didn't even bother to say goodbye. 

Dori—who'd taken part in the second watch that night with Gloin—had admitted to spying the former Dwarf slip outside, but had thought nothing of it. Despite how subtle he tried to be, all of the Company knew about the dark-haired Elf's nightly excursions. Kíli tried to hide it, but Fili could see when his brother began to go stir-crazy, becoming shaky and agitated.

Elves were beings of the trees and sky; they weren't meant to be cooped up for long periods of time beneath earth and stone.

Fíli knew that the first night Kíli spent sleeping outside has hardly been his last, and with every passing day, he returned to the mountain closer and closer to dawn, spending more time among the trees and fresh air the Eldar so loved. At least until Tauriel left.

And now he's gone too. Fíli pushed his worry away with limited success. There were other things to worry about as well, bigger and more pressing things. Such as the fact their uncle had commanded them not to enter the fray happening right outside the mountain’s very walls. However, each Dwarf remained alert, waiting for their king to give the word.

But Thorin still had yet to move from his throne.

Finally, it was Dwalin who could stand it no longer. He climbed the steps to the throne, coming to stand before their king. "Thorin, they are dying out there."

Nothing in Thorin's gaze suggested that he heard the words of his old friend. His eyes remained focused on what lay beyond Dwalin far off in the distance, something shadowed flickering their cerulean depths. "There are halls beneath halls within this mountain," he mused distantly. "Places we can fortify. Make safe. Yes, that is it. We must move the gold further underground."

The gold? What about our people? Thought Fili.

"Did you not hear me?!" Dwalin's voice was thick with emotion, and the blond Dwarf could see a vein jump in the tattooed warrior's jaw. Dwalin was barely keeping his temper in check; Fili knew that from personal experience. "Dain is surrounded. They're being slaughtered, Thorin."

"Many die in war." If Fíli could keenly sense Dwalin's distress, he could only imagine how much more so it should have affected Thorin. Yet his uncle continued to listlessly look away, continuing to speak in that soft, hollow tone of voice." Life is cheap, but a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost. It is worth all the blood we can spend."

"The blood of the Elves and Men I can understand," said the warrior with a disgusted shake of his head, "but the blood of your kin? Your cousin, Dain Ironfoot, is out there fighting on your behalf and I'd reckon that Kíli is out there as well—he's reckless, and this is just the sort of thing he'd do. He may be a thrice-damned Elf, but he's your sister-son! We've both known him since he was a small lad!"

Thorin didn't reply, and Dwalin curled his hands into fists. "You sit here in these vast halls, with a crown upon your head, and yet you are less than you ever have been."

That got his attention. The Dwarf king leaped up from his throne, pacing away from the warrior. "Do not speak to me as if I were some lowly Dwarf lord," he said. "As if I were…" Faltering, as if on the verge of tears. A moment of weakness. "…Still Thorin Oakenshield," he finished hoarsely, head in his hands. But in a heartbeat, that moment of weakness vanished and he snapped to attention. " I AM YOUR KING!"

"You were always my king." Dwalin replied, wistful. "You used to know that once. You cannot see what you have become."

"Go." Thorin was present at last, his eyes no longer staring off into the distance but boring into Dwalin's own. But there was no relief in the realization as the Dwarf king then snapped, "Get out. Before I kill you."

Tauriel paused in her journey, glancing up at the sky. It was still dark, but it would be dawn in a matter of hours. She journeyed across the jagged terrain swiftly—without a horse or without a map to lead the way, for she had neither the money to purchase them nor the knowledge of where to buy them, since the land between Erebor and Gundabad was chiefly wilderness, large settlements far and few in between.

There was still no sign of Legolas.

Her feet were sore. Her legs ached. Never in her life had the Silvan elleth traveled so far, especially on foot, and a trained Mirkwood warrior or not, she was beginning to feel the effects of it. But the pain faded in comparison to her fear, worry for Legolas deep in her heart and thrumming through her veins a pulse.

Ai Valar, she thought, allowing her breathing to slow in preparation to increase her pace again. How far must I go? 

More than anything, Tauriel wished she'd had the foresight to bring a torch. Like all Elves, she was more impervious to the cold than those of other races, but even her fingers and toes were beginning to feel slightly numb and stiffer than normal as she woke in the mornings, nothing sheltering her from the nightly elements but a thin traveling cloak.

That morning, she'd awoke to the cloak encased in a sheet of frost, the frost stretched thinly across the dark material like a pale coating of glistening dust, and could only stare in surprise. Of course there will be frost, she rebuked herself later, feeling foolish in her astonishment. It's the beginning of the winter season Rhîw, and this is farther to the north than Mirkwood is. 

But she had made up her mind. She rarely slept during the night. Instead, she used the time to travel, constantly looking up at the sky for guidance, grateful for the long nights she used to spend out late with Legolas—before Thranduil grew suspicious, before the Dwarves arrived in their realm, back when everything was simple—looking up at the stars. Those nights had been more than merely enjoying the company of a friend. She'd learned things from them as well; countless, valuable things.

The patterns of the stars. The names of constellations. But most importantly, how to use them to navigate.

She bought no map, yes, but that didn't mean there wasn't one provided for her.

So while the stars were out she would travel, her sharp eyes constantly probing the sky for the next sign to indicate that she was traveling in the right direction. Even if she had brought a torch, she wasn't sure if she would have even used it. Running with fire wasn't a good idea at the best of times, even though she knew she was unlikely to drop it.

Her real worry stemmed from the attention the bright light may have drawn. The light would be a beacon to all those nearby, including highwaymen, thieves, and Orcs. So she stayed off the main paths and chose instead to travel under the cover of darkness.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the galloping hoof beats of a lone horse and rider, rapidly approaching.

It was a clear, moonless night, but Tauriel managed to retreat into the shadows beneath the trees that flanked the sides of the narrow path. Spindly and gray, the trees stood like sentries, their bare branches casting jagged shadows across the ground, twisted and broken. Surprisingly steady fingers despite the frantic racing of her heart drew an arrow from her quiver and fitted it into her bow. Drawing back slightly on the string, she listened more intently.

The gait was too light for a draft, or any of the sturdier working breeds that the Men in the region seemed to favor, she thought to herself. An inkling of an idea began to form in her mind.

Only seconds later, her suspicion was confirmed as a horse and Elven rider came charging into view. Less than a heartbeat later, she saw who the Elven rider was.

"Legolas!" she called out, stepping out into the path as her friend raced on by. The reaction was immediate. Legolas stiffened, glancing in surprise over his shoulder giving a sharp tug on the reins, wheeling his sorrel charger around so swiftly that its feet hardly seemed to skim the ground as they turned to face her, galloping back down the path.

Tauriel found herself nearly face to face with the stallion as Legolas brought it to a halt, then swiftly dismounted.

"Tauriel," he said, and despite the smooth expression he wore, there was a flicker of warmth in those blue eyes. Her fears of his anger vanished immediately. Despite their sudden, almost bitter parting in the ruins of Laketown nearly three weeks ago, he was genuinely pleased to see her. Others might not, but she could see through his carefully constructed mask. He examined her uncertainly. "These roads lead away from the Lonely Mountain, towards a fell place. What are you doing, going this way alone? I thought you chose to stay with the Dwarves."

Resentment simmered faintly beneath the last statement.

"Kíli is well," she said evenly, remembering that Thorin Oakenshield had at last seemed to accept the truth of Kili's identity, even if he still wasn't willing to give his blessing towards their courtship. At the time being, that was the least of their troubles. "I have fulfilled my mission to return him to his kin, and guide him through the early stages of his grief. He will not fade, I think. He's recovered well from the loss."

A faint smile softened the hard line of her mouth as she thought of the dark-haired Elf rolling his eyes at something ridiculous said as he clearly didn't take the comment seriously, the steely light in his eyes as he focused on a target, the way he tucked stray strands of hair behind his ears—on the rare occasion that he forgot to hide what made him so Elvish, not remembering that the habit only served to accent their pointedness in his new state.

Of his lips passionately pressed against hers, his hands cupping her face or roaming down her sides, her hands tangled in a dark mane of hair… Her slight smile was a brief one, but it didn't escape the notice of the Mirkwood prince.

"It's not much of a loss though, is it?" asked Legolas, with poorly concealed cynicism. And suddenly, Tauriel found that they were strangers once again. "He's gained everything. Strength, speed, immortality…" You, the silent voice added, but neither Elf dared speak it out loud. "What did he even have to lose?"

"He could have lost everything." Tauriel said. And he still might. "His own uncle turned on him the night we arrived in Erebor, as well as many of the other Dwarves. As strange as it may seem, he liked being a Dwarf."

"Then why didn't you let the Dwarf remain as he was the night that you healed him?"

The Silvan elleth felt her face heat up. "You know that transforming Kíli—" Tauriel placed emphasis on the former Dwarf's name, "wasn't my intent. I knew that Fëa Evaliir was an unstable magic even at the best of times, but I didn't know what would come of it. I understood that Kíli was mortal, I never wanted him to be an Elf. I never knew such a thing was possible."

"But now you are grateful for it," Legolas accused, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

For perhaps the first time since he had known her, Tauriel blushed. It was difficult to tell in the darkness of night, but no clouds covered the moon, and her face certainly didn't have its usual pallor. If it had been lighter out, Legolas was certain that her cheeks would only be a few shades lighter than her hair.

However, she regained her composure quickly, though her eyes didn't quite meet his when she next spoke. "Perhaps I do… but it pains me to see him suffering," she admitted, "He surprises me though. Under the circumstances, he is adapting well. I couldn't let him die. You know that, mellon nin. There is so much outside of Mirkwood, so much neither you nor I have ever seen, and the Elvenking—"

"Do not drag my father into this!" Legolas snapped, harsher than he intended. The stallion beside him roughly nosed his shoulder, eager to get going once again, and Legolas slipped his hand around its bridle, murmuring a few soothing words to it in Sindarin. Then he turned back to Tauriel, eyes softening. "He may be wrong, but this is a matter of your own doing."

"I couldn't stay, hir vuin."

"No. Don't call me that. I am not your lord." What had happened between them?

She then smiled, all her previous fire and defiance faded, but there was no happiness in it, either. "You are my lord, Legolas. You are one of the Sindar, while I am a mere Silvan Elf. You are my commander, my mentor, my friend." A slight hesitation. "If things had been different, I would've fought gladly beside you for all of my days."

"And only fought?" Disappointment weighed in Legolas's voice, heavy as a stone.

"I do not know," Tauriel replied truthfully, "but now I have another path to take, and I would not change it for anything." Their love—the one shared between her and Kíli—had been impossible, nothing more than a distant dream between a Dwarf and an Elf. But now…

Tauriel found a reason to hope.

"The Dwarf king has succumbed to gold sickness." Abruptly, she switched subjects, the urgency of her mission bubbling to the forefront of her mind. Legolas didn't look surprised, though his face fell in dismay. "He will not repay the Men of Laketown their share, nor will he give your father the White Gems of Lasgalen. All of them—Dwarves, Men, and Elves—prepare for battle."

She expected Legolas to shake his head over the foolishness of the Dwarves (thirteen against an entire army?) or look assured in the strength of their people. What she wasn't expecting was this.

The Mirkwood prince drew in a sharp breath, horrified.

"Legolas, what is it?"

"Gundabad is rising once again," he said. "They've grown in strength and number since their defeat. That place of darkness is crawling with more Orcs than our people ever imagined, and they too are preparing for bloodshed. Their forges are lit, and every warrior is armed. They've bred all kinds of fell creatures—monstrous bats, large enough to lift one off the ground—and they're bred for one purpose. War. Dark forces head for the Mountain."

"If we must, we can defeat them once again. We have before, at Angmar—"

"But not like this. Tauriel, the last time Mirkwood marched on Angmar, my mother died. The darkness has grown powerful."

Any shock that Tauriel may have felt as the rare mention of Mirkwood Queen—dead hundreds of years before she was even born, whose very name had become somewhat of a taboo among the Elves out of respect and reluctance to further upset Thranduil—was pushed aside as yet another revelation hit her.

"Our people." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "They are at the Mountain as well, prepared to fight Dwarves, not Orcs. They will be caught unaware. The Pale Orc means to slaughter them all."

Friends. Acquaintances. Fellow Elves and comrades-in-arms that she had lived alongside her entire life. Kili's as well. Within a day's time, she knew she might lose any number of them.

Suddenly, it became very hard to breathe.

She cared little for the Dwarves of the Company as a whole, but she couldn't deny that the thought of losing those that had shown kindness to her and Kíli—such as Fili, Bofur, and dare she say it? Bifur of all Dwarves—left her with an ache in her chest. She didn't wish for them to die. In truth, she didn't want any of the Dwarves to die at all. Not from such a grim, messy death as that.

There was understanding in Legolas's expression.

"We must warn them if we can." Quickly, he mounted his horse. And although Tauriel had a feeling that the only them he referred to were their own people, she nonetheless felt reassured by it. "Come, Tauriel."

He held out his hand to her and this time, Tauriel took it.

He pulled, and she swung herself into the saddle behind him, gripping tightly with her legs as the sorrel stallion sprung into motion. Even then, she lurched backward—falling towards the ground for a single, terrifying second—before wildly grasping to Legolas's back to keep from falling off. Regaining her balance, though faintly embarrassed, she adjusted her grip by wrapping her arms loosely around Legolas. He made no comment of it, and she didn't say anything in turn.

She was centuries old but had only ridden a horse a small handful of times. Tauriel reassured herself by thinking that if she had ridden alone, she could've managed well enough balancing in the saddle with her hands on the reins. It wasn't her fault she had to cling to him in order to stay on when they rode together.

All the same though, it was going to make for a long ride.

Chapter Text

What would Thorin do?

Throughout his life, that had always been a question Fílli had asked himself. One day you will be king, and then you will understand, his uncle had once promised him, and to the blond heir, that day had always seemed impossibly far away. It always had been, but that didn't mean that Fíli hadn't tried to live up to it.

Everyone had always considered Kíli the instigator of their mischief when they were Dwarflings—and that much was true, Kíli had a mind for trouble in the same way a craft-bound Dwarf had a mind for their craft—but it was Fili who went along with it, Fili who devised his little brother's plan a step further (after all, Uncle Thorin wouldn't be afraid of climbing to reach the cookies on the highest shelf. Uncle Thorin wouldn't be afraid to go hunting for Trolls in the woods while they were supposed to be doing their lessons).

As they grew older, Fíli came to recognize the line between foolishness and admiration. But his fierce loyalty to their uncle remained, even as his relationship with Thorin shifted in a way that Thorin and Kili's had not. More and more frequently, their uncle began pulling him aside for private training, teaching him how to best to lead for when his time came.

Of course, he remained supportive of Kíli as well—even buying him his first bow, even though he'd spent the earlier night arguing with Dís about whether or not it was an appropriate weapon for his sister-son—but he placed emphasis on Fili's duty to their people.

In public, Thorin was typically Thorin, not Uncle. They were more than kin, he was the King in Exile and Fíli was The Heir. In most cases, Kíli remained… just Kíli. The bond between his brother and Thorn remained more of that between an uncle and nephew than between a king and his heir, a luxury that Fili no longer had. At the same time though, he had a privilege that Kíli never had.

While both he and Kíli had insisted on coming on the quest, Kíli had done it more in the spirit of adventure. He'd done so as well, but for him the quest significance also had a deeper significance. It was a way to prove to both himself and to Thorin that he could manage whatever challenges and hardships they faced.

Now though, he was on his own. Kíli was most likely outside their very halls—most likely having gone to the Elvenking. Was he even alive still? An uncomfortable knot twisted in his gut. Their uncle was gone as well, but in a very different way.

Any challenges he faced he would have to face alone.

When you are King, you will understand.

"If this is what it means to be king, then I don't want it," Fíli murmured quietly to himself. He looked up at the great wall that divided them from the battle, then out at the scattered Company, most of whom lingered nearby. Dwalin and Balin stood near the entryway to the throne room, speaking in low voices. Glóin continued uneasily sharpening his axe, glancing shiftily at the wall every so often. Sometime after Thorin left, Nori the thief had disappeared as well.

Without his uncle, they were a ragged, leaderless bunch; too far from home and too tired to do anything about it. Everything about it was wrong—and Fíli no longer knew what would make it right—but he knew that he had to try.

Nervously, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

Black blood spurted from the Orc's throat as the arrow hit its mark. Without hesitating, Kíli reached back and drew out another one from his quiver, knocking it into place. Uncle, Fili… Where are you? He drew back and fired, and yet another foe tumbled to the ground, dead or dying.

Kíli didn't care which.

The Orc army was overwhelming. Even with the combined strength of Dain and the Elvenking's armies, there were too many. Far too many. Only a few yards to his right, a black-haired Elf was shot down by a Goblin mercenary, his startled cry cut short. Kíli glanced at him, but his eyes, while open, stared up at the sky without seeing. He was dead.

That could have been me.

Needless to say, the Goblin mercenary met a quick end.

Where was the Company? Thorin Oakenshield does not care about an Elf, warned the voice of Thranduil, but Kíli stubbornly pushed it aside. No, he does care. Not about all Elves, but about me. All the same, despair crept into his heart. Why were they hiding? Dain and his Dwarves were here, fighting on Thorin's behalf, and they were dying!

Had they been abandoned after all?

At that moment, the low ringing—like that of a large gong, although it could hardly be heard over the clamor—sounded. Kíli turned, tense. Then, so suddenly that many standing nearby flinched or leapt back, the wall to Erebor crumbled. Bits and pieces of shattered stone flew out as larger portions of stone keeled over, forming an even wider bridge across the Mountain's narrow gateway. A cloud of thick, swirling dust rose up upon impact.

The dark-haired Elf blinked in surprise. The wall had been smashed through by a very large bell.

A moment later, the Company poured out. Their voices raised and their weapons raised, they charged the onslaught of Orcs, Fíli at the head of the formation. Kíli stared in disbelief. Where was their Uncle?

"Baruk Khazâd!" cried Fili, unsheathing the longest of his knives and plunging it into the nearest of the Orcs. The creature screeched as Fili struck again—this time, not at the arm but at the chest, and a cheer went up from the assembled Dwarves.

"Baruk Khazâd!" They cheered in turn.

A surge of pride raced through Kíli. Even if his brother couldn't see him from where he was, he raised his voice as well to join in the battle cry. "Khazâd ai-menu!"

Axes of the Dwarves. The Dwarves are upon you.

The throne room was empty, save for one Dwarf. Thorin stood alone, surveying the vast halls, the high-vaulted ceiling, the golden floors of the kingdom of Erebor. He swayed as though caught in a fever dream. I have been betrayed, he thought, the sounds of battle raging on above him, muffled and distant in the heart of the mountain. Treasure such as this, could not be counted in lives lost...

A sickness lies upon that treasure, Balin warned. A sickness that drove your grandfather mad—

Itkit! Thorin growled at the voice that wasn't there. Am I not your king? This gold is ours. Our gold... Gold beyond measure. I will not part with a single stone! The thought brought with it warmth, pride, so much so that it swelled into a blistering, stifling heat, but even then, the stubborn sound of his advisor's voice would not go away. To make things worse, it was joined by others.

You are changed, Thorin. Bilbo's voice echoed, and for the first time, the scalding heat inside him turned to nausea. The Dwarf I met back in Bag End would never have gone back on his word, would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin...

To not speak to me as though I were a lowly Dwarf Lord... As if I were still Thorin Oakenshield..

Another thought occurred to him as well. Distantly, but it was there.

I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór. I am not my grandfather. I am not my grandfather.

Dwalin's voice, heavy and choked with grief. They're dying out there, Thorin. Dain is surrounded...

They're dying.

I am not my grandfather. A bit more resolve this time.

Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor?

Bilbo! The Hobbit's voice echoed through his mind, soft, reasonable. Thorin latched onto it with all he was worth. He caught hold of Bilbo's gentle voice as it cut through the madness, guiding him back home.

I am not my grandfather.

This treasure will be your death, Gandalf warned, and Thorin felt the room start to spin.

I am not my grandfather.

Take back your homeland...

Uncle, you're hurting him!

Fíli! Thorin felt his heart clench up immediately. How could he have forgotten about his nephews?

He saw Fíli clearly, helping the thing, the abomination—no, Kíli to his feet. Kíli. His sister-son. The darkness rose again in his mind. Kíli, the Elf. Kíli, the traitor. Kíli kissing the she-Elf, forgetting all loyalty to his kin, helping the Hobbit hide the Arkenstone from them. His nephew, coming to him to help, and Thorin's hands wrapped around his throat.

Kíli's strangled gasps, his dark eyes wide with fear.

What have I done?

The heat left him, and Thorin felt his whole body grow cold. The room spun again, and this time Thorin rocked with it. He staggered to the ground, sank to his knees. He was slipping, falling, drowning in gold, while the voices swirling around him rose to an unbearable degree.

Take back your homeland... Be the King you were born to be...

I am not my grandfather, I am not my grandfather! Thorin gasped.

The heavy golden crown clattered to the ground.

"What's the plan, lad?" asked Dwalin.

"Still working on it," Fíli gritted out as he swung his sword and cleaved another Goblin in two. The foul creature fell with a shriek. Despite the Dwarves' hope returning as the Company charged out of Erebor, Fíli knew that it would take a lot more than that to turn the tide of the battle. All around him Dwarves and Men and Elves were locked in the throes of battle, and many of them lay dead on the ground. Fíli tried not to flinch as he stumbled over the body of a dark-haired Elf, heart stopping for a split second before he realized the Elf wasn't Kíli.

Kíli, where are you? His heart silently cried, knowing his brother was too far away to answer.

If only he hadn't gone to Thranduil. How was Fíli supposed to keep him safe now? It was hard enough to tell the members of the Company apart in battle, never mind the legion of tall, identically-dressed Elves with their bronzed armor and leaf-shaped helmets. Could any one of them could be Kíli?

No time to think about it now! He thought as an Orc twice his size pounced on him. It roared, swinging its mace, but Fíli was smaller and quicker, dropping his center of gravity low as he ducked to the side and struck his sword into its soft underbelly. Dwalin cleaved it from behind.

"Thank you," Fíli panted as the Orc toppled over. He, Dwalin, Balin, Glóin, and Bofur had managed to stay together, fighting as a group while they slowly slogged their way toward Ravenhill. Fíli didn't exactly know where they were going, but he knew they needed to get toward Dain if they were ever going to regroup.

Thorin should be the one leading them. His uncle would know what to do. Fíli had never felt more uncertain in his life. Despite his earlier cry rallying the Dwarves to battle, the loss of Kíli and Thorin hurt like a lost limb, leaving him shaky and off-kilter. I have to get to Dain.

But where was the temperamental Iron Hills Dwarf? Fíli hadn't seen him since the start of the battle.

A sudden shout from Ori startled him. "Look, over there!"

The remains of the Company looked up, over the sea of. Ravenhill loomed skeletally in the distance. From the top of it though, Fíli could just make out what had gotten Ori's attention; three flags hung tattered and ragged from the watchtower. But that wasn't what had gotten Ori's attention. Each of the flags was rigid in the wind. As they watched, the largest flag in the center of the three unfurled.

"Durin's beard!" Glóin exclaimed in sudden understanding. "Looks to be some sort of signal."

All of a sudden Fili knew what he had to do. There was no time to find Kíli or Dain or wait for Thorin. He was the leader. Fíli turned to the assembled Dwarves.

"We have to get to the top of that tower."

"Fili!" Kíli called, although he knew he was too far away for Fili to hear him.

I must reach Fili. A new resolve hardened in his heart, renewed energy rushing into his limbs as he was propelled by something other than desperation. They came. All of them. Except for Uncle, a small voice added, but that didn't stop the giddy sense of triumph. They hadn't been abandoned after all. Thorin must have a good reason for not leading the charge. Maybe for some sort of diversion?

Kíli wasn't the only one heartened by the Company's arrival. The Iron Hills Dwarves seemed to gain strength as well, tearing and smashing at their enemies with fresh resolve, closing the gaps between them and falling back into formation.

They're rallying to Fili, he realized.

His lapse of attention nearly cost him his life.

Snarling, a massive Orc rushed him from the side. Kíli barely had time to duck its axe, the heavy blade barely missing its mark. He could feel the sudden whoosh as it cut through the empty air where his head had been only a split second before. However, although he managed to evade the blow, he didn't manage to evade the Orc itself.

He collided with its chest. Hard.

Both he and the Orc stumbled, Kíli falling as he tripped over his own feet in a useless attempt to regain his balance and the Orc staggering from the unexpectedness of the blow, growling curses at every deity on Arda to have encountered such a clumsy Elf. However, it still had the presence of mind to catch itself using the axe handle for balance and deliver the Elf a powerful kick in the ribs.

Kíli hit the ground with a pained grunt and very un-Elvish lack of grace, his bow knocked out of his hands. His ribs were on fire; his lungs struggled to draw in breath. He saw the Orc jerk the axe out of the soil, yellowed eyes burning twice as bright in the sockets of its leathery face.

"I think I will enjoy this very much, Elf." It leered, revealing crooked, too-sharp teeth.

No!

Kíli twisted around frantically, reaching for his bow as the Orc raised its axe.

"Not today, ya bastard!" A voice cried, the words twisted and stretched the unmistakable lilt of the Iron Hills. The Orc slumped to the ground, an axe embedded in its skull. Kíli blinked at the sight of his unlikely Dwarvish rescuer.

Lord Dain of the Iron Hills stood before him, his armor riddled black with Orc blood and boar tusk woven into his flaming red beard. He yanked his axe out of the Orc's skull.

"Oi, whatcha starin' at, ya beardless sprite?" Kíli flinched as he realized the "beardless sprite" Dain was talking to was him. "Get back on your feet! We still got Orcs to kill! Now where the blazes is Fíli?"

Grabbing his bow, Kíli stumbled to his feet, not trusting himself to speak. Would Dain recognize him at all like this? He'd seen Dain once before, decades ago when the Dwarf Lord had made a rare trip to see Thorin and Dís in Ered Luin. Kíli had been only a young Dwarfling then, but Dain had made quite the impression on him with his big, booming voice and the ivory boar tusks braided into his magnificent red beard.

He decided to risk it.

"You saved my life," he said, but Dain brushed him away, grumbling.

"Oi! I don't need yer help, lad." He squinted at the former Dwarf uncertainly. "Lad? Lass?" He guessed again.

"Lad," Kíli replied, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. Apparently, he wasn't the only one bad at gendering Elves. But the last thing he wanted was Dain Ironfoot, his uncle's cousin and Lord of the Iron Hills, calling him lass.

"Good." Dain grunted, oblivious to the dark-haired Elf's embarrassment and the fact he was standing in front of one of Thorin's sister-sons. "Then I don't mind tellin' ya to sod off. I need ta find Fíli or Thorin. Last thing I need is ta play babysitter to some damn fool of an Elf."

Kíli bristled for a moment before the words slipped out of him quickly, almost automatically. "I need to find Fíli as well. It's very important."

Dain's glare immediately turned to one of suspicion. "Aye, an' what does a forest pixie like you want with one of Durin's folk? Yer only here for yer king an' yer gold!"

"No. I'm not," Kíli protested, almost immediately. "I don't care about Elvenking or the gold!" I just want my brother, something inside of him raged silently. I'm sorry, Fíli, I never should have left.

For a moment, he considered telling Dain everything. About their journey, about the transformation about Laketown. How he wasn't really an Elf, but Kíli the son of Dís stuck in an Elf's body; so Dain could stop calling him a pointy-eared sprite.

But as soon as the words rose in his throat, Kíli realized it would be no use. Dain was too stubborn. He would rather eat the elaborately-braided tusks in his own beard than believe one of Erebor's heirs had been turned into an Elf. Besides, Kíli wasn't ready to be rejected by one of his own kin. Not after Thorin, not after his own uncle—

Not again.

I will not hide, not while others fight our battles for us! His resolve made up, Kíli turned back to the Iron Hills Dwarf.

"Please." He insisted. "You have to believe me. I'm only trying to help."

"I don't need yer help," Dain all but growled. He looked thunderous as swung his axe at the next Orc. "You, nor that fairy princess you call a king," he cried as the creature toppled over with a screech and a black spurt of blood. "We Dwarves were doin' just fine on our own—"

A blur of tawny-colored fur caught the corner of his eye.

"Look out!" Kíli cried, just as a riderless Warg barreled towards Dwarf. Dain raised his axe, but it was already too late; the Warg sprung at him with gaping red jaws. Kíli fired an arrow.

The Warg fell to the ground with a pained yelp, an arrow through its eye. The great beast shuddered as Dain stepped back from its body, and with a final twitch whimpered and moved no more. Kíli let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Dain looked down at the Warg then back at him, looking at Kíli with a little more surprise and a little less wariness than he had before. "Well, I suppose yer not entirely useless. Though ya still look like one good breeze would blow ya over."

Kíli raised his chin defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere. If you're trying to get to Fíli then I'm coming with you." He pressed on before Dain could argue. "I have good eyes, and I know how to fight. I can get us there."

"If you know where 'there' is. I haven't seen him since the start of battle. And where the blazes is Thorin? He shoulda been leadin' charge!" Dain grimaced. "Wherever he is, I hope he has a plan."

He felt a fresh surge of worry for his cousin but pushed it down as he glowered up at the tall, beardless sprite. He was clearly very young for one of his people, with an earnestness in his eyes that Dain hadn't noticed before. This must be his first battle. Dain grumbled under his breath as he picked his way across the battlefield, cursing to himself as he realized that the blasted sprite was still following him.

Nain's bearded ass, what had he done to deserve a tagalong Elf?

Chapter Text

Where is Fíli? Kíli frantically wondered as he and Dain slew their way across the battlefield. As much as they tried to fight against it, they were getting pushed further and further away from the mouth of Erebor and towards the fringes of the battle. Dain had lost his war pig to a particularly fearsome earth troll, and the constant clanging of steel was a nightmare for Kíli's Elvish senses. If he had thought Uncle Thorin's shouting was loud, it was nothing compared to this. This level of noise inside his head was unreal.

His mind hurt, and there was a constant ringing in his ears.

Kíli grimaced and rubbed the base of one sensitive ear. Mahal. He hated his ears. He was so sensitive to noise now it felt like he had spent all last night at a tavern instead of sleepless at Erebor and then the Elvenking's camp. Why. He stumbled after Dain, over-stimulated, his mind ringing like an anvil after the world's worst hangover. How were real Elves expected to deal with this all the time?

Dain certainly wasn't helping. "Take that, you Orcish bastard!" He cried, not caring if his foe was Goblin, Orc, or Warg.

Although Kíli was dizzy, he still kept his wits about him enough to quickly dodge a blade from an incoming Goblin mercenary, who was less than half his size. Grunting from the effort, the former Dwarf swung his bow to hook the Goblin's feet out from under him then shot an arrow through his neck, the patchy gray-white skin unguarded by its leather armor. There's a lot more Goblins, he noted, than there were before, when he and Dain were closer to the Mountain. He turned to make a joke about the Goblin King and this particular Goblin to Fíli, only to remember that Fíli wasn't there.

He wished he could put his hearing towards something actually useful—like finding Fíli. He tried to think of where his brother could be as spun around and surveyed the desolate landscape.

"We're surrounded," said Dain, a desperate note entering his voice. He clenched his grip even tighter on his axe as more Goblins were approaching. He didn't even seem to care anymore that Kíli could hear. "I don't understand. Where is Thorin? He said he'd be here."

Kíli hated the way his throat tightened. Don't think about Uncle, don't think about Uncle. There was no way Thorin would take him back now. Not after wearing the colors of Mirkwood. Kíli's eyes stung, though no tears actually fell. Unless he found a way to turn back, it was unlikely Thorin would see him as anything more than an Elf. I will not hide, he repeated, and wondered where Thorin was right now. Fíli led the charge. Had they actually been abandoned?

Suddenly, his eyes lit on a tower jutting in the distance. It looked eerily familiar, though Kíli couldn't place where he had seen it before. He was distracted as the Goblin mercenaries closed in on them. There were five this time. Each one shrieking and chattering in a shrill voice and armed to the teeth. Kíli drew back an arrow from his quiver and realized that after this shot, he only had one left. Kíli wanted to save that arrow.

The fear he felt earlier was replaced by determination. He might have a splitting headache, but he was about to make that someone else's problem.

For Erebor! He shouted in his mind as he pulled back the bowstring. For Fíli! His aim shot true.

Kíli bared his teeth as he unsheathed the Elvish sword. The slightly curved blade shone blue. The sword might not have been Kíli's preferred weapon, but he had been it since he was a young Dwarfling. Thorin and Dwalin had made sure of that. When it came to fighting, his new height shouldn't have made a difference.

Emphasis on should; Kíli was stronger than the mercenary but the Goblin was quick. Kíli was used to striking up or level with an opponent, he wasn't used to having to guard his much longer legs or torso. As soon as Kíli swung the Goblin parried, deflecting the larger Elven blade and stabbing the dark-haired Elf in the shin. Kíli gave a shout of surprise and pain before clumsily managing to decapitate the Goblin.

It was a glancing blow but still; that was the leg that had been struck by the Morgul shaft in Mirkwood. For a moment, his leg stabbed with phantom pain, but Kíli was relieved to know at least that this blade hadn't been poisoned. The pain quickly subsided.

Meanwhile, Dain finished off the last of the Goblins.

"Nasty work. Never liked them buggers." He turned gruffly to Kíli. "Can ye still walk?"

Kíli let out a hiss of pain. "Yes. I'm fine." He pressed a hand to his knee, and pulled it away bright with blood. "I can still walk. Let's keep going." The gash wasn't bad, but it was bleeding steadily. He limped, but it wasn't bad. Really. Kíli hoped it would stop bleeding soon.

Dain grumbled at him, "Don't know where you in yer addled mind are headed to, Elf."

Kíli looked up and saw the dark watch tower again, looming in the distance. This time he could see that there were three flags on top. They certainly didn't look like they belonged to the Dwarves, Men, or Elves. Some sort of signal...? He wondered. The dark-haired Elf felt the strangest sense of déjà vu. The tower, Fíli... and below the tower, some sort of courtyard...

He gasped, suddenly realizing where he had seen that courtyard before. It had appeared in his dream! The one where Fíli—Kíli quickly cut off that train of thought. The dream where Fíli did not die. And that's all it was, just a dream. Dreams didn't mean anything really; Kíli wasn't some silly young Dwarfling who believed everything he thought everything he dreamt ought to be true. But he still couldn't shake off the uncomfortable feeling...

"I know where we might find them," Kíli breathed, "Or at least I know where we might find Fíli." He felt very outside of himself, almost as if he were floating. None of it made any sense, but as soon as Kíli said it he was sure. Saying the words out loud gave them a sense of substance and certainty. I had a dream... he began. "They're headed towards that ugly watchtower!"

"Ravenhill." Dain grunted, looking darkly in that direction as the snow started to fall. "Ye've got to be jokin'!"

Dain and Kíli were almost to the hills at the base of the watchtower by the time they caught up to Fíli.

When the two caught up to each other, it was impossible to tell who looked more surprised to see the other; Fíli or Kíli. Fíli was equally surprised to see Dain, but he only had eyes for the dark-haired Elf. Dwalin, Ori, and Glóin stood beside him.

"Kíli!" He exclaimed, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "What are you doing here?"

Dain shook before Kíli could answer. "It's just me, lad!" He said in his usual blustering voice. "Yer brother's not here. It's just me and this twice-damned Elf."

Kíli could see the question in his brother's eyes but he quickly shook his head. I can't. Not here. Not after Uncle—He cut off that train of thought. He couldn't believe any of this was possible. My dream was right! He wanted to exclaim, but didn't want to think about the implications of that either. If his dream was right, then Fíli was in danger. It was up to Kíli to protect his brother, for once, and not the other way around.

"My name's Feren," he supplied quickly, giving the first Elvish name that came to mind. Aside from Tauriel, of course. "I want to help."

What was Tauriel going to think when she came back to Erebor?

"Feren," Fíli said faintly, his eyes flickering across Kíli's Elvish garb.

The former Dwarf felt his whole body burning with shame. He was keenly aware of the gold-and-green armor, his Elvish now, and the way the cold wind picked up and swirled the hair away from his ears. He felt trapped, and like less of a Dwarf than ever before. Some of the emotion must have slipped across on his face, because Fíli jerked back as if stung. He even earned a sympathetic look from Dwalin; while their gruff old mentor said nothing, the look in his dark blue eyes was heavy.

"Feren. Right." Fíli murmured, while Kíli tried and failed to cast a look of careful Elven neutrality. Dain looked back and forth between the two brothers as if trying to figure something out. He was too puzzled to even scowl at the interloping Elf.

Fili turned to Dain, his voice growing stronger. "Thank you for being here, Cousin. We don't have much time. But we're going to need your help if we're going to stop Bolg."

Dain puffed out his chest with pride, his previous confusion forgotten. "Aye. It's an honor to fight beside ye, lad, regardless of wherever yer uncle and brother are. We're Durins, and there's iron in our bones and fire in our veins. We'll make a proper Dwarf Lord of you yet. Now let's show that pale Orcish bastard what happens when he comes between Dwarves and their home! Baruk Khazad! Kazad Ai Menu!"

This time, Kíli did not join in the battle cry.

Without anything further, the small band continued trekking towards Ravenhill, five Dwarves and a solitary Dwelf, Dain and Fíli leading the march while Ori and Glóin flanked a few steps behind them. Kíli and Dwalin brought up the rear. Kíli felt no pain, but he was limping slightly

It was quieter as they got further away from Erebor, nearing the foothills that surrounded the grim gray watch tower. A light snow started to fall as they made their way up the craggy slopes. Kíli's breath came out like little curls of smoke as he looked down. Usually, he'd be delighted by the early snow, but now the snow only served as a reminder that the odds were against them. Their best bet was to get to Ravenhill undetected for as long as possible. But pretty soon they'd be leaving footprints in the snow.

It appeared Dwalin was having the same thoughts as well. "Stay sharp, nidayith." He told Kíli quietly, and shot a concerned glance at the former Dwarf's bad leg. "This is a good spot for an ambush."

Hearing them, Ori tightened his grip on his slingshot.

It warmed Kíli to hear a Khuzdul word coming from his old mentor. "Where's Thorin?" He asked, pulling a little closer alongside the older Dwarf.

He wasn't ready for the way Dwalin's expression darkened. "The Thorin I know is gone. Even a king's crown and the blood of his kin won't stop him from sliding even further into madness."

No! Kíli looked at him in disbelief, all the pieces falling into place in that one terrible moment. It was worse than a punch in the gut, dealing with the Elvenking, or even waking up to find he'd been turned into an Elf. The one thing he'd always believed in was his Uncle. "So that's why Fíli—?"

"Aye." A muscle jumped in the tattooed warrior's jaw, though Dwalin turned his glance away from him. "Our one last hope is Fíli."

"We're too late," Tauriel said.

Legolas said nothing but spurred the horse on harder. Tauriel clung to his back as they raced towards Dale, her face stung by Legolas's pale blond hair and the wind tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

All too soon they reached the ruined gates of Dale. The black iron was rough and twisted, as if banged down by a massive troll. That might as well be the case, Tauriel reflected, as the horse slowed his pace and they cantered inside. Few Men and Women could be seen inside of Dale, but there was plenty of dead. The uneven cobbled ground was littered with the bodies of Orcs, Men, and Elves.

Despite herself, Tauriel let out a sharp gasp as they approached. Some of the bodies were broken and twisted, while others seemed relatively at peace, their sightless gazes turned forever unblinking towards the sky. A few Mannish children huddled in the alleyway as the Elves passed by, clearly frightened of something. I hope they are not orphaned, Tauriel thought with a sharp pang of sorrow. No children deserve to lose their homes and families to these foul Orcs. She wanted to turn around but there was no time for that now.

They passed by a young Silvan lying in a pool of her own blood, a dark, muddy tear across her throat. Tauriel swiftly looked away. She was just one of the many fallen Mirkwood warriors, green-and-gold bodies strewn across the cobblestones like fallen leaves. Tauriel's heart clenched in grief. As Captain of the Guard, she had seen death before, but not like this. This was not just a single Elf who had fallen during patrol. This was pain, this was agony, this was carnage.

Was Kíli out there?

Without thinking, her fingers went to the rune stone in her pocket. The weight was warm and reassuring; she ran her fingers across the gullied surface, allowing Kíli's parting words to burn into her like an Oath. We'll see each other again.

Tauriel only hoped it would be true.

"We can still warn them," Legolas said, desperately spurring the horse back into action. They saw a tall gray figure in the distance, a smaller one joining him as they got closer.

It was Gandalf the Istari and Bilbo Baggins.

"Mithrandir," Legolas murmured.

Her keen eyes flickered from Bilbo to the Istari with unabashed curiosity. Mithrandir, the Gray Pilgrim. She had heard of him, but had never seen him or any of the Istari before- outside of Radagast, of course, who lived in the eastern reach of the forest. Mithrandir seemed taller and more serious than the brown wizard, but still looked just as mortal. Why did immortal beings choose these aging forms? He looked even older than Radagast, with his weathered face and long gray beard.

She slid off the horse as well, turning her attention back to Bilbo. She hadn't seen him since she'd left Erebor over two weeks ago, but he looked worse for the wear. He wasn't wearing any armor, and looked like he had lost weight. His eyes were bright but his feet were caked and dirty.

But what was he doing out here, alone with a wizard?

Tauriel felt a flare of concern. The Hobbit didn't strike her as the fighting type, but he had followed the Dwarves faithfully on their journey. And in learning how Thorin's Company escaped Mirkwood, she knew the Hobbit possessed hidden layers of cunning and courage. No one else had broken a single prisoner out of Mirkwood in over a thousand years—never mind a dozen.

So why then was he out here not wearing any armor, and where was the rest of the Company?

Something about the situation was odd. Not only did Bilbo not have any armor on, but his only weapon was Sting; a long, Elvish dagger. She was suddenly flooded by a cold wave of suspicion. Tauriel thought she could spot a fellow exile when she saw one.

But before she could think of anything to ask, Legolas slid off his horse to greet Mithrandir.

"Bolg leads a force of Gundabad Orcs," he began without any preamble. "They are almost upon us."

The wizard's deep brow furrowed in concern. Gundabad?" He echoed. A sudden wariness entered his voice. "This was their plan all along. Azog engages our forces then Bolg sweeps in from the North."

Bilbo, who had watched the exchange quietly up to that point, stepped forward. "The—the North?" He asked, sounding agitated. "Where is the North, exactly?" Tauriel noticed he was fidgeting with something in his pocket.

Gandalf's gaze swept up to the jagged peaks, opposite of the direction from which she and Legolas had come. "Ravenhill. The abandoned watch tower, but I suspect it is no longer abandoned. The Dwarves cannot fight a war on two fronts. They will be overwhelmed."

Kíli. Tauriel wondered with a bolt of terror. Where is Kíli?

If Bilbo was indeed an exile, then what had happened to her beloved? She knew as well as anyone that the Dwarf king had little patience to suffer Elves under the mountain. Her thoughts swirled around anxiously. Surely the Dwarf king was stronger. He had recognized Kíli as his own the last time she'd seen him. I must be overthinking things, Tauriel reasoned. I hated leaving him, but Kíli is safer with his kin. There had to be another plausible explanation for why Bilbo stood out here with a wizard instead of the Dwarves and the mountain.

Either way, Kíli was still in danger. He was young, and this was absolutely the kind of battle he'd fight in. Kíli would do anything to protect his kin. But the dark-haired Elf was still adapting to his own body, and Tauriel knew that even the most skilled weren't spared in battle. For the first time in centuries, Tauriel felt breathless with fear. Had he learned enough? In the end, only time would tell.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Bilbo stepped forward.

"Then we must warn them!" He exclaimed.

Suddenly, the cold midday air was punctuated by the sound of an Elvish horn.

A high, clear blast. Retreat! Tauriel knew that note. Thranduil was withdrawing his forces.

"We haven't much time," Mithrandir murmured, mostly to himself, although everyone assembled could hear.

They followed the sound of the Elvish horn to where Thranduil stood near the city gates. Already a large group of ragtag Elves had gathered around him. Tauriel blinked in recognition when she saw that Feren, a senior Captain of the Guard, was the one holding the horn. She also recognized a few other of the surviving Elves. Caladuin, his nose broken and healed crooked from a hunt for the white stag, and Raniel and Rinhir, a pair of half-Silvan, half-Sindarin twins. She was reassured that at least some of the Elves she knew survived.

Thranduil stood at the front of the party, sword drawn and eyes alert, although his expression looked dazed as he surveyed the carnage around him. However, his expression sharpened as Gandalf approached him.

"My lord! Dispatch a force to Ravenhill. The Dwarves are about to be overrun."

"Then by all means warn them." Thranduil said airily, but Tauriel heard the underlying note of pain beneath his voice. He signaled for the band of Elves behind him to begin to leave as he started to turn himself. "I will recall my forces. Enough Elvish blood has been spilled in defense of this accursed land. No more."

"Thranduil!" Gandalf cried, sounding exasperated. For once Legolas stood beside her, completely at a loss for words. Tauriel felt an anguished rage simmer inside her.

Before she knew what she was doing, Tauriel crossed the space between them to stand before Thranduil and effectively cut off his escape, heedless of what the other Elves might think of her.

"You will go no further!" She cried, before hastily switching back to Westron. "Not this time."

Thranduil only sneered at her. "Get out of my way."

Despite her smaller size, Tauriel continued to stare at him, unflinching. I have wanted to do this, she thought, for so long, and was unsurprised when an edge of steel entered her voice. "The Dwarves will be slaughtered."

If anything, Thranduil seemed amused, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he spoke and not at all like she'd just insulted him with sheer audacity and insubordination. "Yes, the Dwarves will die. Today, tomorrow, one year hence, a hundred years from now." He advanced towards her, his graceful footsteps gliding seamlessly across the uneven cobbled ground and snow, and in an instant, he was upon her. The fair facade was gone. "But do not pretend to me for an instant that is why you are really here."

Tauriel drew her new bow, the one Kíli had given her. Pulled the bowstring taut in desperation and anger. She hardly knew what she was doing, but she would not back down, not this time. She centered the arrow right over his heart. I may have failed him, but you will not mock Kíli! And I will not leave these Dwarves to die!

Regardless of how the Dwarves treated her as well Kíli after his transformation, they did not deserve to suffer a painful, messy death. Besides, some of the Dwarves were kind to her and even more importantly, they were part of Kíli's family. Tauriel had lost her family long ago to Orcs; she refused to allow such a thing to happen to everyone else. Reminded of this, her voice shook.

"You think your life is worth more than theirs, when there is no love in it? When there is no love in you."

Thranduil studied her for a moment, clearly unimpressed. He was still for a moment, then lunged at her with a bright whirl of steel.

Kíli's gift to her clattered to the ground.

"What do you know of love?" Thranduil growled, looking angrier than Tauriel had ever seen him. A sneer marred his perfect complexion. "Nothing! You are an ignorant child. Your whole life has been nothing but a tale of wrath and ruin! Even now you raise your arm against your king, ready to commit kinslaying and treason, unable to defy the tainted current that's in your blood." Tauriel was ready to lash out, how dare he defile her parent's names; her mother was a healer and her father died protecting the forest—but then Thranduil put a sword to her throat and Tauriel thought he might actually kill her.

"To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and in fear of treason shall this come to pass," Thranduil declared, but no longer seemed to be looking at her. Instead, he seemed to be looking through her, and seeing something else clearly for the first time. The sword pressed tighter against her throat. "What do you know of love? Are you willing to die for it?"

Tauriel closed her eyes, waiting for the end to inevitably come. I'm sorry. She thought of her mother and father, waiting patiently for her in the halls of Mandos, of the kindness of Fíli and Bofur, and most of all Kíli, whose life she had failed to protect. Her mind was full of all the would-never-bes.

But the end never came.

Instead, she heard the sharp scape of steel on steel, and the blade was lifted away from her neck.

She opened her eyes to see Legolas was standing beside her, his blade interlocked with his father's. "If you harm her, you will have to kill me." He vowed, and for once there was a coldness in his eyes that matched Thranduil's own.

She didn't know for how long father and son looked at each other—a few seconds, eternity?—but at long last Thranduil lowered his sword. For a moment Tauriel thought she saw genuine hurt in his eyes, but by the time he turned back to her, it had frosted over.

"You are not my king," Tauriel said in a shaky voice.

Thranduil stared at her for a moment before blinking; slowly, graciously, catlike; and when he spoke his voice was level and ringing with authority. "Oh, but I am your king. You see, I revoked your banishment." When Tauriel only stared at him, uncomprehending, he continued. "While you were off hunting Orcs and shadows with my son in the North, a certain young Dwarf-born came to me."

Tauriel felt herself grow cold. "Kíli would never join you!"

"Oh, but he would, wouldn't he?" asked Thranduil. ""The naugonnen would do anything to save the life of one he loves, even if it meant accepting Eru's gift. He was willing to barter everything, including his freedom, so that you would have a place in Greenwood." He watched Tauriel closely. "You may know nothing of love, but what that ellon feels for you is real." Tauriel's head jerked up quickly, astonished that he was accepting of Kíli's true feelings and there was not a hint of reproach in his voice. However, it was back a moment later when Thranduil added, "There is no other reason why The One would extend such mercies to a Dwarf."

I did not know, Tauriel wanted to wail, I did not know this is what would happen! As happy as she had been, she would do anything to turn back Kíli.

"You are using him," Tauriel accused. "You are using us."

"Cílion will make a fine young warrior, but do not test my patience. I make this offer to you only once at the request of the Dwarf-born. Return with us after the battle, or not at all."

Tauriel gave a start upon hearing the Elvish name. Taken phonetically, "Kílion," of course, meant "son of Kíli" (not that she'd ever thought about such things!), but taken as a direct translation from Sindarin, Cílion meant Son of Renewal. It was a fitting name for her beloved, but one she knew Kíli would hate immediately. He still flinched away from anything Elvish. If the former Dwarf ever took a second name—as Elves and Elf-friends often did—she wanted it to be his choice and only when he was ready. Not for the Elvenking to force it upon him!

She looked to Thranduil and felt more trapped than she ever had in her life. Kíli did not belong in Mirkwood. Ever since her exile, she had felt free, and as strange and terrifying as that freedom could be, she had steadily been growing to like it. But now she had no choice. She would not abandon Kíli. For now, she would have to swallow her pride.

Tauriel gave a sharp bow. "I thank you for your generosity, hir nin." She said. Each word felt like swallowing coals. "I accept your offer to return to Greenwood, and I will serve you faithfully." Troubled, her eyes scaled the battle. "But first I must take my leave to find Kíli."

Legolas hesitated, but followed as well, casting one last glance over his shoulder. Wrathfully yet regretfully, Thranduil watched them go, wondering about his son and the fate of Greenwood's two newest, wayward members: The Son of Renewal and The Daughter of The Forest.

Chapter Text

"Fall back! Fall back to Dale!"

Thorin heard the men shouting as he ran across the battlefield. He had shed the crown and donned his armor, but had he come too late? His breath came out in ragged white puffs as he surveyed the desolate scene before him. His nephews were nowhere to be seen, and neither was any member of the Company. All he could see were Dain's unfamiliar forces, mixed in with ragtag Men and the army of Elves.

Regardless of race, all forces were falling back on the city gate. Thorin couldn't care less about the Men or Elves, but the frantic cry drew him toward the remains of the city as well. If there was even a chance of finding remnants of his fine, brave Company or beloved nephews, Thorin would take it. Or even if he could set sights on his faithful cousin, Dain. He would have a lot of explaining to do after the battle, Thorin realized. If that is, he made it out alive.

"Baruk khazâd! Khazad ai-menu!" The Dwarf-king cried. He swung his sword, catching a large Orc in the legs by surprise then slamming into it as it toppled over with his shield.

Black blood stained the shield's sharp edge. A wild desperation overtook him that he hadn't felt since the Battle of Azanulzibar. Thorin no longer cared if he lived or died, all he wanted to do now was redeem himself from his dishonor, from this shame of denying his sister-sons and not charging into battle. If he had to die to do so, then so be it. It was no less than he deserved.

"For the King!" a Dwarf at the gates cried, and for the first time, Thorin felt a prickle of shame. He made no effort to hide but kept his gaze low as he trudged on toward the gates. That title has lost all honor. Thorin thought. I do not deserve to be called your king.

The memories from his dragon sickness felt blurred and far away. Thorin didn't know where to go next. All he knew was that the ruined Dale was a potential stronghold, where he might rally with and regroup the remaining Dwarves; most of which were from the Iron Hills. But try as he might, he could not remember all that had happened between him and Fíli and Kíli.

He remembered casting Bilbo out, and then the anger, the sheer pain and anger he felt when Kíli turned Elf and betrayed them. Only, Kíli hadn't turned Elf. That was the dragon sickness speaking. Kíli wasn't any more Elf than he outwardly was. No, Kíli alone had come to Bilbo's rescue, and Thorin was just to blinded by his wrath to see it. He did not remember seeing Kíli since that moment.

Had he joined the charge out of Erebor with Fíli, then?

Thorin struggled to remember, cursing under his breath. Every moment he had spent under the mountain had been a waste of time, and it would now be other Dwarves who paid the price.

The Dwarf who had shouted earlier dropped suddenly with a strangled cry. Thorin closed the gap between them in a matter of moments, but it was too late.

A deadly Orcish arrow had found its mark. A dark-feathered shaft jutted from the dead Dwarf's throat. Glassy eyes stared up at him. Defeated, Thorin knelt to the ground and confirmed what he already knew. Poison. This Dwarf had been dead before he hit the ground.

The Dwarf-king stared for a moment at the startled, frozen face, and imagined an expression that had once been amicable, deep-set eyes and long strings of jade tied in his peppery beard. This Dwarf was old enough to have once seen Erebor. Who may have lived to see Erebor again if Thorin had been faster or wiser.

"I will avenge you, brother," Thorin vowed quietly, and put his hands over the Dwarf's eyes to force them closed. I must. He had already lost too much; his dignity, his pride, his sister-sons. Let this at least be enough. 

Thorin was startled from his reverie by the sound of an accursed Elven horn.

One long, slow note. Retreat. Thorin remembered that sound. Retreat. The Elves were falling back, and anguished rage simmered in his chest. They would forsake the battlefield just as surely as they did all those years ago; when Erebor went up in smoke and fire rained down on Dale. This time though, Thorin allowed his rage to ground him. The urgent sounding of the horn hadn't been that far away. Thorin stood up, and leaving the dead Dwarf, stumbled bloody and exhausted through the city gates.

What he did not expect to find was a squadron of waiting Elves and Tauriel.

The shock of red hair was apparent to him almost immediately. The Elf-witch stood in the center of the path, her back towards him and the gate. Her bow was drawn, her posture tense and ready. However, her arrow wasn't aimed at any Orc, but rather, at Thranduil. Thorin could just barely pick out what she was saying."

"—no love. There is no love in you." 

Against her own king? This had to be some kind of Elvish ploy. Thorin's mind scrambled for an explanation. Vaguely, he remembered Kíli telling him that she was an exile, but that still didn't explain why she had her bow drawn against the king of Mirkwood. Elves were a faithless, fickle people, but he had never seen one stand up to their own ruler. Sly and faithless as they may be, it was not in their nature to go against the grain the moment they encountered trouble.

All the things Kíli had claimed about her... were they real?

There is iron in her bones, Thorin thought, with something close to approval. However, his satisfaction was short-lived as the Elvenking lunged forward and held his sword to Tauriel's throat. The Elf-witch froze.

Mirkwood king spoke in a voice that was lower than Tauriel's. "What do you know of love? Nothing! You are an ignorant child…"

Thorin cared little for the Elf-witch who had destroyed his nephew's lives, but he immediately thought of Kíli, and his heartbroken expression if this Elf were gone. Damn Kíli and his fondness for Elves, though it was unfair he was punished to live his life as one. Thorin pushed that thought to the back of his mind. They would get that reversed but in the meantime Tauriel—

If there was even a remote possibility that she was Kíli's One—

Thorin was saved from having to intervene as the blond princeling stepped between his father and Tauriel, knocking the Elvenking's blade away from her throat. He said something in a low, angry voice that Thorin couldn't hear.

As the two younger Elves departed, Thorin came closer. There was a lost, wistful, angry look in the Elvenking's eyes as he watched them leave- and to Thorin, the unguarded expression was strangely foreign. The expression only lasted for a heartbeat though, before the towering Elf's keen ears detected Thorin's footsteps. The Elvenking flinched, his expression growing cold as a winter mountain as he turned to face Thorin.

However, it was Thorin who spoke first. His voice trembled with fury. "You."

Thranduil arched a silver brow. "Me. So the great king can leave the mountain after all."

"Do not speak to me as though you know better," Thorin growled at him. "You flee the battle, but I am willing to fight for my people when all seems lost."

"I would not be here at all if it wasn't for your sister-son," Thranduil said coldly. His cape fluttered in the icy wind. "He and the words of an old wizard, who persuaded me of an ancient enemy rising in the north. But sometimes a storm is just a storm. I can bear these losses no further. No longer can I justify a single drop of blood in defending this land."

In that span of time, only one of those comments truly mattered to Thorin. Kíli! Thranduil looked far too smug to be referring to Fíli. Thorin's mind spun in disbelief. Could that be what had happened to Kíli since the battle? Could he really have gone to Thranduil?

And you. Figure out whose side you're on. Kíli's eyes—now Elven eyes—dark and regretful. Yes. Kíli could.

"What have you done to my sister0son?"

Thranduil's inscrutable expression shifted into one of the cat who had just swallowed the canary.

"I have done nothing to the boy that you haven't already, King Under the Mountain. Cílion came to me of his own free will; he is tired of being a Dwarf, cast out by his own kin."

Thorin marched towards him. Thranduil stood before him, unyielding. "You will not have my sister-son! He knows nothing of the world and your trickery! I will refuse to honor any such bargain! I will not lose him to an Elf! You come here, demanding our gold and you deceive us, pretending to fight on our behalf, for a mountain you will not defend and a kingdom you will not honor. Yet still, you betray us! Why are you here? What could you possibly have to earn?"

There was something beautiful and terrible in witnessing Thranduil unravel.

"The boy is of age!" Thranduil hissed, "and he has given up all rights to you and the Mountain. He is Eldar and has sworn allegiance to me. Your claim no longer matters. What have I done to betray you? I am not the one to cast him out. not the one to hide under the mountain while my subjects are slaughtered! It is you, Thorin, who brought down the dragon's wrath, you placed the fate of our lands in the hands of a mortal archer! You withheld from me the Gems of Lasgalen from me, refused my help in retaking the mountain. I gave you the choice to swallow your pride; now you must choke on it. I will take from you what you love most. It is a fitting end, that your loss should bring new life to my kingdom. Only then you will realize what you cherish is worth far more than gold."

"How dare you—you will not get away with this!" With a terrible cry, Thorin raised his sword and charged the Elvenking.

At the last possible moment, Thranduil parried and stepped out of the way.

Thorin swung around, cursing and trembling. Immediately, a half dozen Elvish arrows were trained on him.

Thranduil retreated a step back, closer to his forces. He still had his sword pointed at Thorin but raised a languid hand to sign to signal his soldiers. "Leave him! And you—" His eyes narrowed, looking directly at the angry, defeated Dwarf king. "Stay out of my way."

"Thorin!"

Thorin's whole body flooded with fury as the Elvenking slipped away, but he turned at the sound of the unexpected voice. Bilbo! Surprise and guilt twisted sharply in his belly, but another part of him felt weak with relief. Their Master Burglar lived after all. If the Hobbit had been killed, Thorin didn't think he could ever forgive himself. A sudden, irrational belief overcame him; if he could at least explain himself to Bilbo, then somehow, everything else would turn out alright.

"Thorin!" Bilbo shouted again. "There you are! I have been looking all over for you. I just saw Bofur. They got separated. Fíli, Ori, and Dwalin—they're going to Ravenhill. Their plan is to take out Azog."

Thorin's brow furrowed as he looked up at the distant peak, all the way across the battlefield and shrouded in a hazy mist. I will never make it there in time, he realized. But I have to try. 

Bilbo must have seen the determination in his expression. "Thorin, you can't possibly get there in time—you'll be killed—"

"That does not matter," said Thorin, "I only wish to save my sister-son and be parted from you in friendship." It occurred to him that this might be the last time he saw Bilbo. "I wish to take back my words to you at the Gate. You did only what a friend would do. Forgive me. I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry I have led you into such peril."

"I was angry with you at first but I am glad to share in your perils, Thorin. Each and every one of them. It's far more than any Baggins deserves."

Thorin brushed him off. "I have lost both you and Kíli. If my death is the price to pay for my foolishness, then so be it. I would rather die than live in a world where I lost my kingdom and my honor." He allowed a touch of tenderness to creep into his voice. Farewell, Master Burglar. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place." Then he turned to Gandalf. "If I do not return, I want you to find Kíli. Tell him—tell him that I am sorry. If I am dead, then Thranduil will not wish to have his revenge. Tell Fíli to pay the Elf anything he wants—even the White Gems of Lasgalen. They are not worth more than my kin."

"Thorin, wait! You can find Fíli and tell Kíli that yourself!" Bilbo hesitated, then pulled something out of his pocket. "Here. You are going to live." With great reluctance, the Hobbit thrust something into the palm of his hand. Thorin's fingers curled around it.

"What's this?" The Dwarf-king uncurled his fingers to find a simple golden ring sitting in the palm of his hand.

Bilbo fidgeted nervously. "I found it in the Golbin tunnels. It turns the wearer invisible. I want you to have it, at least for the battle. That way you can slip through the fight unnoticed and make it there in time to save your nephews." Bilbo still looked like he was fighting the urge to snatch the ring back out of Thorin's hands, but he stepped back and gave the Dwarf-king a small smile. "And then I want it back."

The uneasy look Gandalf passed between the two of them went unnoticed.

Thorin's fingers curled around the ring. He looked at Bilbo and for the first time since they reclaimed the Mountain felt a flicker of hope. "I will not forget this, Master Baggins." He said. In the spur of the moment, he grabbed Bilbo's shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. "You are a loyal friend, and will always have a place in this Mountain."

It wasn't long before Dwalin was proven right.

"Goblins! It's an ambush!" The experienced warrior cried. "Dain, Fíli, you head on to Ravenhill, Ori and I will hold them back!" Ori looked pale but he gripped his sword, Dwalin turned and gave Kíli a sharp shove. Then he said in a lower voice, "You go with them, lad. Ori and I will be fine. It's your brother who needs you. Go on, go!"

Kíli didn't need to be told twice.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain in his bad leg, he dashed after Dain and his brother, for once grateful for the Elvish length in his stride. Dark arrows rained after him, and from behind he could hear the shrieking of the Goblin mercenaries and the clatter of sword on sword fading into the distance.

It wasn't long before they reached the base of Ravenhill. Kíli and Fíli stopped, panting and out of breath, with Dain struggling to catch up several yards behind them. Fíli took advantage of the relative quiet to turn and glance at Kíli.

"How is your leg?"

"It's fine." Kíli grunted.

The strained silence stretched between them.

At last, Fíli gave his new armor a cursory glance.

"I see you went to the Elvenking."

Kíli glared at him defensively. "It's not like I had a choice!"

Fíli looked like he could hardly believe it. "You had a choice, Kee! You always have a choice. You just didn't take it." Kíli was about to bristle in reply, but then Fíli's voice became softer, more pleading. "You could've stayed with me. I would've kept you safe. I promised both you and Mum. We could've thought of another option."

"Like what? Beg Thorin not to throw me out as a traitor?" Kili scoffed as he looked away. He could feel his entire face burning with humiliation. "I couldn't stay, Fee. Erebor's not my home. It never was"

"What are you talking about?" Fíli asked. Something in his voice suggested that Kíli was being ridiculous. "We grew up on tales of the mountain, tales that Uncle told us. That mountain is our birthright; you know it as well as I."

"Yes, but not like this!" Fíli realized immediately that he'd said the wrong as Kíli quickly reacted, spreading his hands to gesture to all of himself, a look in his eye challenging Fíli to disagree. "I can't spend a single night in Erebor without wanting to escape. And when I dream I dream of songs and open air and of—and of starlight!" His chest heaved, and for a moment Fíli thought that Kíli was going to panic. However, the former Dwarf sounded a little bit calmer as he continued. "And besides, Uncle hates me. He probably never wants to see my face again. I'm tired of hiding from him. I want to stop pretending everything's okay when it's not."

"But that doesn't mean you needed to turn yourself over to the Elvenking! What's going to happen to you when this battle is over? You weren't thinking, Kee. This isn't something you're supposed to just go off and do by yourself! I'm here. I'm supposed to be protecting you!"

"And that's another thing," said Kíli. "I'm tired of needing saving! I came of age years ago, just like you. I don't want people to have to protect me anymore. Not you, not Uncle, not Tauriel. I came on this quest to prove that I could fight my own battles, but no one lets me. I'm not a Dwarfling anymore!"

"No, you're not." Fíli admitted quietly, looking, truly looking, at the dark-haired Elf before him. Despite the wound to his leg, Kíli stood as tall and proud as any Elf-lord. "But you could have at least told me-" 

"And you would've tried to stop me," Kíli said, looking defensive again.

"Of course," Fíli said. "What else are you supposed to do when your idiot brother tries to turn himself over to the Elvenking? There has to be another way. At the very least you should have said goodbye." He saw the pained look on Kíli's face and knew immediately that such a goodbye wouldn't have been possible. His voice softened. "What happened to us, Kee? We're brothers. We were supposed to do everything together."

"I know," said Kíli. " I know, Fee. But I can't hide away when I know there's something I can do to help." Agitated, he ran a hand down his face but quickly pulled it away when he felt not a beard but the bare skin of his cheek. "I told you." He admitted quietly. "I don't want to live in a world without my brother."

Fíli's expression softened. "I don't either. But if we do this together, we won't have to. Together?"

Kíli looked up and ahead. The dark mouth of Ravenhill sprawled before them, dark and foreboding. A cold chill went up his spine as he remembered his dream, and the dark-haired Elf reached for his sword. I won't let that happen. Ever. 

He gave Fíli a nod before Dain could catch up. "Together."

Chapter Text

"Kíli, I'll go first," Fíli said, while Kíli frowned.

"What are you talking about? My eyes are sharper than yours, I should go first."

"You're still slow on that leg though," Fíli's eyes darted to Kíli's leg wound. Blood had begun to seep through the green fabric and stain the armor plating. "Now be quiet. Whatever happens next, don't engage until I tell you to."

Fíli was hardly being fair. The former Dwarf bit back another reply about not needing saving, knowing that Fíli was just being a protective big brother. Injured or not though, he'd held his own in the battle so far, wielding an Elvish sword and fighting in a body that wasn't his own. Despite that, he'd slain just as many Goblins as Dwalin or Fíli. But Kíli nodded in agreement as they entered the tower, Fíli first and Kíli following right after.

The passageway to the lower levels was built so low that Kíli had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting his head. He winced as bending over caused him to put more pressure on his injured leg. Fíli glanced back at him in concern.

"'M fine," said Kíli, his voice taut. The flare of pain was already subsiding. For a moment, he'd forgotten how tall he'd become.

Ravenhill was built to be manned and defended by Dwarves. The low-hanging archways were likely a deliberate tactical choice. It was a good strategy, but Kíli didn't want any more reminders about his current build. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused instead on peering beyond Fíli's shoulder. If he's hiding here, I bet these low tunnels are hard on Azog as well.

Unbidden, Kíli remembered his dream. He shook his head. I'm not going to let that happen. 

As hard as he strained to see, there was no sign of the Pale Orc. Kíli kept his blade drawn as they crept through the walls of darkened stone. His breath curled from his mouth in pale puffs, and the wind howled thinly outside. However, the walls closing in on him from either side seemed to suck away just as much of his warmth.

Where is Azog? Kíli wondered. The tunnel smelled of cold and rotted moss and wet stone, but not of the rank, living stench of Orc.

They came around a corner, and Fíli nodded toward the dark staircase at the end of the corridor. There, by the bottom of the staircase, was a streak of grayish slush. There was no door or window in sight—so the trail must've been tracked in by an Orcish foot.

The blond heir elbowed Kíli sharply in the ribs. The dark-haired Elf felt his whole body thrumming with anticipation. The Pale Orc. Azog. The monster who'd slain his great-grandfather and avowed vengeance on his uncle. Only Thorin isn't here now, Kíli thought, slightly bitterly. It's just me and Fíli.

Up there, Fíli's eyes seemed to say, and Kíli nodded with a tightened grip on his sword as Fíli crept towards the staircase. After me, he signed in Inglishmêk.

Then, Kíli heard it—or had he?

He heard something. A scuffling sound from the top of the tower. By the way Fíli's stance went rigid, he knew his brother had heard it as well. A moment's pause, and then a muffled clang. Azog and his scum were up in the tower!

He and Fíli were so close. The former Dwarf gritted his teeth, raised his sword, and pressed forward. Or he would have, if Fíli's hand, for the second time that day, hadn't fallen across his stomach to block him.

"Stay here," Fíli instructed, meeting his eye. "Search the lower levels."

Kíli stared at his older brother, but Fíli turned his gaze towards the dark hall from where the noise had originated.

"I've got this."

Kíli still stared. There was a centered stillness, a surety in Fíli's voice, but Kíli felt the unease in his stomach grow. You should not be apart, the small voice in his head warned, and Kíli remembered his dream. Was Fíli truly doubting him so much over his leg? Kíli didn't think so. He shook his head.

"No. I'm not leaving you. We're brothers. We do this together."

All at once, Thorin felt like he was plunged underwater.

He slipped the ring over his finger—which strangely seemed like it had grown two sizes since it was slipped off Bilbo's hand, fit around his finger perfectly. The world, meanwhile became dull and muted, the sharp edges of everything around him becoming blurry and wavered; houses, the cobblestones, and even Bilbo's worried face. Gandalf alone shone in the darkness, with a painful, sharp light that threatened to blind him. For the first time since Thorin had met him, the wizard radiated pure power, and Thorin stepped away from him because looking at the wizard right now felt like staring into the sun.

However, Bilbo was staring at the spot where Thorin once stood—not staring at him, Thorin realized, but through him. The Dwarf-king looked down at his hands and body. To his relief they alone looked solid, real—the ring had done nothing to his own body.

Thorin took a step away from where he once stood, and Bilbo still stared at the same spot. The ring had really done it; he was invisible.

That explains a lot about our Master Burglar, Thorin thought, remembering how Bilbo had mysteriously been able to find them after getting separated in the Goblin tunnels. Or how he had managed to avoid Smaug. But one question that nagged at Thorin's mind was how had Bilbo been able to get a magic ring that turned people invisible? Although simple, the golden glint of the ring captivated him. It hardly seemed like the kind of item Bilbo would have inherited or found lying about the Shire.

I am not my grandfather, Thorin thought, putting his interest in the enchanted ring away immediately. He resolved to ask the burglar about it later, but in the meantime, he had a much more pressing task—to find his nephews.

A roaring wind started since he put on the ring, but Thorin couldn't feel it. As quickly as he could, Thorin strode towards the gate and the battlefield. His heavy-booted feet left crunching footsteps in the snow. Invisible, but not undetectable. Everything on his body seemed hidden, but what would happen if he picked something up or drew his sword? As long as he wore the ring, did everything he touch turn invisible?

Part of Thorin felt like a coward, a burglar, a thief hiding behind the power of the ring. An honorable Dwarf-lord would have charged fearlessly into battle, shown himself, and rallied his people. But Thorin was no longer sure he was that kind of king. You lack all honor, he had said to Thranduil, but unlike Thranduil, Thorin was determined to reclaim it.

He only hoped he would have the time.

Torchlight flickered on the walls. From the depths of Ravenhill came the foreboding sound of drums, deep enough to chill Kíli to the bone.

"There's too many of them that way," Fíli said in a low voice. He elbowed Kíli sharply. "Fall back!"

He and Kíli turned through the narrow, twisting passageways until Kíli doubled over with a painful grimace. "I can't. My leg."

Fíli reached for one of his knives. "Then we have no choice."

"Fíli, no! You can't." The dark-haired Elf felt a flare of panic. He had come with Fíli so that is brother would live, not so that his leg injury would slow them down and get them both killed instead! This was a terrible mistake. Why did everything come down to him being useless and his stupid, stupid leg? "You have to go. Our people need you and I'm only slowing you down. Besides," Kíli said, although the quaver in his voice betrayed him. "I don't want to live forever anyway."

Fíli glanced at him in exasperation. "Now who's talking about leaving who?"

"Fíli…" Kíli groaned.

"Kíli. Come on. We have to move."

The Dwarf and Dwelf rushed down the next passageway but were confronted by the same thing—the flickering of torchlight and the ever-approaching sound of drums. Kíli's blood turned to ice. They had walked right into Azog's trap.

As if the dark-haired Elf's thoughts had summoned him, a blur of white erupted from the shadows with a roar. Azog.

Fíli's hand went away from the knife to raise his blade and block Azog's stroke just in time. Despite being hunched over in the narrow passageway, the Pale Orc was still nearly almost twice his brother's size. Kíli could even smell the Orc's rancid breath; but because of Ravenhill's design, each of them could only confront one enemy at a time.

Every one of Kíli's nerves felt alive. There's two of us and one of him. We've got this. Azog was a skilled opponent, even skilled enough to match Uncle Thorin, but together they would be alright. Azog was fierce and had a sword in one hand, a prosthetic flail as the other, but Uncle had trained them well. Fíli had more space in the tower to duck and parry, and Kíli could fire off his last remaining arrow—

Suddenly, his keen ears detected the pad of footsteps coming from the other direction—this time, the skittering sound of goblin feet. More mercenaries! He raised his sword, the length of it glowing with a now-familiar ethereal blue light, although it wasn't nearly bright enough to light up the darkened passageway. He pointed it as hard as he could. Come on, stupid Elvish thing. Work!

There was no escaping the Orcs and Goblins now.

Would Dwalin and Dain realize this was a trap before it was too late?

With a shout, Kíli swung his sword as the oncoming horde of Goblins came into view. He and Fíli were cornered, fighting back-to-back. Dimly, he was aware of the Fíli grunting as he struggled for his life while Azog bellowed with rage and exertion. He also snarled something in Black Speech, but it meant nothing to either Fíli or Kíli; Black Speech was never heard in Ered Luin and Thorin said they were fortunate enough to never need to learn it.

For once, Kíli was grateful for the narrow layout of Ravenhill; if the Goblins had been able to charge him all at once he would have been overtaken, but he could manage them one at a time. If Fíli had been alone, Azog and the Goblins would've overwhelmed him from both sides. It was right for him to go with Fíli.

An orange-eyed Goblin made the mistake of charging him too quickly and ran into the point of his sword with a thin wail, but Kíli knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. His lungs ached and his arm hurt, his limbs starting to feel thick and weary from exhaustion. There were still a dozen goblins left, and more kept coming, heedless of the bodies piling up on the barren floor. He and Fíli needed a plan.

There was enough lull before the next Goblin charged to glance over his shoulder. A golden flash of Fíli's hair, the bright glint of steel on steel, and the icy gleam of Azog's eyes. There was light falling on the two of them; both Fíli and the Pale Orc.

And if there's sunlight….

Then there's a way out!

Kíli wasn't sure if the monster knew Westron, but he had to find some way to tell Fíli that he might have a plan without Azog knowing about it. He took a calculated risk.

"Fíli! The Goblins, there's too many of them. I can't take them without my bow down here. We have to switch sides."

Fíli ignored his request. "How many arrows do you have left?" He asked between ragged breaths.

"Just one. Trade with me. I can handle that Orc filth."

"Kíli. I'm alright. Take care of the Goblins." Please. He could almost hear the unspoken message behind it. Fíli did not expect him to be able to fight Azog, especially with an injured leg and his still unfamiliar new form. And, Kíli had to admit, between their two opponents, facing mindless Goblin hordes was probably easier.

"Fíli." Kíli begged. At this rate, neither one of them would be able to hold out much longer. "I can't do it, but remember when we were younger we used to escape Dwalin?"

Another clash of steel. Kíli could practically hear the cogs in his brother's mind turning. Come on, Fíli.

"I do remember." Fíli said at last. 

"Switch with me, and I'll give the signal."

"Alright," said Fíli, and he stepped to the side as Kíli whirled around. Kíli gave a shout of surprise as his Elvish blade was instantly slammed into the wall with one hard swing from Azog's flail. The Pale Orc leered at him with hateful blue eyes. Doubled over as he was, he couldn't swing his prosthetic arm very far, but it was going to be a lot harder than Kíli thought.

But we are Durin's Folk, and Durin's folk never back down from a fight!

Gritting his teeth, Kíli managed to dodge the next swing from Azog's sword. He wrested his sword out from beneath Azog's heavy flail. "Come and get me, you piece of Orc filth!"

Azog growled. "Golug."

He could hear Fíli fighting behind him, poised for a signal. Kíli waited until Azog raised his sword for a downward blow. Kíli lunged to meet him, interlocking their swords with Azog bearing down, and Kíli straining up to keep both swords from crashing down on his head. He could feel the damp heat of the Orc's breath, and his bad knee buckled.

"Fíli, now!"

He heard a shout as Fíli pushed away his final Goblin and sheathed his sword. With a few short strides as a running start, he raced past Kíli and dove under Azog's legs. The Orc's murderous expression shifted into one of surprise. Kíli probably would've laughed out loud at the dumbstruck expression on the killer's face if he weren't in danger of being impaled by both of their blades.

Kíli's arms trembled. More than anything, he wished for his bow, but he was glad Uncle Thorin and Dwalin had prepared him like this to train against much larger opponents.

Remember, he could hear Uncle's calm voice saying. Use his weight against him.

Kíli glared up at the vicious Orc, willing the monster to see him for who he was. I am Kíli, son of Dís. And Durin's line will not be broken. You will not have me or my brother!

The former Dwarf's sword started to slip, and the moment it did, Kíli twisted his blade and pivoted sharply to the side. Azog stumbled forward, Kíli knocking him off balance. Part of Kíli wanted to stay and try to finish off the Orc that had plagued his family for so long, but he stumbled past Azog instead, the pain in his knee reaching a blinding level that made his vision swim and almost forced him to pass out.

"Kíli!" Faintly, Kíli heard the sound of his brother's cry echoing down the dark corridor.

Fíli! I'm coming!

Up the cold stone steps, Kíli's aching knee threatening retribution every step of the way.

Finally though, he made it up the steps, gasping in relief and blinking in the sunlight and the cold, crisp air. He and Fíli stood at the top of the keep; there was nothing but a sharp drop down to the central courtyard several troll-lengths below. Kíli came to stand beside Fíli, peering over the side. He felt his stomach drop. In my dream, this is where Fíli died.

This wasn't a dream though, and Fíli stood next to him, safe and alive. Or alive, at the very least. Instead, the courtyard was filled with ferocious Goblins and Orcs, and Kíli could spy the distinctive red heard of Dain Ironfoot. The dark-haired Elf nervously glanced over his shoulder. At any moment, Azog would come barreling up the dark staircase, and Kíli wasn't in any condition to fight.

He tore his gaze away from the foreboding passage long enough to glance at Fíli. "Now what?"

"There! We go down and regroup with Dain and the others. Find a way to knock out their flag-signals."

Kíli nodded and followed his brother to the furthest corner of the keep where a narrow staircase twined along the outside of the watchtower, leading down to one of the battlements below. Like seemingly every other staircase in Middle Earth, it had no rails. Kíli's body quivered with exertion as he looked down at the steep series of footholds. Here it goes.

They were about halfway down the staircase when Azog announced his presence with a wordless cry. Kíli, who was a few steps behind Fíli, looked up to see the Orc rapidly closing the distance between them. The weathered stone steps shifted and crackled beneath his weight. Kíli hoped with all his might the Orc would fall. He glared at Azog, afraid to pull his eyes away. How much further until they reached the ground?

"Fíli!"

Kíli reached for his sword, but it was too late. With a lunge, the Pale Orc caught up to them and knocked him off the tower. Hard. Kíli felt a moment of weightlessness, then hit the ground. The wind was knocked out of him and he lay there, stunned. Waiting for the end to come.

Only, it never did.

The former Dwarf opened his eyes as soon as he was able. He'd only fallen a few yards from the narrow foothold to the ground. Azog had completely ignored him, choosing instead to continue his relentless chase after Fíli. Kíli winced, struggling to push himself up from his stomach, looking down at his hands. It then hit him again that he was wearing Elvish armor. Of course. Azog is sworn to destroy Durin’s line. I'm just an annoying Elf.

By the time Kíli staggered to his feet, Fíli and Azog were already gone.

Where did they go? Kíli wondered. Blood roared in his ears, his heart beating frantically in his chest. I lost them!

"FÍLI!" He cried.

"Kíli!" A voice floated on the wind. Only, it didn't belong to his brother.

"Tauriel!" He exclaimed. 

The beautiful Silvan elleth stood above him on the battlement, her red hair whipping around her face. The blond prince stood beside her, but even that couldn't dampen his spirits. It was real. She was here.

Her expression mirrored his relief but then her eyes widened in dismay. At first, Kíli thought it might be because of his wounded leg or Mirkwood armor but then she called, "Kíli, look out!"

A shape flashed in the corner of his eye. Then, it was upon him.

Bolg.

Kíli froze at the sight of the Orc who shot him. The creature who ruined his life. Suddenly, Kíli was thrown back to their last meeting at Mirkwood. If Bolg hadn't shot him while opening the gates, then none of this would've happened. Tauriel wouldn't have had to heal him. He could have gone to Erebor with the rest of his kin. He wouldn't have been turned into an Elf.

His hesitation cost him.

Kíli hesitated, but Bolg did not. He flung himself at the partial-Elf with a savage roar.

No! Still dazed from his fall and unable to collect his wits, Kíli struggled in vain as Bolg threw him back against the wall of the tower and his sword clattered to the ground. The next thing he knew, Bolg's hand was around his throat and lifted him up from the ground. The pressure was unbearable. He kicked and thrashed, but his vision started going dark. I don't want to die. Not like this. With the last of his strength, he lashed out and kicked the Orc in the groin.

Bolg's grip loosened.

Kíli reached for his sword, but Azog's spawn was still too quick. With a fearsome growl, he picked the Elf up and hurled him again against the wall.

This time, Kíli did not get up. His whole body hurt. Blood trickled down his face. He lay on the now snow-covered ground, gasping for air. Stupid body, stupid Orc—he was never going to see Uncle or Fíli again. Eyesight blurring, he watched as Bolg slowly unhooked his mace fastened to his back. At least, Kíli thought, at least he got to see Tauriel one last time. He hoped she'd be safe—

What he did not expect her to do was fling herself onto Bolg's back with a sharp cry.

She appeared out of the mist, quickly and suddenly as if she were attacking a giant spider. Her small, strong hands wrapped themselves around the hilt of Bolg's mace, trying to yank it out of his grasp. Caught off balance, the Orc stumbled back, trying to throw Tauriel off his back but her legs were wrapped too tightly around his middle. Kíli rose unsteadily to his feet, stumbling towards his sword.

Another lithe figure emerged from the mist; Legolas, jumping down from the top of the tower as well. Kíli had never been so glad to see the snobby Elf. He arrived just in time too, for just as Legolas landed, Bolg threw Tauriel off his back. The Sindarin prince distracted him from the weaker target by slashing at the Orc with his sword. Bolg turned around.

"Tauriel!" Kíli let out a breath of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding as Tauriel nimbly leaped to her feet.

"I'm fine, Kíli." She reassured him. "Go find your brother. Go!"

For the second time that day, Kíli hesitated, torn between finding his brother and rescuing his beloved. He bristled as Legolas sent him a disdainful look. But as he watched Tauriel leap gracefully to the side as Bolg lunged at her, missing by a wide margin, he realized Tauriel didn't need rescuing. She would be just fine on her own. She didn't need Kíli to protect her. In fact, with the way Kíli was now, he was just as likely to be the one needing rescuing.

Fíli needs me. Pushing down his protective instincts for Tauriel, he staggered off to find Fíli.

In hindsight, maybe leading Azog across the ice wasn't the best idea.

Fíli had been hoping that with Azog's much heavier weight, he would fall through into the lake, but the ice was holding up surprisingly well for mid-November, supporting the weight of both Orc and Dwarf. Of course, at this point in time, they were so far out on the frozen water that there would be no escape. If the ice broke, odds were they would both fall through and the icy current would take both of them.

So much for that plan, Fíli thought as he dodged another blow from Azog's massive flail. This complete idiot! He's trying to get us both killed! Fíli felt foolish, but he couldn't help but be angry. Why else did the Pale Orc bring such a heavy weapon out on the ice?

The blond Dwarf really wished this were the type of situation where he could use his knives. However, Azog was too well-armored and couldn't get close enough to take a shot at the Orc, so he focused on dredging up all of Uncle's sword training instead. Focus, Fíli. You can do this. The whole kingdom of Erebor depended on it.

Azog swung again, but this time, Fíli was unprepared. He leaped back, narrowly avoiding getting hit by the several-hundred-pound block of granite, but lost his balance and slipped on ice. His feet went out from under him and his sword skidded out of his grasp. Azog advanced towards him with a growl, his sword arm held high.

Fíli felt a sick jolt in his stomach. He could reach for his sword, but by then it would be too late. He would be just another head on a pike, like his great-grandfather Thrór. How foolish of him to think he could lead an army, or fight half as well as Thorin, or finish what his uncle and great ancestors had started—

He scrambled across the ice for his sword anyway. The palms of his hands stung. He glanced over his shoulder at the Pale Orc. If he was going down he was going to go down fighting—

Azog raised his sword, but he never brought it back down. Suddenly, an arrow whistled out of nowhere and struck Azog between the collarbone and the shoulder. The massive white Orc roared in pain and dropped his sword.

Then, something even stranger happened. There was a sharp, wet sound, and the Orc stumbled backward. It took Fíli a moment to realize what was happening until Azog looked down at his chest. Disbelieving, Fíli stared as well. Something was sticking out of his chest, something that looked like a sword. But it wasn't Azog's. Or Fíli's.

Black blood seeped down Azog's chest and into the cracks of his armor. The Orc looked back at Fíli, and for the first time, Fíli could see something like fear trapped in those malevolent blue eyes. Neither one of them knew what had happened. Then the Pale Orc sank to the ground, the sword still sticking out of his back, and fear replaced the light in his eyes forevermore.

Fíli froze as footsteps appeared across the light dusting of snow gathering across the lake, and then the hilt of the sword disappearing into Azog's back vanished. His mind was reeling from what just happened. Was it a ghost? Impossible, ghosts don't exist—

At least that was his only explanation until Thorin suddenly appeared in front of him.

It was over. They had done it!

Kíli swayed from the top of the watchtower. He had used the last of his arrows to hit the Pale Orc, and now his hands and arms felt as heavy as lead. He looked down at the lake below. There was Fíli, and there was the dead Orc. Kíli's head started to spin. He must be hallucinating because he also thought he saw Uncle down there as well.

I need to go down, he thought, see if Fee and Tauriel are alright.

However, the past few hours had been too much. Kíli's knees buckled, then he hit the ground as the darkness rose up to meet him.

Chapter Text

"Kíli?" Tauriel called. No response.

Where is he? Tauriel stumbled to her feet, whirling to look around the empty tower. Bolg was dead. She and Legolas stood over their mighty opponent, panting. The falling snow had started to blanket the bodies of their fallen enemies, and she could no longer hear the clanging and banging of the Dwarves fighting in the courtyard below. The battle was truly over. With a jolt, she remembered. Kíli ran towards the top of the tower.

"Tauriel, be careful," Legolas warned, although she could scarcely hear him over the dull roar of panic that pounded in her ears. She suddenly felt very hot even though her tunic and leggings were encrusted with ice. She raced towards the tallest watchtower on Ravenhill, praying to every deity she knew that he would be alright.

What grace was given to me, it was passed on to him. She pleaded. Please, let this mean that Kíli is still alive.

She bounded lightly across the snow, barely even aware of Legolas following behind.

The Silvan elleth came to a halt as she reached the top of the tower. Kíli was indeed there. He lay crumpled on the ground, his eyes closed. For a moment Tauriel feared he was dead until she knelt on the ground beside him and touched his still-warm skin. His pulse fluttered faintly in his throat. Tauriel bit back a sob of relief. It was weak, but he was still there.

She then leaned back on her heels to inspect the rest of the damage. His eyes are closed. The part of her that was a healer warned. That's never a good sign. Elves slept without their eyes open, always and without exception. The way Kíli slept now was not restful—it was a sign that his body was badly damaged and he was on death's door. She pushed that thought to the side. Instead, she focused on tearing some fabric from the hem of her tunic to bind the most obvious and still-bleeding wound on his leg.

Stay with me, Kíli. Stay with me.

"He's losing too much blood," Tauriel said, mostly to herself, until she remembered that Legolas was with her. "If he stays here he's going to die. Get someone to help him!" She pleaded.

Legolas hesitated for a moment, his expression unreadable, but then he turned and did as she asked. Tauriel turned her attention back to Kíli.

How strange it was, to see him in Elven armor and wearing the colors of the Mirkwood guard! Kíli looked just like any other Silvan Elf, with the exception of the silver clasps in his shorter hair. The only sign that he still clung to his heritage.

Yet Tauriel would know that beloved face from anywhere, and she recognized the silver clasps in his hair. Thranduil spoke the truth. She realized with a pang of guilt and alarm. Oh Kíli, what have you done?

I never wanted this. In the time she had been gone, Tauriel had grown used to her exile. In truth, she had started to not only accept but to enjoy it. She missed the forest, but in her wistful longing, she imagined a life for herself and Kíli outside that which they had always known. They could travel the world together, searching for a cure for Kíli's condition.

Tauriel doubted there was a cure, but she would search with her beloved. And even if Kíli never turned back, she would be there for him until he could accept what his life had become. It could be an adventure. Perhaps then they could become the two Elves of Erebor. Or, more realistically, Tauriel hoped, they could travel the world some more and eventually, maybe settle in with the company Rivendell or the Gray Haven Elves. She longed to see the other kingdoms and she knew from the maps that the Gray Havens were close to Ered Luin— Kíli could still travel to see his kin.

But none of that would ever come to be. if Kíli went to Mirkwood. They would be trapped, and Thranduil would try to stamp out any trace of Dwarvishness in Kíli. I do not want this. She thought. My foolish Dwarf, I do not want you to give up your happiness for me.

Kíli was not the only one who had changed. She had as well. You showed me the world. Now Mirkwood is no longer my home either.

What would happen if—no, when—Kíli survived?

It was finished. Azog was dead. Fíli stared at his uncle in disbelief. "What did you—how did you—How are you here?"

Thorin looked equally dazed. He breathed heavily, looking down at the Orc then back up at Fíli. His eyes were astonishingly blue. "I came—as soon as I heard. I could not let you fight that filth alone. I had... I had some help from Bilbo."

"Bilbo?" Fíli asked. "How?"

"A magic ring," Thorin said, like that explained everything. But it didn't. That explained nothing. The more Thorin said, the less anything made sense. What about Bilbo and a magic ring? "But what about the sword—and the arrow—"

Thorin shook his head. "I didn't fire the arrow."

Both looked up in time to see a figure standing on the battlement crumple in the distance. Deep in his gut, Fíli immediately knew who it was. This confusion about a ring would have to wait. He lurched away from his uncle.

"Kíli! No, no, no." Fíli felt sick with dread. This can't be happening. "KÍLI!"

It felt like an eternity by the time they reached the top of Ravenhill.

"No." Fíli froze as he saw Tauriel kneeling protectively on the cold stone ground, Kíli's head in her lap, and tears streaming freely from her green eyes. Her gaze looked as glassy and opaque as it did the day Kíli discovered his immortality. She didn't even look up as he and Thorin came to meet them, her wobbling chin showing how she fought to maintain her Elven composure, and Fíli immediately feared the worst. "Oh no, no, no. Kíli!"

The last bit came out as a strangled cry as he raced towards his brother.

Tauriel looked up, suddenly, as if they were not the two she'd been expecting.

"He's alive," she reassured him. "Although he's lost so much blood. I bound his leg—it was bleeding the heaviest—but he's fading, and I can't stop him. Why—why does it hurt so much?"

Fíli also dropped to his knees beside his brother. Sure enough, he could see the faint rise and fall of Kíli's chest. "Heal him." He demanded. "Heal him the way you did back in Laketown."

"I tried." Tauriel's voice shook. She bit her lip as she shook her head. "But I don't have athelas. And the healing spell wouldn't work. I couldn't find it. I couldn't feel him. Our feär are now too much the same."

Her hopelessness was reflected back in Fíli's blue eyes. Biting back a scream of frustration, Fíli tore his gaze away. He and Kíli had survived Goblins and Trolls and Rock Giants and Elves together. It seemed impossible for something to tear them away from each other now.

"Kíli, it's me. The battle's over, we won. You have to wake up now. Please. Wake up, nadadith," he said, not caring if Tauriel overheard. "Kíli, I swear, if you die—I'll march down to the Halls of Mandos—or wherever you'll go now—and kill you again myself. Come on, Kee. It's going to be alright."

Thorin stepped forward, looking stunned. His sister-son. An Elf.

There was no mistaking him for anything else in the glinting green and gold armor. The Elven sword, the Elven arrows, even the Elven woman who now cried for him—none of the effect was lost on Thorin. Kíli had truly sided with the Elves. And not for Thorin's foolish, misguided reasons. No, Thorin had been the one to betray him, cast him out. And now, lost and alone, Kíli had made up his mind to be what Thorin said he was.

"Kíli." He took a heavy step as well to kneel beside the fallen Elf. His sister-son. The Dwarfling he helped raise. "Forgive me."

"Kíli?" There was a sharp crunch of footsteps behind him in the snow. "Are you all out of yer minds? That thing there's not Kíli! That there's an Elf." Thorin drew a sharp breath. What they had not expected was for Dain to follow them. The Dwarf-lord's voice rose in disbelief. Dwalin stood beside him, a barely discernable flicker in his dark eyes as he looked between the Dwarf king and Dain. "A forest sprite, a pixie! It fought with me all the way here. Name's Farin or summat like that. Tell them, Dwalin!"

Dwalin looked at Thorin evenly. "That is Thorin's story to tell."

For a moment, everyone could feel the silence hanging in the air. Then Thorin looked up at Dain. "I doubted him as well, but it is true. A curse from an Elf-wi—a healer—did this. But this is Kíli son of Dís. He is not an Elf. He is my sister-son."

Two days later, after the Dwarves had begun to bury their dead and tend their wounded, a meeting was held under the Mountain to determine what should be done with Kíli. For the first time in a hundred and seventy-one years, Dwarves met in the councilman's chambers and Thorin sat at the head of the table in the place reserved for the king. His face flickered in the shadows of the low torchlight.

Balin sat to Thorin's left and Dwalin beside him. Dain sat on the other side of the table, flanked by two of his advisors. Fíli hadn't caught the older Dwarf's name, but the younger one was an abrasive Dwarf only a few decades older than him named Jori. The young prince sat to Thorin's right, his body mostly healed but his mind still reeling

Dori had died in the battle, and yesterday had been the funeral. He couldn't forget the look on Nori or Ori's faces as their brother was lowered into his tomb, buried as a hero in the heart of the mountain. So many were dead, and even though he knew it was inevitable, Fíli still felt a clawing pang of guilt that Dori had died in battle.

The Iron Hills Dwarves were calling him Fíli Lionheart, in honor of how he had led the charge out of Erebor in Thorin's stead, but Fíli didn't feel very lion-hearted right now. So many were dead, and Fíli wondered what he could have done better. Kíli's life still hung in the balance as well. He mourned for Dori but seeing Nori and Ori was almost unbearable. They reflected his own fear. He couldn't imagine what it was like to lose a brother, and he didn't ever want to find out.

He's going to make it, Fíli told himself, he's too stubborn not to. And besides, he's getting the best healing he can from the Elves.

Neither he nor Thorin liked it, but Elven healers had been brought to Ravenhill by Prince Legolas. Kíli had been taken away to the Elven camp, and the healers there argued that his condition was too critical to move him again. Fíli didn't like the idea of leaving him in enemy territory, but it was clear the Elves had won. He and Thorin would just have to wait until Kíli woke up.

In the meantime, Fíli couldn't believe they were already having this discussion. Kíli wasn't even here to defend himself or tell his side of the story.

"I don't like lettin' the pointy-eared princess have his way any more than you do," Dain was saying, "but if you let an Elf into Erebor and start callin' him your sister son, folks will think you've gone mad!"

"I do not care what others think," Thorin replied stubbornly. "Kili is my sister-son, and I will declare him before all of Erebor if I must."

"And what of succession?" Another one Dain's Dwarves called. "If yours and Fili's line were to fail, what then? Would the Khazad suffer an Elf-king Under the Mountain?"

Uproar broke out among the gathered Dwarves.

"Shazara!" Thorin roared, banging his fist on the table to get everyone's attention. "Enough! There will be no Elf-king Under the Mountain—we will get Kili cured, even if it means scouring the darkest pits of Mordor to undo this curse."

"Aye, but what if it can't be undone?" Dain asked. Skepticism was clear in his features. "What if the lad is cursed to spend the rest of his days a pointy-eared sprite? The mountain's no place for an Elf, not even your sister-son! It'd be better for him to live with other sprites than be abandoned by his own kin."

"That will never happen," Thorin growled. "As long as I am King Under the Mountain, Kili will always have a place at Erebor."

"But at what cost?" Dain's advisor asked.

"At any!" Dwalin exclaimed, thumping his fist down on the table. "We are Durin's Folk, strong and proud. We never bow to any Elf. The moment we turn Kili over to the Elvenking is the moment we'll have lost him! Then we'd be the ones abandoning our kin."

"Aye," Balin agreed, "Kíli is a Dwarf in heart and mind. To turn him over to the Elves now would be unnecessary and cruel."

"Don't get me wrong, Thorin. Kili's a good lad, but he's always been a wee bit unlike the rest of us. Those keen eyes, his uncanny knack with a bow. Not to mention that sparse beard. It's like a little bit of sprite was breathed into him at Mahal's forge."

Thorin bristled, Dain's talk reminding him too much of what Thranduil said to him on the eve of battle: this is the Valar's way of righting those past mistakes. He stubbornly shook that cold voice away. "Kili is not an Elf. He is my sister-son. If that was the Maker's will, he wouldn't have been born a Dwarf."

"That being so," Dain's older advisor said, raising a placating hand. "We stand with you, Thorin, but even with the Arkenstone folks are questioning your right to rule. You weren't present at the start of the battle, and there are rumors circulating the camp that you fell into dragon-sickness and it drove you mad."

Dain looked distinctly uncomfortable as the advisor continued.

"Some argue that Durin's current line has become too tainted by that madness, so the right to rule should pass to the next-of-kin. No son of Thrór should sit on the throne."

Thorin's jaw clenched hard. After everything they had worked for. He glanced over to see Fíli looked just as stunned. Since the time of Durin I, the kingship had never been passed down to anyone except Durin's direct line. And if he were passed over, so would Fíli. Durin's heir would then pass through Dain and his descendants. Thorin could feel his anger growing.

"We stand by you, Thorin," Dain repeated, "but there's only so much I can do. The people need to know their king won't go mad. You've already fallen to the dragon-sickness once, and they worry for Fíli. You need to prove one an' fer all that you and Fíli's line aren't mad. Dragon-sickness once most people are goin' ta be willing to forgive, but you start declaring kinsmanship to an Elf? That will send people over the edge."

Fíli could hold back no longer. "I don't care about the right to rule! I would give it up to protect Kíli. But you can't say that about Uncle! Thorin has worked his whole life for this. And he made one mistake- but that shouldn't stop him from becoming king. He did what he promised- he took back the kingdom of Erebor. We came with him when no one else would. How can all these Dwarves sit around now and do that when all the hard work's been done?"

"Dwarves died because Thorin didn't join the battle sooner!" Jori spat. "And both of you sit here now wanting to defend a mangy Elf. I don't care who he was, because I've heard enough. None of us should want him here. Or are you worried he'll turn traitor? Get lost in the forest? He already had a pointy face and no beard. Now I've heard he's a real tree-shagger as well; he even found himself a nice Elf dam!"

Dwalin was on his feet in an instant. "Say that to my face again and I'll split your head open! I stand by the line of Durin, and Kili son of Dis is twice the Dwarf you ever were!"

Thorin felt himself grow hot with rage as well.

Even Dain turned to his advisor. "That's enough, Jori. Go outside."

Jori looked up in surprise. "But Lord Dain—"

"Outside. Now."

Jori pushed out his chair and left with a huff, leaving behind a tension in the room even greater than before.

"Will he say anything to the other Dwarves?" Thorin asked in a low voice, and Dain shook his head.

"Don't mind him, Jori's always had a chip in his ax. But we need to be makin' up our mind with what we're goin' ta do about Kili."

Thorin glowered at him. "He's not a bargaining chip to be used with Thranduil, and that's final."

Balin sighed. "We don't need to decide just yet. When Kíli awakes, we can always ask him what he wants. I doubt he'll choose anything other than Erebor, but after all he's been through it might be wise to let him make his own choice. Then we can decide on what to tell the Elvenking and our own people from there."

Murmurs of agreement came from around the room. Thorin dipped his own head in consent. That's what Kíli had been lacking lately. His own choice. It was a convincing enough argument for Dain. Besides, Thorin knew his own nephew; even though Kíli had confused feelings about Elves, he would never agree to live among them voluntarily. Dain was mistaken, just as he had been when he and the other Clan leaders had been when they claimed it was impossible for them to retake the mountain. They would accept Kíli in time, Thorin was sure, especially once they got the young prince back to normal. He was nothing if not persistent.

Fíli, however, didn't look so certain. As the meeting was adjourned, he jogged to catch up with Thorin. "You told them everything," he said, looking around to make sure that no one else was listening. "But what I still don't understand is why you didn't tell them about the ring. It was a crucial part of saving my life. I even thought you were a ghost. And you still have it in your pocket."

Thorin hesitated. His hand strayed to his pocket where he could feel its solid, dependable warmth.

I'm here, I'm yours, the ring seemed to sing, but it didn't feel like the pull of dragon-sickness. Truthfully, Thorin didn't know why he hadn't told anyone about the ring either.

He curled his hand around the shape it made through the fabric.

"Master Baggins kept it a secret from us," he said, rationalizing his answer as he went along, "and so I trust he did not want it known. And it was of great use to him in Mirkwood and the Goblin tunnels. Here, we could use it against our enemies." A flicker of doubt crossed Fíli's face, and Thorin realized that what he was saying was dangerous. "But I made a promise I will not keep it. I will return this ring to our Hobbit."

"Okay, good." Fíli nodded, looking a little more relieved. "If it's alright with you, I'm going to go check on Kíli."

"Fíli." The young Dwarf stopped as Thorin put a hand on his arm to draw his attention.

"Yes, Uncle?"

"I am proud of you both." He said at last. Thorin was agitated, looking for a moment like he wanted to say more. However, he stepped back and said, "Tell me how your brother fares when you get back."

"I will," Fíli promised. "I'll let you know the moment he wakes up. I know he'll want to speak to you."

The first thing Kíli became aware of was the fact he was in a tent. Second, everything still hurt and his vertigo caused the roof of the tent to sway like a drunken Dwarf. Or maybe it was just the wind.

Thir and most importantly, he recognized that he was not alone. A beautiful red-headed Elf sat beside him.

Kíli's breath stilled for a moment. Tauriel. "You can't be here. You are far away."

"I've heard this particular piece of poetry before," Tauriel said, cutting him off with a smile, but her eyes looked sad. "Lovely as it is, you must rest. I brought you something to drink."

Kíli sat up with a pained groan, his blankets sliding down to his waist. The cold hit him with a shock. His armor was gone and his chest was wrapped in thick, white bandages. It was only then that he realized that he had been stripped down to his trousers and Tauriel could see his bare, naked chest—so different from the hairy curls he had had as a Dwarf. Immediately, he drew his covers around himself in a panic to only then feel more embarrassed when he realized he was hiding himself behind them like a blushing maid.

Once again, why did everything about Elves have to be so feminine?

However, his altered physique seemed to have the opposite effect on Tauriel. Her eyes flickered away in response to his embarrassment but a hint of rose color dusted her cheeks. Desire. If Tauriel noticed his discomfort when she looked back at him though, she didn't show it. Her eyes flicked once more to the covers drawn around his chest before she explained.

"From where Bolg threw you into the wall. You were bleeding internally."

Kíli slid fully upright with a wince. There was a throbbing pain as well at the back of his head. For a moment, everything swam red before Tauriel brought the cup to his lips. Cold, crisp water slid down his throat as Kíli suddenly realized he was quite thirsty. He drank greedily from the cup, water spilling down his chin. His grip on the blanket relaxed slightly as he drew back.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

Two days. Kíli stared at her in disbelief. The memories flooded back to him. Bolg. Azog. Ravenhill. Fighting alongside Dain and Fíli. Fíli, standing bold and heroic. And—and Thorin? Kíli felt a sudden surge of panic.

"Fíli? My Uncle?"

Thankfully, Tauriel understood. "Both alive and healing well. They came to check on you after the battle but you were still unconscious."

His kin were alive and safe. Kíli slumped back in relief. As long as Fíli and Thorin were fine, he could handle anything else. Something was still nagging though in the back of his brain, something about Thorin, and the battle. Kíli stole a suspicious, confused glance around the tent.

"Where'm I?"

Just as Tauriel was about to answer, a small, willowy Elf strode in. He couldn't have stood any larger than Tauriel. He was dressed in a drab, neutral tunic with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. Judging by his tied-back hair and the leather satchel that reminded him of Oin's medicine bag, Kíli guessed he was a healer. "Ah, you're awake. I will have to get Lord Thranduil. The king will be most interested to see you."

His voice was cool, even, male. However, his eyes sharpened when he caught sight of Tauriel.

Tauriel set the cup down and gave the Elf a short bow. "Ôlon. Elen síla erin lû e-govaned vîn."

The strange Elf inclined his head. "Indeed." Then he strode up to Kíli. "How are you feeling?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled back Kíli's covers and began inspecting the bandages. The former Dwarf gave a rather undignified shout of protest. "You are doing well," the healer murmured, mostly to himself. Although he did speak in Westron for Kíli's benefit. "No signs of bleeding, fever, or delirium." He pressed a hand to Kíli's collarbone. "Although your Light is very weak. It flickers. Like a candle."

Kíli yanked himself away. "Can you take it out?"

"I cannot, and this is the first time an Elf has ever asked me to, although the king informed me of your nature, naugonnen." He clarified himself at Kíli's questioning glare. "Dwarf-born."

"And I will be again," Kíli said in an unsteady voice, although he was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the entrance to the tent. He heard a familiar voice.

"—let me in!"

Fíli! Forget the Light of the Eldar. Kíli's heart almost burst its way out of his chest. "Fíli—!”

The healer—Ôlon?—shook his head. "Tell the guards not to let him in. The naugonnen has just woken up. The king will want to see him. It is too early to deal with Dwarves—"

”No, it’s Fíli—“

Tauriel was by his side swiftly. "That is not any Dwarf. That is Fíli, his brother. They are not going anywhere. You will let them speak to each other."

The two Elves faced off for a moment, then Ôlon broke the tension. "Very well," he said, and called something to the guards outside the tent in Sindarin. A moment later, Fíli strode in, still looking out of breath and fresh from arguing with the guards.

Tauriel reclined her head toward him graciously. "We will leave you and your brother in peace."

Fíli nodded back gratefully. "Thank you."

"Fíli," Kíli murmured. He could hardly believe it as the two Elves left the tent. "It's you. You're alright."

"Of course I am," Fíli said. "I was worried about you. I've come here every day after you fell unconscious after the battle. Thorin and I thought you were dead at Ravenhill." He took a deep breath. "Dain knows, Kee. He knows who you really are. I'm sorry. I shouted for you and panicked."

The relief at seeing his brother instantly disappeared. Kíli's blood turned to ice. "Fee, what's happening?" His brother looked like he was bracing himself for something very unpleasant.

"Thorin, Dwalin, and I are all willing to fight for you. It's Dain and his Dwarves who need some convincing." Kíli stilled as Fíli continued. "One of Dain's advisors said that there have been rumors going around challenging Thorin's right to rule. He wasn't there when I led the charge out of the mountain. And other Dwarves are going to start wondering what happened to you." Fíli gave his brother a sharp, uneasy glance.

Kíli sucked in a sharp breath. "Who all knows?"

"Just Dain, his two advisors, and us. Thorin swore the whole Company to secrecy. At least until we figure out what to do." He paused. "But we're going to fight the Elvenking. There's got to be a loophole in the deal somewhere. Kíli, what did he say to you? Maybe we can convince Uncle to give him the White Gems of Lasgalen instead."

"He said he wanted me more than the gems," Kíli admitted hoarsely, although he couldn't understand why. No one would've wanted Legolas if he'd been turned into a Dwarf. And he would've made an ugly Dwarf too. But as amusing as that idea was, his mind caught on the last thing Fíli had mentioned. "Wait, why are people questioning Thorin's right to rule? He has the Arkenstone."

Fíli dragged a weary hand through his beard. "Dain's folk are saying it might not be enough. That if he starts... associating... with an Elf Dwarves will think he's gone mad. Again. Our line will be seen as unfit to rule."

Kíli flinched. "Then you will never be king."

"It doesn't matter." Fíli said. His voice was as steady as it was at Ravenhill, but deep down, Kíli could hear the hidden note of disappointment beneath it. It hit him as heavy as an anvil. "Now that you're awake, Thorin is coming today to ask you if you want to stay. He said he is willing to declare you before all of Erebor if he must." Kíli's blood turned to ice. Reveal what he now was? In front of everybody?

Fíli must have noticed Kíli's stricken expression because he slowed down.

"Just... give it time. I said I'd back you up and I will. Just let everyone get used to the idea." He hesitated, then went on. "Kíli. You're my brother. I don't want you to leave. We need you here. I know I do. And Thorin does. I wrote Mum-"

The former Dwarf's eyes widened. "What? You wrote Mum? What did you tell her?"

"Nothing. Or rather, not everything. I only told her that we picked up a healer traveling through Mirkwood and that she needed to come to the mountain quickly. I didn't tell her that Tauriel was an Elf or what had happened-"

Kíli looked down at himself frantically. A long, Elvish torso. Delicate, Elven hands, long fingers. "I can't see her. Not like- not like this!" On the last note, his voice rose in horror.

Fíli's tone urged him to see reason."Kee, what are we supposed to tell her? That you're dead? That we left you as a hostage in Mirkwood until we find a way to get you turned back to normal? Amad would much rather have you safe and alive. She's not going to care, Kee. She'll love you just the way you are."

"Like Uncle?" Kíli demanded. "He loved me until I came to the mountain looking like this." Angrily, the former Dwarf gestured to himself.

"That's not true—"

"But even if it's not, I can't lie to all of you."

"No one's asking you to."

"Thorin is." Kíli's tone revealed just how much the idea hurt him. "He's asking me to go against everything I now am. To act like everything's going to be normal. Like there's not a chance I might be stuck like this forever. He hates Elves, so he hates me. He hates who I am. He hates Tauriel."

"Thorin just doesn't understand. Give him time."

"I can't." Kíli admitted in a small voice. "I've ruined everything." Too much within him and around him had changed. If I hadn't gotten turned into an Elf. If I hadn't caught Bilbo with the Arkenstone. If I hadn't made that promise to the Elvenking-

"Kíli-"

"Don't," he interrupted harshly. Then, in a quieter voice, he added, "You don't understand. You've done everything right; you always have. You don't know what it's like to have to do something nobody else wants or understands."

"Kíli, I-" Fíli sighed. "I'm sorry. Just don't do anything you'll regret."

Kíli gave a weak laugh. "It's probably already too late for that."

Chapter Text

Kíli sat at the edge of the cot, tense, his hands nervously gripping the sheets. Fíli had gone to get their Uncle while Olôn the healer had gone to get Thranduil, Tauriel in tow. He wondered who would be the first to get back to the tent. Unable to stand doing nothing any longer, he threw off the blanket draped around his shoulders and pulled on the tunic laid out for him, fastening the front with trembling hands. It was a deep earthy brown and clearly of Elvish design due to the deep V pattern of stitches in the front, but Kíli didn't care. All he knew was that he didn't want to be bare-chested and hairless around Fíli and his uncle.

His pulse pounded painfully in his temples even from that slight exertion. The former Dwarf bit back a groan. It still felt like he'd been smacked by a mountain troll.

Pushing through the pain and waiting until his vision cleared, Kíli hastily pulled his fingers through his hair a few times to try to look presentable, taking care not to accidentally brush the pointed tips of his ears. Fíli's last words to him echoed in his mind. Don't do anything you'll regret.

How could he not?

Kíli regretted everything he'd done so far. When his Uncle and the Elvenking came back, he still had no idea what he was going to say to say to them. The former Swarf could finally admit to himself that everything he'd done so far had been a very bad idea. When he had volunteered himself and his services to Thranduil, he'd only been thinking about getting away from Thorin and protecting his kin, not the repercussions of everything that would come after.

What to do now?

However, Kíli didn't have to wait very long. It felt like only moments later when Fíli came back with Thorin. Thranduil and the Elven healer came soon behind them. Both parties were arguing as they came into the tent.

First, he heard the cool voice of Olôn.

"He is in our care."

"He is my sister-son!" Thorin declared, looking livid. "We have the only right to see him."

Uncle! As much as it warmed Kíli to hear those words, his heart chilled at the sight of the Elvenking who swept in right after his uncle and his brother. (And swept was the right word; with his haughty manner and long trailing garb the only way the old Elf seemed to move was to glide.) He fixed Kíli with an unreadable expression, looking like a snake ready to strike. Tauriel came in behind him, as poised as a dagger.

Tauriel. Kíli desperately tried to make eye contact with her. Even under these circumstances, part of him was still so happy to see her.

Her gaze met his, uncertain, questioning, before looking away. The gesture did not go unnoticed by either Thorin or Thranduil.

Thranduil looked satisfied. Thorin did not. A scowl deepened the crease between his brows like a storm but his ire was saved only for Thranduil.

"I do not trust you to honor any bargain," he told the Elvenking before looking to Kíli. "I will only trust the words of my sister-son. Tell me," he said slowly, deliberately, and it occurred to Kíli that Thorin was giving him the chance to back out. "Did you make any promise to Thranduil?"

Kíli swallowed down the heavy lump in his throat. I can't lie. It's not in my blood. "Yes, I promised him, Uncle."

Thorin pinched his nose in frustration, letting out a quiet curse under his breath. Fíli flinched before looking at him and then at their uncle. It was going to be a lot harder to get Kíli away from the Elvenking now, and all of them knew it.

Thranduil bowed his head in acknowledgment. "The Dwarf-born gave me his word. And I expect this promise to be repaid."

"Take me instead." Fíli offered immediately. "Just let my brother go."

Kíli gave a start of surprise. Thranduil, however, sounded almost bored. "And what would I want with one lone Dwarf?"

Fíli puffed out his chest and took a step closer toward the Elvenking. "I am the future king of Erebor."

"If your uncle takes the throne," Thranduil corrected languidly. "Then you are the mountain's future king. But if not, what then?"

Then I don't have a choice, Kíli thought, Thranduil's words feeling like a cold bucket of ice water dumped over his head. I can't let them do this to Fíli.

Fíli was the golden heir, the diplomatic one, but for the first time in a long time in a long time, Kíli saw his brother look furious. "Kíli is a Dwarf of Erebor, no matter what he looks like. You cannot take that away from him. I will do whatever it takes a cure or free him from your clutches. We are brothers."

This time, it was Thranduil who stepped closer to the blond Dwarf. Fíli didn't flinch but started to reach for one of his hidden knives, just as Kíli instinctively pushed himself off the bed and started to go towards his brother. However, it was Tauriel who intervened before anything else could be said. She spoke to Thranduil in a rapid burst of Sindarin, while he responded in kind.

Kili couldn't pick out a word of what was said. Fíli looked at him as if to say what is going on? but Kíli just gave a small shrug. He wasn't sure what was going on either, only that the two Elves sounded heated, angry. He wanted to jump in to protect Tauriel but was stopped by the language barrier. However, just as Kíli was debating whether to jump in anyway, Tauriel switched back to Westron.

"I may have... misjudged." This time, the proud warrior sounded hesitant.

"Misjudged?" Thranduil said, incredulously. "What did you misjudge? That Legolas would not pursue the Goblins?" He laughed, but there was no trace of humor in it. "That he would not try and eliminate them, even on his own if he deemed it necessary? Have you not fought side by side with him for centuries? Should you have not known him well enough to not misjudge that?"

Tauriel shrunk back on herself.

The Elvenking did not look satisfied. "You are too much like these Dwarves. You meddle with things you do not understand and care not for those who are affected by the aftermath. "Or," he said, each word shaped softly, dangerously, "do you just not care at all?"

"My Lord, the Orcs were threatening the people of Laketown. The Men needed protection."

"So you're telling me you went to Laketown to protect those in need Who were those in need, Tauriel? The Men of the town or the Dwarves?"

"Both, of course, my Lord."

"Both of course." Thranduil gave a nasty smile."And whom did you actually protect?"

"The... The Dwarves." Tauriel said, her voice barely above a whisper. Coming from her, it sounded like a revelation. "I went only to protect the Dwarves. I found Kíli, and it was Legolas who tracked down Bolg."

Thranduil's gaze pierced her deeply. Tauriel bowed her head in shame. Silence stretched by and he said nothing. He didn't have to.

"The Dwarf-born. Two lives you have now ruined; his and your own." The Elvenking sneered. She looked towards Kíli, who sharply looked away.

Meanwhile, the Elvenking moved towards her, a ripple of white-blond hair and silver fabric. "Do you really think Dwarves will let you stay under the Mountain, even if their king shows you clemency? You know as well as I that a tree uprooted cannot survive being buried underground. Sooner or later you will be cast out, or everyone you know will be long dead and forgotten. You both will be exiles, wanderers, cast off from two peoples but belonging to none." Then he swiveled towards Kíli. "Do you want that to be your fate?"

Fíli lunged forward. "Kíli, that’s not true! Don't listen to him," the Dwarf snarled. "You're my brother. You'll always be a Dwarf, a proud son of Durin. We'll fight for you. We'll find a way to change you back. I promise. On Durin's Ax, I swear. Please, Kíli. Listen to me. There has to be another way."

Fíli. Kíli listened. He wanted to listen. At that moment, the dark-haired Elf almost sided with his brother. His eyes darted toward his uncle.

"Kíli, don't be a fool," Thorin warned in a low voice. "I will not have you renounce your claim for the words of a treasonous Elf."

"What do you even want with him?" Fíli demanded.

"You would know, wouldn't you, King Under the Mountain?" Thranduil asked, leering at Thorin this time. "But I will also admit simpler, more prosaic motive. The kingdoms of Elves are failing. I do my best to protect my people, but it is not enough. We lost a hundred and thirty-six warriors in the battle, and more die every decade. It may mean very little," he sneered, "to a people accustomed to the ax of mortality hanging over their heads, but it means a great deal to an Elf when a single life is cut short. Death comes just as swiftly to us as it does to other races, but our lives run slow. An Elfling has not been born in my kingdom for the past fifty years."

Kíli wondered what the waning Elf population and lack of Elflings could possibly have to do with him.

"And so," Thranduil said, looking directly at Kíli. "I offer you my help. In exchange for new blood, I will give you a home for your One and your Elflings, if you have them. All I ask is for your loyalty in return."

Kíli looked at Tauriel, who looked just as surprised as she did. "I don't—we're not—" he said awkwardly. He didn't know which was making his face flush hotter, the fact that Thranduil knew about the Dwarvish concept of a One or the thought of making Elflings with Tauriel. "We haven't talked about anything like that." He managed at last.

"In time you will," Thranduil said, self-assured in the dismissal. "Take one hundred years if you must."

Elflings. We haven't even said I love you, Kíli realized with a start. They called each other meleth nin and amrâlimê, but had never acknowledged it directly or in those exact words.

Thorin, meanwhile, looked furious. "How dare you. My nephew is not one of your prized Elks! He is a son of Durin, and our blood will not be used to repopulate your treacherous, failing people! Do you hear me, Thranduil? You will get nothing! You would turn the sons and daughters of my sister-sons against each other. Against Erebor. We will get Kíli turned back. He will not be joining himself to any Elf, least of all any Elf in your kingdom! I would sooner see him with a harpist in Rivendell."

Kíli balked at that. Wait, his uncle had seen that display? Even though Kíli hadn't known the harpist's true gender—and that was yielded embarrassing results—he hoped that instance would never be brought up again. In hindsight, it might've also been the first warning sign that he was attracted to Elves. He only hoped that Tauriel never found out.

Even more pressing than that fiasco though were his warring emotions, which had nothing to do with Rivendell at all. Kíli didn't want to be an Elf. He wanted to find a way to be turned back to himself again. He was frightened of going to Mirkwood, and the last thing the Dwarvish part of him wanted to do was leave behind his kin.

Fíli was right, they would find a way to turn them back; they had to, Kíli hoped. In time.

"And what of Lord Dain?" Thranduil asked. "I have no love of the Iron Hills Dwarves but if I put my support behind them, the Men of Laketown will be easily led. They will be reluctant to broker deals with a Dwarf-king who goes back on his word and drenches their town in dragon-fire; I will remind them of that if you do not give me what I am owed."

"That's not fair!" Kíli cried in outrage.

Indignation broke loose among those assembled inside the tent. Olôn replied in Sindarin, his tone scathing.

Tauriel tried to speak again over the dull roar, but it was Thorin's voice that rose above the rest. "And what of the promise you made us, the Dwarves of Erebor? We were starving, we needed your help—!"

And suddenly, Kíli could stand it no more.

"Enough!" He cried. "I made a promise. I will go to Mirkwood!"

For a moment, everything was still. The three Elves and the two Dwarves turned to him in shock. Thorin's face darkened.

"Kíli. Think about what you are doing."

Mahal give me courage, Kíli breathed, and raised his head to speak. "Your majesty, Uncle," he began softly, his eyes on Thorin's. He forced his voice louder so that everyone could hear. "I promise to endeavor, as I have always done, to behave worthily of you. To be a good Son of Durin. But...I don't know if I even am a son of Durin anymore. You are the one who taught me that words mean something. If I go back on my promise now, then I am no better than him." He then glared at Thranduil. "But that doesn't mean that I'm an- an Elf, either. I will go with you, but I will never be like you. I'm doing this because I made a promise. I have to protect Fíli. Tauriel. My uncle."

He tried swallowing down the heavy lump in his throat. He turned to Thorin. He loved the Dwarf-king, but didn't know if he could forgive him. The pain of his betrayal was still too real. But that didn't mean that he couldn't try to make amends.

Forgive me. I'm so sorry, Uncle. In his eyes he tried to will Thorin everything he didn't have the strength to say. That he was sorry but didn't regret loving Tauriel. That no matter what happened, Thorin would always be his king and Uncle. His gaze swept the room. He made the right choice but somehow, he still felt he had failed everyone. Thorin was looking at him not as an uncle, but as a king.

"Kíli—" Fíli began, but Thorin cut him off.

"If you leave Erebor, it by your own choice." He said gruffly. "I will no longer deny my own kin. But you are making a mistake, my sister-son. You are giving up your heritage, everything you have for an Elf. Is this truly what you want?"

Fíli was looking at him too; the desperation in his eyes showed more plainly. Ever so slightly, he shook his head as if to say, Don't do this, Kíli. Don't be reckless.

Did you not hear what I said? Kíli wanted to demand. How could he make Thorin understand he was doing all this to protect them?

But maybe... maybe it would be easier this way, Kíli realized, if he didn't try to explain... Thorin would fight Thranduil tooth and nail if he knew the main reason Kíli was doing this was to protect his kin. But if he thought that Kíli was doing this for another reason—because Uncle thought he was reckless, or stubborn, or wanted to be an Elf to be with Tauriel...

Then he might be able to forgive himself easier for this betrayal.

"It is," Kíli said in a shaky, hesitant voice. Everyone in the tent startled, and Kíli forced himself to say it again, more clearly this time. "This is what I want."

Something broke in Thorin's eyes. He stared at Kíli as if he no longer knew who he was. Maybe he didn't. After all, Kíli hardly knew who he was either. So much had changed since their Company arrived in Laketown, and there was nothing Kíli could do to take it back. But that knowledge didn't make the words hurt any less as Thorin stepped away, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Then I have lost a sister-son."

Fíli also stared at him in shock. Kíli only barely managed to choke down the sob that rose in his own throat in time. He looked down at his hands, which were clenched into fists. I will not cry, I will not cry—

Thranduil was the only one who looked satisfied by the development. "Then we leave in two days hence. At dawn, first light."

"I know what I am doing," Kíli argued, as soon as his kin and Thranduil left in a heated storm to discuss things further. He and Tauriel were now alone in the tent.

Tauriel shook her head in disbelief. "No, I do not think you do. Kíli, Thranduil is someone who will hold you to your word. You know you cannot go with him. I can't see you living your whole life in Mirkwood. This is where you belong."

"And you belong with your people!" Kíli insisted, miserable and heartbroken. "It was my fault you were banished for not returning to them. I will not sit by and let you get punished for my mistakes."

Tauriel's lips pressed together in a thin, unhappy line. She turned away from him, and the former Dwarf could tell it was in an attempt to keep up her cool, Elven composure. "My own fate can play no part in this," she insisted, still not looking at him. "You must stay."

She tried to move away, but Kíli caught her by the wrist and pulled her back towards him.

"How could what happens to you not factor into my decision?" Kíli demanded, his voice little more than a growl. Her hand felt warm yet the Silvan elleth seemed so cold, so remote, so far away. Starlight slipping through his grasp. "Tauriel, you are the reason I'm still here."

At last, she turned to look at him, and Kíli realized with a start that her eyes were full of unshed tears. "I do not regret the choices I have made," she said firmly, "but I regret that they've cost you so much. You are the one who showed me how much life there is to love outside the forest. This was not a choice I would ever ask you to make."

Without thinking, Kíli drew himself up to his full height, eyes ablaze. "I know. And I never asked you to come after me when we escaped your king's dungeons." Tauriel flinched back as if struck, and Kíli realized what she must think. "Tauriel, look at me." Slowly she did, her green eyes uncertain, wary. Even now though, Kíli felt he could get lost in them. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. That was a mistake. I know what happened in Laketown was an accident. And I should hate you for it. Mahal, I've tried hating you for it. But I can't. Tauriel. I don't know why but I can't."

With that admission came another bolt of fear. Durin's Beard. He'd changed again, this time without even realizing it. What did it say about him now, that he much rather preferred being an alive Elf to a dead Dwarf?

He squeezed his eyes shut. I'm not losing myself, I'm not.

Slowly, Kíli opened his eyes. Tauriel watched him, frozen, as if she were balancing on a thin sheet of ice and afraid she might fall in. Kíli took a deep breath. He wanted her to know that she was warm, that she was loved, that she was safe. With these next words, there'd be no going back.

'Tauriel," he breathed her name like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. "I love you. And I know nothing will ever change that. Amrâlimê, I want us to build a life together, where we don't have to be ashamed of who we are or what we feel. I want to have...Elflings..." He swallowed down his embarrassment at the word and the thought of being an Elvish father. Too late he remembered the word children. "...with you someday. Do you feel the same?"

The former Dwarf watched as fear, astonishment, and wonderment broke across her face in waves. At last, her expression settled on wonder. Her eyes were bright, searching, and no longer full of tears.

"Kíli...From the first night in Mirkwood, I felt like I had known you all my life." He could feel the warmth of her breath as she leaned in, interlacing her fingers with the ones he held cupping her jawline. "You asked me once what meleth nin meant, and now I give you my answer. My love, I love you as well."

A jolt of happiness went straight to Kíli's stomach. He grinned, and Tauriel grinned back as well. This, this was joy. For a moment the battle fell away, as well his awful deal with Thranduil. It was enough to just here in this one moment with Tauriel.

And yet, it wasn't long before reality came crashing back down. The dream was gone as the smile on Tauriel's face faded. She drew away, fixing him with a searching gaze.

"And yet," She said slowly, "It is not for my sake—or not solely for my sake—that you are so eager to leave here."

Kíli bit his lip, no longer trying to deny it. "Then you know why I can't go back. I can't face them again. Not like this." Them being not just the Company, but all of the Dwarves who came to Erebor. "Do you know what will happen to me when everyone finds out who I am?"

Tauriel moved closer to him, slowly, like she was approaching a wounded animal. The cot squeaked beneath their combined weight.

Kíli's gaze was suddenly so full of hurt and fear, Tauriel was reminded of a cold winter morning many years ago when Legolas had recently shown her how to set snares for rabbits. Tauriel had been so excited, she must have set at least half a dozen from the Palace to the Enchanted River.

However, when she went to check the traps the next day, she found not a rabbit caught in one of her traps, but a wolf. Tauriel remembered the horror she felt at seeing the once-proud creature laid low, a bright wire clapped around one of its front paws, the snow stained scarlet with its blood.

Wolves were unpredictable, even at the best of times. Tauriel had ignored the advice of her companions as she knelt beside the wolf. Its flanks heaved in terror. She kept a close eye on its sharp teeth and claws as she started digging to unearth the trap. The creature flashed its teeth and growled in warning, but that warning broke into a high-pitched yelp as the wire buried deeper into its leg. Tauriel spoke to it softly in Sindarin until it calmed, then continued digging around the trap to free the wire from its base.

The wolf had whined, half-docile and half-wild, straining for something she couldn't see; caught between its short, newfound trust in Elven-kind and the wildness of its native home.

Kíli was like that wolf in more ways than one.

Tauriel had tread carefully back then, and she would tread just as carefully right now.

"Your people will come to accept you, just as you came to accept me."

Kíli adamantly shook his head, refusing to be comforted. "They won't. There's a difference between being allowed to stay and being accepted for who I am. I'm starting to learn that now." He sighed, this one more defeated than the last. "You heard my Uncle. And even if he eventually does come to terms with us, he can't have an Elf as one of his heirs." Bitterness stained his last few words. "People will think he's gone mad. And I can't do that to him or Fíli. Especially not to Fíli. He's a great Dwarf, and one day he's going to be a great king."

The two things I am not hung unspoken in the air.

Kíli looked down at his hands with such pain and fear and loathing, that Tauriel felt another flare of guilt. He hates being an Elf. Despite all his talk of going to Mirkwood and Elflings, Kíli still wasn't alright, not entirely. She knew he was still deeply uncomfortable with his appearance, but it was another thing altogether to see those insecurities laid bare. Two thoughts hit her at once. I abandoned him for two weeks, and then, he is not as well adjusted as I thought.

Her heart twisted in agony.

As tempted as she was by the thought of Kíli joining her people and living happily together, the idea of Kíli in Mirkwood seemed completely, utterly wrong. In his current state, it felt like defeat. It felt like giving up. Worse than that, it felt like Kíli was trying to run away.

She studied his face, which had changed so much in the few weeks that she'd known him. Ai Valar, part of him still clings to the Dwarf he once was. And she had a sinking feeling that he would regret it forever if he tried giving it up this early.

She drew on the last connection to his old life that she knew he had left. "And what of your mother? You made her a promise." And with that, Tauriel drew the runestone out of her pocket.

Return to me. A promise fulfilled. Now it was time for Kíli to fulfill the other part of that sacred promise. Hopeful that it would work, she pressed the smooth stone into the palm of his hand.

Kíli stared at it, transfixed, his brown eyes widening.

"What will you do when she returns to Erebor?" Tauriel pressed gently. "Doesn't she deserve to know the truth?"

Something in Kíli's face flickered, his expression torn. For a moment, Tauriel had reason to hope. But the moment vanished as soon as Kíli shook his head.

"No." He swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I can't let her see me like this. I can't be her son and look like this. What would I be, except a reminder of everything she's lost? I'd rather Thorin tell her I died. That I fell off a cliff and was eaten by Wargs. It doesn't matter at this point. He'll come up with something." Kíli looked away sharply. "Uncle is good at that. He can't admit what I am either."

His hand strayed absentmindedly to the base of his throat. Despite everything Kíli believed and said, Tauriel knew that his uncle still wasn't fully forgiven. This last betrayal over the Arkenstone had cut too deep. Only time would tell if their relationship was irreparably damaged. Tauriel prayed that this wasn't the case.

This is my fault, her quiet, internal voice chided her. I am the one taking Kíli from his kin.

She swallowed her guilt down.

"The Elvenking rarely does anything for a single reason," she warned, "and he always keeps his true motives hidden. Life in Mirkwood will not be easy."

"I know," said Kíli, and this time, there was true understanding in his eyes. "I'm sure there's another reason he wants me in Mirkwood. I think the last part of what he said was only to goad my uncle."

"If you go to Mirkwood, there's a good chance Thranduil will not let you see him. Or your brother."

The true source of Thranduil's strength was isolation. As long as Kíli stayed with his kin, Tauriel was certain that some level of Kíli's confidence in his Dwarfhood would remain. But if Thranduil was to use Kíli as any sort of political pawn, his first goal would be to destroy that connection.

"There has to be a way to turn me back," Kíli said stubbornly. "Even if I go, my Uncle and brother won't stop looking. And I won't either. And if there's not-" Kíli's voice cut off suddenly, and Tauriel could almost see the effort it took to force the burning words from his throat. "I don't want to stay somewhere I'm not welcome. And I don't want to cost Fíli or Thorin to the throne. But I can repay you," he pleaded. "Let me restore you to the life you knew before I ever came into it. I cannot change who I am or what has happened, but I can do this—if only you let me."

His expression was earnest, and Tauriel realized that this might be Kíli's only way of staying sane. He was tied to this mission, this purpose. Kíli was a person of principles; it was the only way he could lose everything and still survive. He would pursue this purpose as long as he believed it to be the best course of action. More than anything though, Kíli wanted to be the hero.

It was also the first time she'd ever heard him speak of being an Elf without denial. Somehow, it was even more startling than his promise to go to Mirkwood. With a sinking feeling in her heart, she knew that Kíli had made up his mind.

She sighed, her hopes and plans for the future going out with that single breath. "I do not approve of your plan," she said, "and I still hope there is a way for your uncle and brother to deny your wish."

"And if there isn't?" Kíli asked, his voice tense.

It seemed wrong. All of it. No matter what had happened, Kíli belonged in the real world. Not Mirwood, where everything stayed still. Never mind the disaster she could already imagine when Kíli's headstrong personality inevitably clashed with Thranduil's. Tauriel turned to look at the front of the waving tent flap to buy her some time. After a while, she realized that Kíli was still waiting for an answer.

She turned back towards him reluctantly. "Then you and I will start preparing for a journey back to Mirkwood."

Chapter Text

The next few days for Kíli passed in a miserable haze.

He had spent so much time consumed with dread for when he and Tauriel would leave for Mirkwood that he'd hardly given any thought to what it would actually be like when they finally arrived.

It was a slow, winding path back to Mirkwood. The majority of Elves traveled on foot. Few of them had horses, and even fewer of them had Elk. Most of the horses used were the feather-legged draft horses that had carried grain and fresh food to the people of Laketown. Kíli was taller now, but had still never known horses could get so large. They plodded patiently along, their heavy wooden carts groaning under the weight of badly injured Elves and their supplies. It was at the dawn of their second day of traveling that they actually reached the borders of Mirkwood.

Kíli's ribs ached, but he was thankful that he was well enough to travel. Putting one foot in front of another was enough to distract him at least a little from what lay behind him in Erebor and gave him a chance to look around and inspect new companions. It was strange to see so many beardless faces, and it was impossible to who was old and who was young. He was relieved that none of the Elves around asked him very many questions-although some shot him curious looks, not everyone seemed to know who he was—and was generally avoided as Tauriel stayed by his side like a shadow, her chin held high in defiance.

He tried to borrow her confidence, her defiant stance, much as he had done when taking a lead from Fíli in this strange scenario. If he was going to live among the enemy under constant scrutiny, then he was going to do it proud and unafraid.

The forest, for one, was different than he remembered. It was still dark and shadowy, the thick canopy above them letting in very little of the weak winter light above them, but the air to him seemed thinner and clearer than he remembered.

Back when he was a Dwarf with nothing to worry about but the road ahead of him and the need to prove himself as Thorin's sister-son, the air had seemed thick as cobwebs meant to ensnare him. The murky light played tricks on him, causing him several times during their wanderings to see and hear things that weren't really there. If it wasn't for Tauriel, it would've taken less than the giant spiders looking for a Dwarven snack to make Kíli never want to go back there again.

But now he took in deep lungfuls of the air, revitalized by the oxygen flowing into his lungs despite the twinge of pain in his ribs. The forest still hung heavy with the deep, loamy scent of enchantment and leaves and decay, but it no longer seemed to have any of them affect him. His mind was still clear.

And that meant one of two things. Either he or the forest had changed.

At last, he shared his observation with Tauriel, his curiosity getting the better of him although he knew deep down what the answer would be.

"You know," he said, trying to keep his voice casual, "It feels a lot better here now than it did when we last came through as the Company. I spent so much time wondering how you did it, walking through this forest. I kept seeing and hearing things that weren't really there. Voices. Shadows. I think it even got to my—my Uncle." His voice caught a bit on the last part, the pain of everything he'd left behind washing over him anew. Hurriedly, almost embarrassed, Kíli pressed on. "Then you killed that spider, and I thought at first that my mind was still playing tricks on me. You seemed too beautiful to be real. And I'd never seen an Elf with copper-red hair."

Tauriel dipped her head in acknowledgment, sending him a shy, secretive smile. "There are not many of us. The only one I knew was my father, and no one else since. But I was just as surprised to see a Dwarf for the first time in one hundred years. I had never before seen one of your kind up close." She recognized his thinly-veiled question. "The Elves of Mirkwood are immune to many of the enchantments of the forest. I would not be surprised if it didn't affect you as it did before."

Kíli nodded, deflating slightly. So it was him. Although, he wouldn't have minded if he'd had this particular trait on their journey. His mind was still caught on the Quest for Erebor and the Company. Tauriel shot him a concerned look, to which Kíli hastily looked away.

"I'm fine." Just thinking about my Uncle, he wanted to add but didn't. The physical pain in his ribs was far easier to bear.

Tauriel's face was shadowed in doubt. "You made a choice," she said quietly. "But that does not mean it should be yours alone to bear."

Kíli's fingers curled around the runestone he now kept in his pocket, a mere touch transporting him back to the memories of the day they had left.

Kíli rose before the dawn of that second day. Since he had accepted Thranduil's offer and refused his uncle, he stayed in the Elven camp. That whole night he had hardly slept, tossing and turning in the relative silence, his whole body caked in sweat. Was he doing the right thing? Kíli didn't know. From outside his tent, he heard the sound of Elven sentries milling around, the melodious rise and fall of Sindarin voices. It was strange and unfamiliar. He didn't think he would ever get used to it.

This was his last night in Erebor. The last night he would ever spend near Fíli, his uncle.

He knew there was still a slim possibility he could be turned back, but here, in the dark morning hours before dawn, it seemed impossible that things would ever be the same again. Even if he was turned back, what would he be? An outcast, an Elvish sympathizer? He knew that after this experience he would never be able to look at Elves the same way again. He could almost hear the voices of his born people now: there goes Kíli, the freak. Did you hear about the time he was turned into an Elf for a year? Poor lad. He was never the same again.

The former Dwarf's face burned shame and embarrassment. As much as he wanted to pretend it all away, Dain was going to tell everyone about his condition. There was no way he wouldn't. Dain was loud and blustering and he hated Elves. But even if he somehow didn't, how was Thorin going to explain why Kíli had been gone for so long, and why hadn't he been present in battle? Kíli could see no way around it besides faking his death or turning up after the fact and risk looking like a coward.

Even worse though, Kíli no longer knew where he stood with his uncle. His whole life, Kíli had sought his uncle's approval. In turn, Thorin had always given it willingly. Even when Kíli did things that he knew were unconventional- refusing to put elaborate braids in his hair, choosing to shoot with a bow- he knew that Thorin always supported him, even against the occasionally harsh judgments of his kind but very opinionated mother. It was Uncle who bought him his first bow, Uncle who spent hours carving the rough wooden targets and sitting near Kíli as he practiced his drawing stance and hitting targets with his bow. Thorin who seemed unbothered when others jeered that Kíli had chosen a weapon better fitted for an Elf; even Mum had worried at first how it would affect his social standing among his peers until Kíli proved himself without equal in Ered Luin.

It was that very same skill that earned him a place in the Company, even though he was young and relatively untested, even though he was Thorin's second only surviving heir.

Never before had his uncle's love for him been called into question. So what had changed that now?

Balin had argued it was the dragon-sickness, but Kíli was more inclined to believe that Thorin just really hated Elves.

He had chosen the Elves so his uncle could take the throne. But when Kíli remembered the incident, he still felt hurt by it. He didn't try hard enough to stop me from leaving, the former Dwarf thought, he just warned me to not be reckless. He thinks I'm a fool.

And maybe he was a fool, but he was a fool in love with Tauriel. He wanted at least one good thing to come out of the decisions he had made. If she couldn't stay with him in the mountains, then he would come to the forest with her.

No longer able to stay still, Kíli shoved himself up from the cot. Thankfully, his ribs were healing well, the bruises fading from a violent purple to a splotchy, faded yellow-green. With deft hands, he finished getting dressed and donned his Elvish armor. Having left Erebor in a hurry and not daring to go back after the battle, he gathered up his precious few belongings-his bow, arrows, fletching kit, and runestone — as well as his newly acquired sword — and rolled up his bedsheets, which at this point stunk worse than a toll's hoard. Maybe they could be washed up, maybe they could be set on fire. Kíli didn't care. At this point, he was just following a force of habit from months spent on the road.

Dawn came all too soon. An Elf came to his tent and told Kíli it was time to go.

He slipped outside into the weak, gray-yellow early dawn light to find Tauriel waiting, but two shorter figures were waiting also.

Bofur and Fíli.

Kíli froze.

Upon seeing him emerge from the tent, Tauriel bowed lightly to Fíli and Bofur, her gaze acknowledgment. "I will let you say your goodbyes." Then she headed in the direction the other Elves were gathered.

Fíli stared at him, searching. Kíli found he was not able to meet his eyes "If you came to talk me out of this, it's too late." He stood perfectly still, his jaw clenched, waiting for a confrontation as he looked around the otherwise Dwarfless campground. "Where's Thorin?"

Fíli shifted uncomfortably. "Uncle... couldn't make it." Couldn't, or didn't want to? Kíli wondered. This is what happened when he hoped his uncle could possibly want or even talk to a stupid Elf—

However, what Fíli did next surprised him.

"I know, Kee." He said. "You'd stay if you could."

Bofur stepped forward as well. "We wanted to say our goodbyes. Tell you not to forget about us in Erebor." He smiled but failed to achieve his usual merriment. "These are dark days. Dark days indeed. No one could blame a soul for wishin' themselves elsewhere. I wish you all the luck in the world. I really do."

Something inside Kíli broke at the words, at the kindness of these two friends who helped him along his journey. "I didn't want it to be like this."

He looked down at Fíli, feeling the shared love and hopelessness that bound them together. His throat suddenly felt thick. It was all about to go away. His anger from before suddenly disappeared. "Fíli, I can't do this without you."

Just as he had on the first day of his transformation, Kíli flung himself into his brother's arms, clinging to Fíli's solid form and burying his head in the crook of his neck, trying to memorize every detail while the bristles of Fíli's beard scraped against the smoothness of his cheek. He was aware of just how much larger than his brother he really was when Fíli had to reach up to pull him closer.

He whispered brokenly against Fíli's cheek, "Fee, I'm scared."

Fíli squeezed back as tight as he could. "I don't want you to leave either, nadadith. But no matter what happens, we're brothers. Gaubdúkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal, Ithânith."

Young-laughing-river. Kíli startled not at the traditional farewell, but upon hearing his inner name spoken out loud. All Dwarves had two names, an outer one and an inner one. His outer name, Kíli, was from a dialect of Men who near the Blue Mountains but his inner name, Ithânith, was a secret given to him in the language handed down to his forebears by Mahal himself. Inner names were believed to carry a hidden power, and as such were only used in formal ceremonies or on rare, special occasions. They were a closely guarded secret. It occurred to Kíli that he might not be able to speak the hidden language of the Dwarves again for a very long time or hear his inner name ever again.

"Amralizu, nadad." Kíli said, trying to savor the way Khuzdul sounded on his lips. I love you, brother. Being next in line for the throne, the true power of Fíli's inner name had to be so well hidden that even Bofur didn't know it.

At long last, he tore himself from Fíli's embrace, knowing that the longer he waited the harder he made it on himself and the more impatient the Mirkwood Elves would get from waiting. Already, in the corner of his vision, he could see a patch of them that lingered restlessly. It was time for him to go.

He tried to smile, but the muscles in his face felt stiff, wrong. "I don't want to say goodbye." His voice came out strangled.

Bofur shook his head. "Then don't think of it as goodbye. Think of it as," a moment's pause, as Bofur reached for a word, "good morning. And good night." Even to Kíli's ears, they sounded less final, for all the difference that made. "We'll see each other again, I just know it. But if you're ever in doubt of who you are or where you come from I want you to have this."

Kíli was surprised as Bofur pressed his pipe and black leather tobacco pouch into his hands. "But this is your favorite—"

"You need it more than I." Bofur insisted. "There's few things in life better than a good smoke. And besides," he added with a conspirational grin, "it just might piss off a couple of Elves."

When Kíli broke from his reverie, his fingers were no longer curled around the runestone but around Bofur's pipe, the stem of it warmed by his hand. He was caught up again in memories of the first day after his transformation. Bofur's voice echoed in his head, his words well-meaning but cutting like a sword. Thorin learned to adapt to his new life and someday, so will you.

Will I? This time, there was no denial. Still, Kíli felt a building sense of panic as they crossed over the narrow bridge that led to the Elvenking's fortress. The mist from the waterfall dampened his armor. He looked over the side and watched the swirling eddies below. How strange it was, to be coming here by his own free will! The last time he'd approached these gates, he'd been a Dwarf and a hostage.

And in some ways I still am, he told himself, since he was technically still a prisoner of Thranduil and his own body. His only choice left to restore Tauriel's honor and protect his kin was to become an Elf. He still didn't know if he could do it. Without thinking, he took a deep breath and slipped his hand into Tauriel's. Her strong, steady fingers squeezed back. It seemed impossible that he was entering Mirkwood now as one of them.

He stepped off the bridge and followed the other Elves into the fortress. Kíli tried not to flinch as the heavy stone door sealed shut behind them. It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to the low light that filtered through the dappled, cavernous passageways. The ceiling was still just as tall as he remembered. And although he couldn't see anyone yet, he could hear the low, lilting voices of Elves echoing distantly through the subterranean kingdom.

It took everything in him not to run. Maybe he could flee back to Erebor and beg Thorin's forgiveness.

No. As soon as Kíli had that thought, he steeled himself, clamping down on it with iron resolve. No matter what he now looked like, he was Durin's Folk. And Durin's never fled from a fight.

He looked to Tauriel, wondering what to do now that they were actually in the Elven kingdom, but that wasn't necessary. They were soon approached by another Elf. Kíli didn't recognize him, since so many of the kingdom's Silvan Elves looked so similar with their dark hair and dark eyes. Unlike the Dwarves, they didn't wear family beads or intricately woven braided beards that made it easy to recognize a Dwarves' status and make them stand apart. Mirkwood Elves seemed to encourage the opposite, with dark robes made of muted forest colors and long, flowy hair. The only braids Kíli had seen were fishtails, and he wasn't sure yet if they meant anything in Elvish society.

Oh well. A question ask Tauriel another time.

In the meantime, he watched as the male Elf bowed lightly to Tauriel, then dipped his head to Kíli, modestly lowering his eyes. He spoke to Tauriel first. "As soon as you put your weapons away, the king commands your presence in the throne room." Then he addressed Kíli. "Well met. I am Meludir, son of Tawar. May a star shine upon the hour of our meeting."

Kíli bowed like his mother and uncle had taught him and gave the standard Dwarvish greeting in response. "Kíli son of Dis, at your service."

Meludir looked surprised. "I have never heard that one before. Lord Thranduil instructed me to show you to your room. If you could come this way, please."

The former Dwarf cast a glance at Tauriel and hesitated. Her face had gone drawn and white. A flare of concern shot through him. "Will you be fine?"

Tauriel nodded, her expression composed. "Yes, I will be fine. Follow Meludir, Kíli. I will meet up with you when I can. It is best for me not to keep Lord Thranduil waiting."

"Alright," said Kíli, reluctantly. He turned back to Elvish sentry, who by his fresh face and the lack of armor over his robes must not have been present during the battle. "If you're sure. By all means, lead the way."

He followed his guide deeper into the kingdom, past the cavernous, high-pillared rooms flooded golden with sunlight and over a bridge that crept across a deep ravine meters below. Some of the pillars were reinforced at the top with iron bars in a way that was like yet unlike the architecture he'd saw in the Goblin Tunnels. Yet everything the Mirkwood Elves made was far more elegant and teemed with life. Swallows filled the top beams with cup-shaped nests. In the distance, Kíli could hear the dull roar of a waterfall.

Then Melduir led him lower still, where the light grew dimmer as the paths became more winding. The sleekness of the upper chambers gave way to hewed stone and the sound of rushing water grew louder. Kíli stared up at a rocky outcropping and realized they were close to the dungeons and that fateful spot where he first spoke to Tauriel. Where I'll be staying. Kíli tensed up, remembering how Thranduil had a tricky way with words. Was the Elvenking really going to have him thrown in the dungeons?

I can't do that again, Kíli decided, if he tries to put me in there I'll escape. Silently, he sized up Meludir.

However, as they turned past the dungeon and kept walking down a separate trail, Kíli visibly sagged in relief. He forced himself to pay attention to Meludir's steady stream of one-sided babble.

The next comment though caught him by surprise.

"Word about you has spread faster than a forest fire." Meludir said." Is it true that you were really a naug?" However, his tone held no hostility. Kíli had heard that word enough times by now to know what it meant.

"I'm still a Dwarf," Kíli argued. "It's just my outside that looks like this."

Kíli never thought he could see an Elf look more stunned. Meludir's eyes looked about ready to pop out of his head as he turned to look at Kíli with shock and awe. "My commander thought it wasn't literal. He thought you'd been born like us and then adopted by Dwarves." Before Kíli could even answer that misinformation, Meludir moved on. "So what was it like, being a Dwarf?"

You have no idea. Already, Kíli felt a pang of longing. He cleared his throat. "Well, for starters, everything was taller. But it's hard to describe when you've only been one way your whole life." The lighter note died away, and Kíli was left remembering the events that pulled him from Erebor in the first place. Fíli, I miss you. I miss Mum. I miss Ered Luin. It was... everything I had ever known. Everything I want to be again."

He looked away, embarrassed that he was sharing so much with an Elf. But Meludir was so easy to talk to, and Kíli wondered if in another life they could've been friends. He wasn't snooty like so many of the other Elves. Like Thranduil. Like Legolas. Maybe it was just the Sindarin Elves who were bad. They would never replace Fíli and his real people back in Erebor, but he would get along with the others more if they were like Meludir and Tauriel.

By the time the roar of the water had faded away, they had moved on to myths and rumors. The first few, Kíli was used to. He had heard them before from Men with whom the Dwarves of Ered Luin used to trade.

"Is it true that Dwarves are made from stone?" Meludir asked.

Kíli shook his head. "No. I had a mother and father, just like everyone else."

"Are they really born with beards?"

For a fleeting moment, Kíli felt guilty about handing out information to Elves, but then he figured that harmless details like this couldn't hurt. It was nothing outsiders had never heard before. Besides, the growling voice warning him not to trust Elves sounded a lot like Thorin.

Almost violently, Kíli pushed it away. "Some are, but not most. Most start to grow them when they're a couple of years old."

"Do they eat gold?"

The last one really surprised him. Kíli stopped full in his tracks. "What? No!" He shook his head again, grinning in disbelief. "You're curious for an Elf."

"I'm young." Meludir gave a shrug that was surprisingly un-Elflike. "And you're strange for a Dwarf?"

"I used to know nothing about Elves," Kíli admitted. The first time I fell asleep my brother thought I was dying. He wanted it to be a funny story, but all he felt was a tightness in his throat and the pinprick of tears. Stubbornly, he forced them down. He no longer felt like sharing.

He was relieved when he and Meludir reached the room where Kíli would be staying.

"These are the guard quarters," the Mirkwood Elf explained, "Tauriel's been demoted, but she'll be staying in her old room down the hall not far from yours." He gestured sharply over his shoulder but it was hard to tell exactly where he was pointing. "I don't know if you'll be staying here but this is where our king directed me to escort you. Brandir used to live here, but he left half a yén ago when his daughter was born. It was a shame. I liked Brandir. Here we are!"

He stopped in the middle of the winding corridor. The door creaked on its hinges as Meludir opened it, unlocked—or, as Kíli belatedly realized, without a lock at all.

Like all the rooms in the Mirkwood palace, it was carved into the shape of the stone, leaving a wall that was flat on one side but rugged and curved on the other. Two lanterns flickered from the jutting wall, casting the room in warm, yellow light. A bed was nestled against the flat side of the wall, a small, circular table beside it. It reminded the former Dwarf a little of Erebor, but more rustic and without the bold, grandiose nature of his mountain home. Aside from the yellow of the flames, there was no hint of gold or precious metal in sight. Delicate pillars were sculpted into each corner of the room, and a large, twisted root snaked down from the ceiling and curled into one of the corners. Kíli didn't know if it was a design flaw or on purpose. Elves were weird.

However, Kíli froze when he saw what was hidden in the far corner of the room, tucked beside the sprawling root.

A wardrobe, of which the front panels were made of mirror.

And in that mirror, two Elves. Suddenly, it became very hard to breathe.

Meludir looked at him hesitantly. "This room was prepared for you ahead of time," he said, misreading the former Dwarf's staggered expression as he stood there, staring at it. "You can always redecorate if that is your wish-"

Before Kíli knew what he was doing, he tore the sheet off the bed and threw it over the wardrobe, crossing the room in the blink of an eye. He did his best to avert his gaze. Still, it was hard to mistake the large, Elvish-shaped blur he saw out of the corner of his eyes. His body burned, either from embarrassment or self-hatred, he couldn't say.

Slowly, Kíli came back to himself. His heart beat very hard and fast like he'd just won a great battle. Meludir was watching him from the doorway, stunned. An awkward silence enveloped the room.

Meludir said something in Sindarin before abruptly switching back to Westron. He fidgeted slightly. "Right, I will let the king know you are settled in. As I was saying, you can decorate however you would like. Just a word of caution- don't steal anything from the king's wine cellar." He gave Kíli one last, backward glance, inclining his head and putting his hand over his heart in a standard Elvish gesture for goodbye. "Tauriel should come looking for you shortly. Until we meet again, Kíli Naugonnen."

Kíli, his eyes still fixed on the mirror in the corner, did not reply.

Chapter Text

That night, the Elves of Mirkwood threw a feast.

Kíli waited in the dining hall, seated at one of the long wooden tables. He halfheartedly picked at the appetizer, some light, fluffy bread made with honey and cornmeal, but was too distracted by his thoughts of Tauriel to eat very much. What was taking her so long? Shouldn't she be here by now? He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable in this crowded hall filled with Elves and his heart ached for Fíli and Erebor.

At last, he felt a bright pang of happiness and relief when he saw her bright, coppery hair. He waved his arm at her until she spotted where he was seated but his happiness didn't last long. As soon as he saw saw her gaze, he immediately knew that something was wrong.

Her posture as she sat down was tight as she sat down, too tight, her spine as taut as a bow. And like a bow, Kíli wondered if Tauriel might snap.

"What did Thranduil want?" He demanded, concerned.

"He wants me to swear my oaths again, before all of the kingdom. I told him no. I may no longer be a Captain of the Guard, but he will not humiliate me. In risking my life and coming back here I have already proved my loyalty. He can ask for nothing more."

An oath of loyalty? Kíli looked at her in surprise. Would he be expected to swear one of those as well? He had promised Thranduil he would do whatever the Elvenking wanted, but to swear it in front of the whole Elven kingdom seemed like another thing entirely. He grew anxious at the thought."You did the right thing, Amrâlime," Kíli assured her. "You shouldn't give up without a fight."

Tauriel glanced at him gratefully.

"And now, for the main course!" A wiry Elf announced, three more Elves behind him carrying something big on a silver platter. Kíli's stomach growled eagerly as he caught a whiff of something strange but savory. What could it be? He remembered the Elves back in Rivendell ate little but bread and leaves, but the Mirkwood Elves seemed to be a different sort. And besides, the platter was bigger and heavier than anything else he'd ever seen at the dinner table, even that of the roast boars prepared in Ered Luin. He leaned forward eagerly.

The Elven cook whisked off the lid, and underneath it was—

A spider?!

Kíli's stomach turned itself inside out as eight milky eyeballs stared back at him. It was undeniably a spider, just like the big, hairy ones that attacked him when he and the Company first stumbled into Mirkwood. The hair had been singed off and the fangs removed, but now the odd, meaty smell only made him nauseous. Of course the Mirkwood Elves were the kind of Elves that ate spiders.

And he thought Rivendell was bad. Mahal, Kíli found himself actually longing for a salad. Or a roast quail. Or anything else that didn't have eight legs and stared right back at him, actually.

He watched, no longer in the mood to eat as great heaping clumps of the spider were spooned out and passed out on wooden plates. Part of a forelimb and a great gooey glob of something from the spider's middle ended up on his plate, some mint leaves and wild berries arranged tastefully on the side. Kíli unenthusiastically poked at the gooey clump a little before starting on his berries.

Tauriel meanwhile, was tearing up her spider with relish, breaking the legs open with a sharp-edged cutting tool and daintily picking out the insides. Kíli bit into a mint leaf. He made a face. Ugh! Nope, still not a fan of green foods.

The Silvan elleth looked over at him with a raised eyebrow as he spat the mint leaf back into his hand. "You haven't touched your spider."

"I'm not hungry," Kíli lied, staring down at his meal.

Tauriel was not one to be deterred. "It's very good. Try one. The legs are my favorite."

"Here. You can have mine then," Kíli said, and pushed his plate toward her. Tauriel's eyes lit up like he'd just offered her a handful of sweets. The former Dwarf watched in morbid fascination as she broke open the second leg and made quick work of it as well, digging her fork with surprising dexterity. "I can't believe you eat this stuff."

Tauriel dabbed her mouth off on a napkin with a delicacy that belied what she'd just been eating. "You should eat, Kíli, or you'll go hungry. The spiders were long in this forest before we learned how to make a meal out of them. Their venom can be fatal. But they are not so bad, now that we've learned to boil them to expel the poison. There isn't much food here in Mirkwood. Ever since the darkness fell there hasn't been much wild game, but we make the most of it. And I for one enjoy the taste of freshly-caught spider."

Kíli poked the spider innards again, slumping down and sighing when they jiggled.

"So no quail, then?" He asked hopelessly. Tauriel shook her head.

"Sometimes," she said, as Kíli continued to glare at the mound of food on his plate, "but not tonight."

"Tauriel, a word?" Both of them turned to see Legolas behind them.

Tauriel glanced at Kíli then back at the Mirkwood prince. "Yes. Of course. I will be right back, meleth nin," she promised Kíli, oblivious to the dirty Legolas threw over her shoulder. Kíli glared right back at him as he watched them leave.

He was just about to scoop up his mound of spider guts and see how far he could lob them onto someone else's plate before getting caught when he felt a hand tap his shoulder. Kíli turned around. It was a strange, unfriendly-looking Elf he'd never seen before. He offered Kíli a dark stone chalice. "Some nen, naug?"

Kíli glanced over in the direction of where Tauriel and Legolas stood. They looked deep in conversation at the end of the hall. He was going to need a lot of alcohol to survive this night. Kíli didn't know what nen was, but he accepted the chalice anyway. "Sure." He said, giving the dark, murky contents a suspicious sniff. It didn't exactly smell like alcohol, but Kíli wasn't in the mood to be picky. He downed it all in one gulp. "Thanks."

A few minutes later, Tauriel returned and sat back down beside him. The room started to spin.

"By my beard," Kili groaned, slumping down on the table and burying his face in his hands. Forget the room—his whole head was spinning. With difficulty, Kíli staggered to his feet. He was cold and clammy and needed to throw up.

"My love, you don't have a beard." One glance at Kíli, and Tauriel immediately knew that something was wrong. His face was pale, too pale, and his skin was clammy from sweating as if he’d just run a mile. "Here, sit down." She guided him back to his seat. Her eyes fell on the empty chalice. "What's this?" She asked, picking it up off the table. "What did you drink?"

Kíli eyed her groggily. "What?"

"In here. This chalice. What did you drink?"

Tauriel gave the vial a sniff. Water from the Enchanted River! She realized with a jolt. She'd recognize that stagnant, loamy scent from anywhere. But where would Kíli have gotten water from the Enchanted River from, and why would he have drank it?

Maybe he doesn't know. Tauriel thought. A darker thought occurred to her as well, although she loathed to say it. "Kíli, you aren't well. Who gave this to you?"

"He did." Kíli groaned, and sank back down. "My head..."

Tauriel looked over to where Kíli was pointing. Agalos! He was a member of the Guard, well known for his loud vehemence towards Dwarves. Both of his parents had been ambassadors to the Lonely Mountain and had died in the dragon-fire. I should have known. But for him to do this to another Elf—

Mirkwood Elves were impervious to many enchantments of the forest, but the Enchanted River wasn't one of them. While they were less affected by the foul water than other races, the consequences could still be severe. Tauriel had fallen in the water when she was a young Elfling, or at least that's what she'd been told. Her memories from that time were foggy—she couldn't even remember falling in the river—though she remembered the dark dreams that haunted her for months afterward.

Nightmares though were the least of it; victims of the Enchanted River often lost parts of their memories. She couldn't let something like that happen to Kíli.

Ai Valar. He has already lost his home once, the last thing he needs is to forget and re-remember it all over again. Tauriel thought with a bolt of terror. And depending on how much he'd drank, Kíli's amnesia might go further back still. What if he forgot about her, or the fact he'd even been turned into an Elf in the first place? Tauriel did not want to be the one to break the news to him again. And worst of all- what if his memories never came back?

No. That won't happen. Tauriel thought. Her fear propelled her into anger as she marched up to Agalos. He currently laughing over a joke with another Elf. His laughter faded the instant Tauriel approached, brandishing the chalice.

"How could you do this?" She demanded. It took everything in her not to throw the cup in his smug face.

"Do what?" Agalos asked, struggling not to sneer. 

"You know what," Tauriel snapped. "This. You poisoned him." Angrily, she shoved the chalice into his chest. "You did this." Tauriel's whole body felt so hot she was nearly seeing red. "You took advantage of his trust and you poisoned him. You poisoned another Elf—"

Agalos scoffed. "I offered him a chalice. It's not my fault the naug was dumb enough to drink it. I guess even your magic couldn't cure the stupidity of a Dwarf—" His blond-haired companion laughed, and Tauriel realized he was in on the joke as well. She grit her teeth, and imagined drawing a knife from one of the hidden compartments of her clothes.

"You foul, loathsome son of an Orc—"

A loud crash from behind Tauriel distracted her before the situation could escalate any further. Kíli had staggered away from the table and was looking at her with wide eyes.

"Tauriel... What's happening? Where'm I?" He swayed on his feet, words slurring together as if drunk. Tauriel had to fight down a bolt of panic.

She was by his side in a heartbeat. She shot Agalos a venomous look, feeling helpless in her rage. She couldn't go after the traitor while she was still taking care of Kíli. Already, the clock was ticking.

“We’re not finished,” She promised before turning back to Kíli. She forced her voice to remain calm for the sake of the dark-haired Elf. “You're here. With me. Everything's going to be alright. "Come, help me! "She looked around the room for someone, anyone who would be willing to help her, but nobody moved. Meludir—the young Elf who'd guided him to his room and seemed to harbor a certain fondness for Kíli—was on patrol. Legolas was already gone.

"I'm so tired," Kíli yawned. "Can't I just go to sleep?"

He started to slump over, but Tauriel jerked him back upright with her considerable strength. "Kíli, listen to me. You can't go to sleep. That water has an enchantment on it. If you go to sleep now you might lose some of your memories before you wake up."

Kíli yawned again. "I'm trying— to stay awake. Bombur... Bombur almost fell in the Enchanted River... I remember now. On our journey..."

Stay with me Kíli! She begged as they stumbled towards the Halls of Healing. Just a little bit further!

"So tired... Where—Where's Fíli?"

"Kíli. Fíli's back at Erebor." Tauriel felt a cold jolt of dread. He doesn't remember. "You reclaimed Erebor, remember? Now you're back here with me. We're in Mirkwood."

Kíli looked like he was still trying to figure something out. "But the barrels... Fee. We gotta escape... I love you, Tauriel, but I can't say..."

He doesn't remember! Tauriel thought with alarm. The water from the river was working. How long was it until Kíli lost all his memories? I can't let him go to sleep. This was not the end. This was not how she was going to lose Kíli. After all they'd been through- fire and dragons and goldsickness and battle- she refused to give up on him so easily."Kíli, stay with me. You have to stay awake."

"Tauriel, you're beau'iful, but I... I gotta find Fee..."

"Why do you need to find your brother?" Tauriel prompted gently. Keep him talking. He needs to stay awake.

"We're gonna climb in the barrels. Gotta... gotta go find Erebor. An' Uncle Thor'n."

"Erebor can wait." Tauriel said. "Right now we have to get you well."

"But Tauriel, I'm so tired. Where... Where's Fee?" He yawned.

"Your brother's down in the dungeons where we left him," Tauriel replied, playing along. Kíli wasn't asleep yet, so she prayed this bout of amnesia so far wasn't permanent. Kíli, I can't lose you. She was lucky that so far he hadn't noticed his Mirkwood armor, or the jarring fact that he was now unmistakeably an Elf. But she needed to distract him from it as long as possible. "You thought you could escape me, Dwarf?"

"I like you, Tauriel..."

It felt like a millennia had passed by the time they reached the Halls of Healing. Hithrim was on duty tonight. Tauriel felt a pang of relief at the sight of the Silvan healer. Hithrim was a kind, experienced healer, well known for her bedside manner and steady hands. She'd worked the Halls as long as Tauriel had known her. Her Avari rather than Nandor heritage meant that she was as dark as Tauriel was fair.

She stopped focusing on the poultice she was grinding as Tauriel pushed open the door, and half-dragged, half-carried Kíli in. Hithrim was on her feet in an instant, getting on the other side of Tauriel to help guide the young Elf into the apothecary.

"Here, help me get him onto this table. What happened to him?" Hithrim's mind was already casting for possible explanations as soon as she asked the question. Shock? An allergic reaction? He looked so pale. Tauriel hardly looked any better.

"Water from the Enchanted River." She said tersely."Agalos poisoned him."

This gave Hithrim a pause for concern. An Elf accidentally falling in the Enchanted River wasn't usually a cause for concern, it happened all too often among children and young recruits who got too close to the water's edge by accident. Hithrim kept vials of medicine on hand that counteracted the effects of that foul enchantment for that very purpose. It was uncommon for any of those patients to be a full-grown Elf. It was even more uncommon for that said Elf to drink the water unknowingly. And she’d never heard of an Elf poisoning another with the water, no matter deep their rivalry ran. Hithrim shook her head in disgust. Right now though, however this ellon got here was none of her concern. She could only focus on saving him.

They hauled him onto the table as he let out a low groan.

"Will he be alright?" Tauriel asked. She was unusually anxious for an elleth who used to be the Captain of the Guard. Hithrim bent over to inspect him.

"His pupils aren't dilated yet, which is a good sign. If we act now, we should be able to save his memories. I prepared an elixir. It will cause him to throw up the remaining poison. I will need you to hold him down. Can you do that for me?"

Tauriel nodded, and Hithrim went to fetch the vial from a cabinet and a wooden bucket. When she returned, Tauriel sat propping the ellon up by the shoulders, her face set in a grim, determined line. She cares for him, Hithrim realized. This isn't just one of her soldiers.

"Tauriel." The Elf hiccuped. He looked around wildly. The delirium had taken full hold. "What about the barrels?"

"The barrels?" Tauriel asked.

"Aye... The barrels. Fee and I are gonna escape. You're very pretty Tauriel, but I can't stay. Gotta find Uncle Thor’n and Bil-bo."

Hithrim came closer, and nodded encouragingly to Tauriel, holding up the vial. The Silvan elleth quickly understood. "Kíli. We need you to drink this medicine."

"Don't want to." The Elf—Kíli, Hithrim realized his name was—pouted before wincing suddenly. "Leg. Hurts. Don't want to be an Elf..."

"Here, this medicine will help your leg," Hithrim said, willing to humor whatever delusion Kíli was under. It must've been pretty bad if he didn't even want to be an Elf. To her relief, Kíli drank the clear-looking fluid in the vial gratefully. He turned green in the face immediately.

Tauriel held his hair back while Hithrim held the bucket steady. Kíli retched, then vomited into the bucket. Hithrim didn't look inside, but she could smell the foul stench of the enchanted water. Tauriel still looked pale, but she murmured steady encouragements in Kíli's ear as he trembled from the combined effects of the water and the emetic. At last, Kíli's vomiting turned to dry heaving, and his dry heaving turned into a tired, even rasp as he gasped for air. Tauriel stroked his hair. She no longer looked shocked, but Hithrim realized from the set of her jaw that the fright and fury the elleth felt had yet to wear off. Tauriel’s father had the same look about him when he brought her in all those years ago. 

"Kíli, can you hear me?"

Kíli didn't respond, and Hithrim gently took him from her grasp and eased him to a more comfortable position lying down. "He should be fine, but don't be surprised if you don't get an answer. He's exhausted. I'm sure Lord Thranduil will punish whoever did this. In the meantime though, has anyone told his family?"

Tauriel shook her head, her voice breaking. "He doesn't have any family. They—they're back in Erebor. I shouldn't have left him alone with Agalos. Kíli didn't know any better. This is my fault. The Dwarves—"

"So this is the Dwarf-born," Hithrim mused softly. Suddenly, the unexpected poisoning made sense. "There is little love between his kind and ours. I heard rumors that Lord Thranduil had returned with him from the battle." Unable to help herself, she brushed a tangled strand of brown hair back to reveal a delicate, pointed ear. Her breath caught in her throat. Even with the rumors, Hithrim hadn't expected the naugonnen to look so much like them. The young ellon looked strong and fully Silvan, a pale Nandor like Tauriel. "His path here will not be easy," she warned, "If this is his first night of welcome in Mirkwood."

Tauriel's hands curled into fists. "I know. Kíli doesn't deserve this. I don't care what happens me, but I won't let Agalos get away with this—"

"Stay." Hithrim cut her off. "Don't let him banish you so easily. Then you'll be of no use to any of us or to Kíli. What my patient needs right now is rest, not vengeance. I have others I need to attend to. Can I trust you to stay here and give it to him?"

Tauriel looked down, the shame of failing to save him burning tightly in her throat. Kíli was sleeping peacefully now, but Tauriel knew from her own experience with the Enchanted River water that that peace wouldn't last. The worst of the lingering effects of the enchanted water were nightmares; and once again Tauriel shuddered, remembering the visions of snakes and spiders that had haunted her dreams as a little girl. She didn't want Kíli to face his nightmares all alone.

"Yes," she promised, looking down at her beloved's sleeping face. He looked so tired, so vulnerable. It made her want to hunt down Agalos all over again, but something warm and protective surged in her chest. "I will stay. I'm right here, meleth nin," she said to Kíli, hoping her voice could break through to him in the dark realm where he lay. "I've got you. I promise I'll keep you safe."

With that, Tauriel settled in for a long night. She only prayed that her actions and Hithrim's medicine had been enough.

Chapter Text

The official story was that Kíli had been lost in the crossing of the Misty Mountains. More specifically, he'd been lost during the battle between the two Stone Giants. Fíli remembered the pouring rain, the thunder, the way the stone gave out beneath their feet and the panic he'd felt that night at nearly losing his little brother. If one more stranger came up to him and offered their condolences, Fíli thought he might scream.

Kíli wasn't dead, not officially. Balin had advised they leave the story of Kíli's disappearance open-ended so that if Kíli ever were to return to Erebor as himself one day his sudden re-appearance would be believable and accepted (no one would respect a prince they believed had run off, or even worse, was transformed into an Elf). Thorin had refused to put up any sort of memorial to the youngest member of the Company marking his death. So in the meantime, Fíli had to constantly relive and repeat the story. The ledge that he and Kíli had been standing on had cracked and split apart. Fíli had reached for his younger brother, but by then it was too late. Kíli and the rock he was standing plunged into darkness

Fíli stood on the eastern parapets of the Erebor, the side facing Mirkwood, and gazed longingly toward the dark, tangled forest in the distance. It was a habit he'd gotten into lately, ever since Kíli left. He never thought he'd be standing here in Erebor without the easy grin and the playful laugh of his little brother. Kíli's absence felt like a constant ache, a missing limb, and Fíli wasn't the only one who noticed.

Thorin became gruffer whenever Fíli brought up Kíli. ("Your brother makes his own choices. I will take no part in it." The Dwarf king said, his voice rough with pain, a thunderous scowl settling on his face. Then he turned away and refused to speak of Kíli again). However, Fíli was wise enough now to know that Kíli's absence hurt him almost as much as it did Fíli.

Pulling his gaze away from Mirkwood, Fíli looked down to see Dwarves streaming in through the gates Erebor. Many of them were dressed in an unfamiliar fashion or had unfamiliar braids in their hair. Fíli himself though was dressed in finery, a deep Durin blue, with a rich velvety texture of clothes he'd never worn in their old home. The Lonely Mountain was a home once again, with Dwarven families from Iron Hills and settlements even further away beginning to make the pilgrimage to resettle their ancestral land. Some of them, such as the Dwarves of Ered Luin, would have to cross through Mirkwood. Fíli wondered if Kíli would get the chance to see their kin.

As miserable as he was, the rapidly growing ranks of Erebor kept him busy day in and day out. Fíli was a prince now, and that meant he had even more responsibilities than he'd ever had before. He sat in Thorin's council meetings, helped negotiate with the Men of Laketown for the price of grain, met with Dwarven nobles, and brought warm blankets for the weary travelers. Word of Fíli's great renown in battle—the Battle of Five Armies, as some were beginning to call it—spread quickly. When the reverent murmurs of "Fíli Lionheart" got to be too much, Fíli crept up to the parapets to escape.

The solitude felt nice. From here he had a bird's-eye view. Dark ravens flew to their nests in the craggy walls and in the highest currents, letting out their customary aw-aw-aw. He admired them from a distance, but was happy to leave them alone. He had yet to meet one that was capable of the speech of Men and Dwarves.

Down below, he could see not only Erebor's gates but the barren plain. There was the measly rowan where Kíli and Tauriel held target practice. Close by it was that grassy knoll where the Elf and the Dwelf looked up at the stars, and where Fíli had fallen asleep beside his brother and learned of Elven-sleep that first night in Erebor. Fíli could see echoes of his brother everywhere.

Suddenly, Fíli realized he was not alone.

Ori stood a few yards away, deep in thought with his sketchbook in hand. When Fíli came closer, he looked up.

"Fíli!" he sheepishly exclaimed. "I didn't see you there. Sorry to startle you."

Fíli plastered a smile on his face as he came closer to the young Dwarf. "It's alright, Ori. What're you doing here?"

Ori proudly showed him his sketchbook. "I'm drawing out the areas damaged by Smaug. I was asked by one of the chief architects and goldsmiths to help draw out some of the plans to rebuild Erebor."

"Those are really good," said Fíli, honestly surprised. He knew Ori was a good artist, but he hadn't realized how good. The drawings in Ori's sketchbook were black-and-white sketches shaded in charcoal, but Ori's shading and careful attention to detail lent a certain realness to them. Fíli had never seen such straight lines drawn by hand before. The final result was surprisingly lifelike.

Fíli remembered the times he'd nearly caught Ori trying to draw a newly-transformed Kíli in his sketchbook. The scribe was very secretive about his work, and never let him or Kíli see. It was probably for the best, Fíli reflected, knowing how sensitive Kíli was about his appearance. He probably wouldn't have taken another reminder of his transformed state very well. However, now that Kíli wasn't here, Fíli burned with curiosity to see how well Ori had captured his brother's likeness.

He meant to ask, but instead, all that came out was, "I miss Kíli." His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

"At least your brother's alive," Ori point out. Fíli immediately felt guilty, remembering Dori buried in the heart of the mountain. He still couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a brother like that. Ever since the burial ceremony, Nori had become withdrawn, and Fíli knew that Ori worried that Nori would fall back into his old ways of being a thief. He'd already gotten in trouble once with the Laketown guard, even with his share of the treasure. Fíli supposed it wasn't really about the coin. They all had their own coping methods, some less healthy than others.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "True," Fíli agreed, “but I still feel like I lost him for good."

In a way, Fíli still had lost his brother. What if Kíli did come back one day, a hundred years later but fully changed? Cool, impersonal, Elf. No. Not Kíli, Fíli's mind urged. Not his little brother. He told me his body might have changed, but his mind is still fully Dwarf. He told me so. Kíli was too full of fire and mischief to ever be anything but Dwarf, or maybe as he put it, a Dwelf.

But did he not tell you that he dreams of song and starlight too? A bitter part of Fíli's mind asked. Fíli choked down a painful lump in his throat. From what he'd seen of Thorin and Kíli, the mind was just as influenced by the body as it was free will. Kíli was subject to the instincts of an Elf. But Fíli meant what he said; he loved Kíli, no matter what. Whether or not Kíli loved starlight or longed to sleep outside didn't matter. No, what scared Fíli the most was the way Kíli left Erebor. When he first looked at Uncle, his expression had been beseeching, scared, miserable. Still Kíli. His nadadith had always been as easy to read as an open book. But then Thorin asked him if he wanted to remain in Erebor, and Kíli's expression had closed. He looked distant, inscrutable, unreachable—a look Fíli had never seen on Kíli before. It was like Kíli had given up and was ready to accept his fate in Mirkwood.

That facade had quickly fallen away a while later when Bofur and Fíli came to say goodbye, but for a fleeting moment Fíli hadn't recognized his little brother. Even worse, would Kíli ever look at him one day that way he'd looked at Thorin?

The thought made him shudder. We've got to find a way to turn him back, Fíli thought, with a vehemence for once that matched Thorin's own. I can't lose my brother.

He was broken from his thoughts by a series of deep, hoarse cries. He and Ori looked up in surprise, to where the Ravens were flocking around a broken gap in the battlements above them.

"What's that?" Ori asked worriedly.

"I don't know," said Fíli. He touched one of the knives he kept hidden up his sleeve, but doubted he would need to use it. If there was actually any danger in the Mountains, he thought that the Ravens would've gone to get help rather than fluttered around, squawking amongst themselves."But let's go find out." There was a winding series of stairs that would lead them directly to the highest level of the battlements.

Before he went, Fíli cast one last, longing glance in the direction of Mirkwood. It was hard to imagine what Kíli was doing right now. Was he safe, was he happy with Tauriel? Or was he completely miserable, maybe locked in a dungeon somewhere? Fíli shook his head as he watched the setting sun, vibrant pink rays bleeding across the dull gray horizon. He shook his head before following after Ori. Wherever Kíli was and whatever he was doing, Fíli hoped his brother was doing better than how he was doing here.

Kíli bolted through the forest, the icy wind whipping past him as he ran. He slowed only for a moment as he caught sight of Ravenhill, a distant shadow looking beyond the trees. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled warily, but it was no matter. Memories of Ravenhill couldn't bother him anymore. He had the fastest legs. He had the strongest teeth!

He loped deeper into the forest leaving the Dwarven watchtower behind. Kíli bit back the urge to howl. It wasn't safe. Not yet. He had to be quiet, at least until he answered the call to go North. Kíli looked down at his front legs as he ran , unsurprised to find them coated with white fur. They were no longer the feet of an Elf or a Dwarf, but the sturdy, blunt-toed claws of a wolf. The thin layer of icy snow stung at the pads on the bottom of his feet, but Kíli hardly noticed.

Something rustled in the undergrowth. Kíli felt the urge to chase it. A heartbeat later and he gave into the instinct, snarling terrible promises to his frightened quarry. Kíli dove for his prize, but the squirrel darted into a thicket of bramble bushes. Kíli stopped short, drooling with hunger. A crackle in the trees above him alerted Kíli to the fact he was no longer alone. The former Dwarf looked up into the treetop without fear.

Half-hidden in the gloom crouched a giant Mirkwood Spider. It regarded him with a low hiss. Kíli answered with a rattling growl. The giant spider was terrible and fierce, but Kíli was more fierce and terrible still.

It sprung down at him, Kíli leaping up meet it in midair. It wanted to make him dinner, but Kíli had other plans. The spider writhed and hissed, mandibles clacking inches from his face, but Kíli bowled it over and pinned it to the ground with one of his strong forelimbs. The spider thought wrong- it was going to be dinner instead. The thought made his mouth water even more. Kíli drew back his lips drew back to reveal the wet, jagged teeth within his slavering maw. One bite was all it would take to finish his foe off—

Kíli woke from his dream suddenly, blinking open his bleary eyes. Wait, open? That wasn't right. Even though Kíli had slept like that for seventy-eight years of his life, it already felt strange to be jolted from something other than Elvensleep. Uncomprehending, he looked up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the broad, simple expanse adorned with a surprisingly intricate patterns of twisting roots, and warm yellow firelight that flickered and danced across the walls. It took him a moment to realize he was still in Mirkwood. Tauriel sat beside him.

"Tauriel..." His throat felt dry.

The beautiful she-Elf turned towards him, her expression both relieved and worried. The light of the fire cast her face in soft shadows and a gentle golden glow. "I'm here, meleth nin. Do you remember where you are?"

"Mirkwood," Kili said sluggishly. Where in Mirkwood though, Kíli wasn't sure. The palace was a sprawling, underground maze that could put some of the mines in Ered Luin to shame.

"There was a feast and...I don't remember." Despite not knowing where he was, Kíli felt comfortably warm and cozy. He was wrapped in a thick blanket and no longer wearing his eyes flickered around unfamiliar room, breathing in the strange, sharp smell of herbs and poultices. Feeling more alert, Kíli struggled to get up, groaning with effort before letting his head sink back down into the pillow. He took in the sights all around him, and realized there were more beds in the unfamiliar room lined up with his. Across from him was a table with a neatly coiled roll of bandages. Ah. This is some kind of healer's ward, he realized. He cast Tauriel knowingsideways glance. "We need to stop meeting up like this."

"Agreed." In spite of herself, Tauriel gave soft, wry smile. At least Kíli had kept his sense of humor. And his memories. But when she remembered who had done this to him, her anger burned anew. "How do you feel? You looked like you were having a bad dream."

"I feel fine. Just really tired." Kíli closed his eyes with a sigh. "I dreamed I was about to eat one of those awful spiders."

Tauriel couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Either our food is really terrible, or you are very brave if that is the dream you have after drinking water from the Enchanted River." Abruptly her amusement faded, her eyes shadowed by memory. "The water plays with the mind, and oftentimes conjures dreams of the things the drinker fears."

"I didn't feel afraid," Kíli mumbled, wrinkling his nose. "Just strange."

He was startled by the vividness of his dream, and jarred by the fact his subconsciousness was still apparently thinking about eating spiders. It was odd that he dreamt he was a wolf rather than himself but for now, Kíli would take being a wolf over an Elf in his dreams any day. And not that he would ever admit it to Tauriel, but Kíli was afraid of the giant spiders, ever since they attacked him in Mirkwood. The lack of fear he'd felt in his dream had been nice. With effort, Kili gathered his scattered thoughts together.

"What happened?" He asked at last.

"An Elf named Agalos approached you at the feast. He gave you some water poisoned the Enchanted River. You are fortunate you still have all of your memories."

Kíli looked at her with astonishment. "I thought all those problems would end when I got to Mirkwood. After all—" he broke off sharply, looking down at himself.

"You're a mere Silvan Elf now," Tauriel said as levelly as she could, trying to keep the guilt out of her voice. Kíli was just as proud and stubborn now as he was when he was a Dwarf; he wouldn't want her pity. "You no longer have the high status afforded to you by your brother and your uncle, but word has spread of who you were. Are. There are many in this kingdom who don't like Dwarves, and I fear there are many in Mirkwood now who like me even less."

Because of me, Kíli thought. Because you left your prince to save a Dwarf.

The dark-haired Elf didn't believe that anyone could've poisoned him because of Tauriel. Even if Tauriel had left Mirkwood, surely her people could see that Tauriel was loyal, kind, and brave with a willing heart—

It was him. He was the one that was wrong. Kíli had seen firsthand how the Mirkwood Elves looked down their noses at Dwarves; coming to Mirkwood had been terrible idea. Fíli! Kíli wanted to wail like a lost Dwarfling. I made a mistake. He'd came to Mirkwood unable to bear the pitying, humiliating gazes of his kin and to play hero to Tauriel. Now he was nothing but a dirty, rotten traitor.

Elf, tree-shagger, sprite, a shame to the Line of Durin— Kíli railed harshly at himself. He hardly deserved to be called a Dwarf at all.

Fíli, Kíli quietly mourned. Despite his shame, all the dark-haired Elf could think about in that moment was his brother. Ever since the beginning of his nightmarish transformation Fíli had loved him, accepted him, pointy ears and all. There was no doubt in his mind that Fíli would've stayed by his side if Kíli had chosen to remain in Erebor as well. Tauriel loved him too, but it was complicated. She'd never understand how hard it was for him to be torn away from his kin, trapped among all of these Elves— With every breath of the dark forest air Kíli felt like his mind was changing. How much longer until he was truly one of them?

Tauriel must've misread his apprehension, or else was lost in her own world. Her hand wrapped around his, but she stared into middle distance. "I was born and raised in this forest, but there are things about me, Kíli, that you don't know. Reasons why Legolas—" She began, but was cut off by a healer coming back into the room. Kíli startled abruptly as well, and forced his train of thoughts and fears of becoming an Elf back down.

"How are you feeling?" She asked, setting down some herbs she'd been carrying.

"Fine," Kili said, and cleared his throat. "How long was I out?"

"Just a couple of hours," the elleth said. Like with most Elves, Kili found it hard to tell what she was thinking. Her keen gray eyes were sharp, and there was a steady focus about her that suggested stillness until it was broken up by her short, efficient strides and her bobbing curtain of long black hair. She fixed the stillness of her gaze on him now."I'm going to need to ask you a few questions. What's your name?"

"Kili."

"Where are you from?"

"Ered Luin."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"The feast."

"Good." said the elleth with a nod, and just like that, the still intensity was gone. "Then you should be alright. Try standing up slowly, and if you feel fine, then you're free to go. Take two droplets of this at night if you can't sleep from the nightmares." She handed Kili a small vial filled with a inky-black looking elixir. She gave him a look that was soft but not quite pitying. "I'm afraid the nightmares will last for several weeks but they won't do you any harm, either. Come back here if you have any other trouble, such as shortness of breath, dizziness, or start seeing or hearing things that aren't there while you're awake." This time, she glanced at both Kili and Tauriel. "Ask for Hithrim, and I'll be there."

Kili and Tauriel thanked her, then gathered up Kili's things, which at this point was just his runestone and armor.

"I will go with you back to your room," said Tauriel as they meandered through the winding halls. "There we can put down your things, and I also will show where my quarters are." She gave Kíli a small smile, which quickly faded as her face took on a more serious expression. "However, there is something we need to discuss."

"What is it?" asked Kíli absently. His gaze was fixed on the rune stone he held between his long, slim Elven fingers. Return to me. He read once again. A new desire started filling up the empty place inside his chest.

"Lord Thranduil was furious at Agalos's actions, I have never seen my king so angry." She shook her head. "He came to see you while you were unconscious and in throes of poison. " At that Kíli looked at her sharply, his stomach doing a nervous flip-flop. What does he want? It never boded well when Thranduil took an interest in him personally. That feeling only doubled when Tauriel paused before giving him an inscrutable look, as if bracing both him and herself. "My Lord Thranduil believes you will be better accepted among our people if you take up our trade and serve the Realm."

Kili understood the implication; he wasn't being asked, he was being told. Serving Thranduil the way he might've one day served Thorin and Erebor was a key distinction that separated him into being a citizen rather than a prisoner. However, his stomach still turned at the idea that his strength and abilities would now be used to suit the Elvenking's purposes rather than serve the people of Erebor.

"I will return to the Guard," continued Tauriel, "but not to my post as Captain. Lord Thranduil asked me about your abilities. I told him that you were skilled with a bow, and very brave." The compliment would've warmed him under ordinary circumstances, but Kíli only felt numb. His mind was still fixated on his brother as he wondered what Thranduil had in store for him next. "If you have other skills or duties you'd prefer, you can bring them to the king and try to convince him, but he told me three options to tell you before he left."

Despite his apprehension, Kíli looked at Tauriel and felt his mind sharpen with interest.

"One, you can serve as a blacksmith. Lord Thranduil tells me most Dwarves take well to learning a craft. Two, you can become a hunter or farmer. There are many people in this Realm, and we always need hands willing to keep them fed. Or finally, as a warrior you can join the King's Guard."

"The King's Guard," Kíli said almost immediately. For a moment, he considered becoming a blacksmith. He'd already picked up a bit of skill in the forges at Ered Luin and metalworking was the most in line with his Dwarven heritage. It seemed like the best option if he wanted to remain the closest he could to being a Dwarf. However, the thought of spending any longer in the caverns of the Elvenking's palace made him almost shudder. Kíli yearned for fresh air (even if it was the gloomy, tainted air of Mirkwood) and adventure. He was tired of being cooped up, of hiding away from everyone and everything. Even better, he would get to spend more time with Tauriel.

Based on her expression, Kíli could tell that Tauriel thought he'd pick blacksmithing as well. It was almost worth it alone to see the expression of surprised joy flit across her face like a sunrise.

"You will have to take an additional oath of loyalty," Tauriel warned.

"I know," said Kíli.

Most importantly, joining the King's Guard would give Kíli the opportunity to learn the forest. He didn't care one bit about the Elvenking or the trees, but it would satisfy Kíli's growing desire. He was already hatching a plan.

Maybe Kíli couldn't leave Mirkwood forever, but he wasn't going to let Thranduil separate him from his kin. For now, Kíli would watch. He would behave. He would learn all the hidden trails of the forest. Then he would find his way back to Fíli.

Chapter Text

"Fíli, be careful!" Ori called as Fíli edged his way across the broken, open wall of the battlements. The cold wind howled around him, whipping at the braids of his mustache and making his eyes smart with unshed tears. Just a little further, Fíli thought, determined to see what was making the Ravens cause such a commotion. He put one foot in front of the other, drawing in sharp breath when he heard a slight crack beneath his feet and heard the dry sound of rocks tumbling as small pieces of debris came loose. Thankfully, the wall held firm, but that's when Fíli made the mistake of looking down.

Immediately, his stomach dropped. He was dragon-lengths above the tall, gilded gates of Erebor, with a clear eagle-s eye view of the ground. From the top of the battlement, he could just barely make out what he thought would be the charred remains of Laketown. Durin's Axe. A fall from this height would surely kill him.

Am I the reckless one now? His quiet inner voice joked mirthlessly. Like most Dwarves, Fíli preferred to keep both feet on the ground, although he was more nimble in trees than most Dwarves, having been raised above ground in the dense cedar wood forests of Ered Luin. However, even as a Dwarfling he hadn't dared to climb the highest limbs like his little brother. Stop it, this is no time to think of Kíli right now!

Even now though, he could picture Kíli's cheerful smile. That's it, Fee! A little further!

Gritting his teeth, Fíli tore his gaze away from the staggering view down below and bounded the last few steps to the other side of the battlement, where the path grew wider and the stone steps more secure. The Ravens parted before him in a sea of harsh cries and noisy, flapping wings. Fíli threw his arms up as they flocked around him. As the Ravens at last cleared, Fíli saw what they left behind.

A baby Raven.

Fíli couldn't hide his surprise. Furrowing his brow, he approached it cautiously, kneeling down when he got close enough to reach out and touch it. Seeing Fíli, the Raven chick turned around. Or tried to, at least. Its head was so large it couldn't be held up by its scrawny neck. The chick tumbled tumbled forward instead, hind legs scratching uselessly at the ground, croaking in distress. Fíli couldn't decide if it was cute or ugly, with bulging eyes, downy gray feathers, and puny, naked wings like a plucked quail. However, one of those wings was bent at an odd angle.

"You're hurt," Fíli said softy, no longer feeling as stupid for talking to a bird as he would've a few short weeks ago. The Ravens of Erebor were uncanny, but they were smart. The gleam of intelligence was clear in their watchful eyes as they delivered messages, even though none had spoke in the language of Men and Dwarves as Uncle Thorin claimed. He looked around, and saw the other Ravens watching silently from their perches around the battlements. "You needed somebody to help."

At the sound of Fíli's voice, the croaking doubled. The chick opened its beak, bobbing forward like one of Bofur's cuckoo-clocks, begging for food that Fíli couldn't provide. Fíli suppressed a shudder as he looked around at the silent, unblinking stares of all of the adult Ravens.

Why me? Fíli wondered, thoroughly unnerved. But he was a Durin, and he would not let any innocent life come to harm while he was there Under the Mountain. Or above it,

"I will help him," he promised, and gathered the chick up in the loose fabric of his coat. He wasn't sure if the Ravens understood, but none moved to stop him. Even through the many layers, he could feel the chick shivering. Without thinking, he pressed it closer. Ah, well. At least between this and Thorin and negotiating with Dale and Dain this winter's going to be busy.

Taking a deep breath, Fíli began making his way back across the battlements to Ori.

Mahal, he was actually going through with it.

Kíli took a deep breath, forcing his expression to remain steady as he approached Thranduil's throne. Behind him, he was acutely aware of the three hundred or so Elves that were gathered. For once, he was grateful that his uncle and his brother weren't here to see him. What would his kin say if they could see him now, dressed like an Elf and getting ready to pledge his life away to the king of Mirkwood?

He was dressed as a member of the King's Guard, the leaf-patterned armor over his clothes no longer borrowed but specifically tailored to match his Elven form. He wore a green tunic lined with shimmering golden thread that hemmed his sleeves and a single V down the front of his chest; a far cry from the blocky, familiar designs favored by Durin's folk. At his waist were two daggers with elegant wooden handles and curved blades, much like the ones that Tauriel used to defend him from the spiders of Mirkwood. The twin blades symbolized discipline and loyalty, and were given to every new member of the Guard.

Wordlessly, Kíli knelt before the throne. A hushed silence settled over the room as he knelt before the throne. Kíli felt dizzy, lightheaded with disbelief. Uncle. Fíli. Forgive me for what I'm about to do.

He no longer felt like worthy son of Durin. He no longer felt like a Dwarf at all.

However, someone still left to give him strength was watching. Tauriel.

How Kíli wished he could turn around and look for her. If anyone could understand what he was going through it was her. She too felt betrayed by Thranduil, and was forced to play his games to keep her home. However, Kíli wasn't sure whether her watchful presence made him feel sick offered reassurance. If he could turn around, what would her expression be? Would she be proud, with a bright, happy expression in her eyes as he took on the vows of her people, or ashamed of how low he'd sunk, groveling before the traitorous Thranduil like just another weak, cowardly Elf?

Ashamed of his actions, Kíli didn't even try to defend what he was or what he'd done.

He was reckless. A survivor. A fighter. He had no place in Erebor, but he'd give Tauriel her home. He would do what needed to be done for these Elves to respect him. And he'd find his way back to Fíli.

Kíli realized he'd stalled for too long. Thranduil was watching him imperiously.

Trying not to let his hands tremble, Kíli carefully drew the dagger from his belt, and recited what Tauriel had taught him. His voice sounded much steadier than he felt.

"I swear on this dagger, to pledge you my fealty. To give you my loyalty." The Oath of Loyalty was traditionally recited in Sindarin, but since Kíli didn't know Elvish Thranduil had made an exception. Darkly, Kíli wondered if this was to speed up the process or if Thranduil wanted Kíli to be painstakingly aware of every word he said. If the later was the case, it was certainly working. Kíli swallowed heavily before he continued. "By the strength of my bow, I will defend this forest. By the speed of my dagger, I will guard my king. And should my hand ever rise against you in rebellion, may this faithful dagger pierce my heart and break my bow."

A moment's pause, then Kíli glanced up. Thranduil nodded approvingly, though his expression remained unchanged.

Next came the hardest part.

Kíli kissed the blade of his dagger, then sheathed it back in his belt. This is it. Kíli thought grimly. It's almost over. A few more moments and he'd be a traitor for good. 

He tried not to think about what happened next as Thranduil presented a graceful hand, yellow torchlight glittering across the multifaceted surfaces of his opal and diamond rings. That was Kíli's cue. Obediently, he leaned forward and kissed the Elvenking's hand, trying not to shudder as his lips touched the cool, slightly floral-scented skin. 

He straightened back up just in time to see a flash of triumph in the Elvenking's eyes.

Not my king, Kíli thought, meeting his gaze with his own quiet fury. Never my king. Thranduil arched a questioning brow but continued the ceremony unperturbed. The Elvenking then picked up a shallow, silver tray and presented it to Kíli. It was in the shape of an elm leaf and filled with red wine. The former Dwarf accepted it from him with both hands. The wine rippled but didn't spill.

Kíli hesitated, then drank. The wine was light and Elven-sweet, so unlike the rich, hearty mead of Ered Luin. The former Dwarf tried not to grimace. Afterward, he passed the tray back up to Thranduil, rubbing his mouth on the back of his sleeve when he was done. Raising the tray up to his lips, Thranduil took a delicate sip as well. He sat the tray back beside him.

Thranduil's voice rang through the cavernous hall. "Today a new warrior joins our ranks. He will train hard, and protect our ways and the forest. Kíli Durinson. Reborn Cílion Naugonnen. We welcome you as a full member of the Guard. We honor you for your courage and your choice." He signaled for Kíli to rise to his feet and face the crowd.

Kíli did so, surprised by the warm, welcome clamor that rose to meet him. "Cílion! Cílion! Mae govannen! Cílion!"

The praise washed over him, feeling unwelcome and wrong. Kíli wanted nothing more than to flinch away from the mangled Elvish version of his name. Though finally, he was able to search for the one person in the crowd he really wanted to see.

Tauriel. She stood near the front, a beacon of hope to him and the only thing that made any of this bearable.

To his relief, she was not chanting his Elvish name. I'm sorry, she mouthed instead. Her expression ached of regret. I know. The former Dwarf managed a slight nod, hoping she understood.

It's okay, Kíli wanted to say, but deep down it was not. Traitor. No longer did he belong to the House of Durin. Unsure if he could bear standing in front of these Elves any longer, Kíli gave Thranduil a short bow before heading down the steps to the throne to take his place in the crowd. At this point, the ceremony should be over.

However, Thranduil had other ideas.

As Kíli slipped into the nearest vacant spot in the front of the crowd between two unknown Elves, he heard the Elvenking's voice ring out. "Come here, Tauriel Caranoriel, former Captain of my Guard and daughter of the forest."

"My lord?" Kíli craned his neck to better see the Silvan elleth. Her green eyes were wide with surprise.

"As a traitor to the realm, you must be re-inducted as well."

All of the color drained from her face. However, Tauriel hid her embarrassment well, refusing to acknowledge the uneasy murmurs and the way the assembled Elves parted way for her. She kept her chin held high and her back as taut as a bowstring as she made her way toward Thranduil's throne. Kíli felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest. This wasn't just about loyalty. Thranduil was trying to humiliate her by making her re-take this Oath of Loyalty in front of everyone. Clearly, humiliating Kíli hadn't been enough. It isn't fair. Kíli thought. How can he be so cruel? Even Unc- even Thorin wouldn't do something like this! The Elvenking was petty as he was cruel.

Unlike Kíli, Tauriel recited the words in fluid Sindarin. "Im gwest-bo hi sigil, na ber cin nín gwest. Na on-cin astor. Bui i polod-o in peng im tolgar hi glad. Ae nín bor oiale eri-dan estel-ogol, lothron hi sigil thorn ter amel nin a rist peng nín." The only phrase Kíli could pick out was sigil anin- "my dagger."

She drank from the silver tray and the Elves clapped, but Kíli didn't join them. All could hear was the blood roaring in his ears as his heart beat out a furious, trapped rhythm in his chest.

At long last, the ceremony was over. Kíli and Tauriel quietly slipped away at the first opportunity. Even though his heart wasn't into it, the Mirkwood Elves had partied and drunk and reveled, and Kíli's head was light with Dorwinion wine. He wasn't fully drunk, but it was enough to stoke his anger and loosen his tongue on the thoughts he'd been having all evening.

"It wasn't right for Thranduil to humiliate you in front of everyone like that."

"He is my lord, Kíli." Tauriel wouldn't look at him, her voice resigned. Kíli felt a sharp pang of concern. Where was her fire?

And Uncle Thorin was mine!" He protested, determined to make her see. "But you still stood up to him!"

"It's harder here, in the forest. This is the way it always has been. I challenged him once, and it got us here. Now that we are in the Elvenking's realm, things are different."

"They don't have to be." Kíli insisted, catching her arm. "Don't you see? You're not alone anymore. Your battles are my battles now. We can share them. And together, we can stand up to him."

Tauriel scoffed. "I can't-" She said, and started to turn away.

"Tauriel!" Kíli grabbed her arm, the quiet, gentle strength in his voice surprising both of them. "No one can make you feel lesser than what you are. Surely you know that." Before Tauriel could be bold enough to ask if the same applied to him, Kíli continued." Not the whole forest. Not even Thranduil. I see you for who you are, and who you are strong and beautiful. I realize now how stupid I've been, thinking I could come here and all my problems would just disappear. I may be -a traitor, and I know my uncle hates me for it, but that doesn't mean I'm a real Elf either."

That determined gleam in his eyes and in them, Tauriel found reason to hope. She felt foolish now in her worries that the oath-taking ceremony would break him.

"I know we can't go anywhere, not right now at least, but you have to believe me. I haven't given up. I want to do my part for my uncle and brother, to be honorable. I made a promise, and I would see to it that Fíli gets to sit on the throne of our fathers." For a moment, Kíli looked sad, but he blinked it away as he looked at her earnestly. "I'm still hoping there might be a cure, and someday we'll find it. But you and I both know this world goes bigger than this forest, Tauriel." He said, and she felt her heart soar. "And one day, I want to take you to see a fire moon."

"My foolish Dwarf," said Tauriel, the silly endearment feeling right on her lips even though a tall, handsome Elf stood plainly before her. She didn't miss Kíli's sharp intake of breath, or the way his warm brown eyes danced in delight. "I would love nothing more."

"And truly you wouldn't mind, if I wasn't an Elf?" asked Kíli. A flicker of doubt and insecurity entered his eyes. "You said you loved me- before. From the moment you saved me from the spiders, my heart's been yours. Nothing will change that. But Elves are immortal, Dwarves are not. If I was turned back to the way I was right now, would you still want to be with me?"

Ever since the Oath-taking ceremony Tauriel had seemed smaller, somehow, the fight gone out of her posture and her eyes. Kíli felt a pang of concern. I know Tauriel said she never felt like she was full free in Mirkwood, but was it ever this bad? When Kíli had met her in Mirkwood all those weeks ago- although truthfully it felt more like years, with everything that had happened since-she had been full of fight and fire and life. No, it must've been something other than Mirkwood to bring Tauriel's spirit so low.

Tauriel studied him for a moment, her green eyes cool, searching. When she spoke, it was only a slight tremble in her voice that gave her away. "Yes. Yes, my foolish Dwarf. I would have you in any form. Right down to the very last whisker."

Grinning, Kíli captured her lips in a passionate kiss, for the first time feeling comfortable enough to savor the fact that he was taller. He pulled Tauriel body closer, sighing as he felt her arms loop around the back of his neck, drawing him closer as well. For a moment Kíli simply allowed himself to get lost in the sensations of being with Tauriel; beautiful, amazing Tauriel; the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair; the pine-sharp sweetness of her scent. When they pulled away, both Elves were slightly out of breath.

Kíli laughed, looking at her as if she shone with the light of the stars themselves. "Wow. You know, you're really good at that."

Tauriel rested her head on his chest. "Well, you would be the first. No one's ever made me feel this way before."

"Really?" Kíli asked, startled. He knew Tauriel was sometimes hesitant about things such as touch and flirting, but he'd never imagined she'd never kissed or held someone before. The Silvan elleth seemed too beautiful for such a thing. Besides, in all the centuries she'd been alive, someone must have noticed her. "So you would've loved me even if I'd been turned into a big, stupid, smelly Orc?"

Her head jerked up before she realized that Kíli was joking.

Kíli laughed. "I'm joking, Tauriel. Absolutely joking. But I mean it when I say this isn't your fault. You make me feel alive. We're going to get out of here, I swear, and then I'm going to take you to see a fire moon."

So caught up in their promises and each other, neither one noticed the light-footed sentry in the distance slip down the shadowed hallway to report back to Thranduil.

"You summoned me?"

If he was less well-bred, Thranduil might have rolled his eyes. As he was coming to expect, the naugonnn made himself known by his lack of propriety. What else could you expect though from one raised by Dwarves? Although Thorin's nephew had at long last sworn an oath of loyalty, he could still see the lingering defiance in the boy's eyes, in his un-Elvish lack of grace, in the silver Longbeard clasp holding back his hair, the way he hovered almost resentfully at the door.

The young Elf was as rough and unpolished as a mountain stone, but that was no matter; Thranduil was as patient and as tireless as the river. He would sculpt the naugonnen into the loyal Silvan he was born to be. Soon, talks of adventures and fire moons and changing back would be a thing of the past as the young Elf came to embrace who he really was. "You have recovered well from the river water."

"No thanks to you." Kíli glared daggers at him until the intensity of Thranduil's stare forced him to look away.

"If you understood our language you would've known what was being offered; or at least have known to be suspicious. Tauriel told me you drank a chalice after being told it was nen. Nen means water."

"No self-respecting Dwarf speaks Sindarin. And it was pointless, because my Uncle never let us talk to Elves. Was I supposed to expect to be poisoned?" Kíli demanded, starting to grow angry.

"No, you should not," Thranduil promised, taking another step closer, and Kíli determinedly looked away. "And for that Agolos will be severely punished. But you, on the other hand, could've prevented the matter entirely had you known better. From now on you will speak only in Sindarin."

Kili turned back towards him with a start, his expression a mixture of challenge and disbelief. "But I don't know any Elvish."

"Then you will learn." Thranduil's answer came swift and uncompromising, his tone cold and clipped like ice. "I am sure Tauriel will be more than happy to teach you. I cannot have an Elf in my guard who cannot follow even the simplest of commands."

The former Dwarf looked at him with horror. Learn Sindarin? That was too Elvish. One look at Thranduil's face and Kíli knew the Elvenking wasn't joking. If he ever wanted to leave the Mirkwood palace and find his brother, he was going to have to learn their language as well.

He tried swallowing back his humiliation as he realized that Thranduil was still looking at him expectantly.

"Fine. I'll learn Sindarin." The Silvan Elf grumbled, turning to go, but Thranduil wasn't through with him yet.

"Cílion," The Elvenking prompted, and Kili's whole body stiffened at the use of the Elvish name.

Kili! He wanted to cry, loud enough for all of Mirkwood to hear. My name is Kili! But he didn't. Instead, he turned back towards the Elvenking, who was still watching him imperiously. "There is one more thing. You will address me as either hir nin or my king."

Kili lifted his chin up in defiance. "That's not my name," he said, struggling to keep his voice controlled. Fili, think of Fili! A small, stubborn voice in the back of his mind urged. What would Thorin's diplomatic heir do? He looked at Thranduil again, an edge of steel entering his voice. "My name is Kíli, hir nin."

Thranduil studied him for a long moment.

"Very well, then. Kili you shall be called, until you find a name that better suits you." The Elvenking said at last. He waved a hand airily. "You are dismissed. Go find Feren, and he will direct you to the armory. I have already informed Lieutenant Thalion that you will be serving under his guard tonight."

Kíli's mind spun. He wanted to argue with the Elvenking but remembered his side of the bargain. He was going to have to follow through with it if he wanted to prove his loyalty. He and Tauriel's place in the forest and peace with Erebor depended on it. Hard as it was, he needed the Elves to trust him if he was ever going to leave Mirkwood and find Fíli.

Not trusting himself to say anything else, Kili clenched his fists and whisked his way out of the king's chambers.

Chapter Text

Tauriel found Kíli in the training hall furiously sharpening his knives.

"What did the Elvenking want?" She asked, sitting down beside him. Despite his apparent anger, she could see the conflicted emotions in his eyes, the way his shoulders were taught with tension and worry.

"Thranduil told us we will be serving under someone's Guard tonight," Kíli said, which Tauriel already knew; Thalion himself had pulled Tauriel aside while Kíli had seen Lord Thranduil. However, in the next part, Kíli made it clear from his voice what was bothering him. "And he wants me to learn Elvish."

Tauriel studied him carefully. "That will be good." She said, "There is an old saying among my people, "to speak a second language is to have a second soul. And if you know our language, Elves like Agalos will never be able to betray you so openly again. What bothers you about learning our language? If we had stayed in Erebor I would gladly have learned the language of the Dwarves."

Her confusion only grew when Kíli shook his head. "No. You don't understand, Tauriel. Khuzdul is kept secret, never to be shared with outsiders. You never would've been allowed to learn our language because you're an Elf, no matter how long you stayed with us Under the Mountain." For a moment he smiled wistfully, shooting her a mischievous look. "Of course, I probably would've broken that rule and taught you anyway, but they—Thorin and the others—would never. Khuzdul is meant to only be spoken and read by Dwarves. But that's why the Company believed me when I spoke Khuzdul. It's why I told you that if any but a Dwarf looked upon my runestone they would be forever cursed."

"Our language is not so secret," said Tauriel. "The king banned Noldorin for being the language of the kinslayers but I am told that Sindarin is widely spoken by the Elven kingdoms and non-Elves alike. What is the point of a language if not to be shared?"

"To hold secrets. There is power in hidden words, Tauriel."

She looked into his earnest eyes. We Elves and Dwarves are more different than I thought. She squeezed his hand in reassurance.

"Kíli-"

He cut her off with a laugh. "That's not even my real name."

Tauriel stared at Kíli—not Kíli-with—confusion. Not his real name? How was that possible? The Silvan elleth's thoughts raced. Had he and the Company lied about their identities the whole journey? But that didn't make any sense. And besides, Thranduil had clearly recognized Thorin when he and the rest of the Dwarves were prisoners in Mirkwood—She looked at Kíli—not Kíli—and willed it to make sense.

"Meleth nin, I'm afraid I don't understand."

Kíli's smile faltered. As amusing as Tauriel's stunned reaction had been, he couldn't fight back what was weighing on him. In addition, it felt oddly comforting to tell Tauriel something about Dwarvish—no, his own—culture.

"I'm joking, Tauriel. Well, I am and I am not. Kíli is my name, but it's really not a Khuzdul name. It's a name borrowed from one of the Mannish tribes who live near us in the mountains. That's what Dwarves do. We borrow names from peoples and cultures living near us. At this point, we've been using names from the Grey and Blue Mountains for so long that they might as well be Dwarvish names, but they didn't start off that way originally. If you go down far enough South, the Blacklocks and Stonefoots have names they borrowed from the Easterlings and Haradrim."

He grinned a little at Tauriel, pleased to see that she was watching him with rapt attention while he explained.

"Kíli's my outer name. Mum gave it to me shortly after I was born. She chose it because it sounds close to Fíli, and that's how people know we are related. Dwarven sibling names tend to rhyme."

"So Bofur and...Bifur—" She struggled for a moment to remember the name of the black-and-gray-bearded Dwarf with an ax sticking out of his head who'd given them a personal tour of Erebor. Already that felt like a lifetime ago. "—They are siblings as well?"

"Aye." said Kíli. "But it doesn't always work like that. Fíli and I's Da was named Víli, son of Vígi. Father and son names don't usually rhyme. In that case, it's the first part of the name that they have in common, such as Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór." Tauriel couldn't tell if sadness or bitterness stained the last few words. However, before she had a chance to wonder any further, Kíli broke off abruptly and asked her, "How do Elves' names work?"

"Like Dwarves, Elves are named when they are born," Tauriel said thoughtfully. "High Elves are given two names, one by the mother and one by the father, and throughout their life, an Elf may adopt as many as four, often given to them by people they love or feats achieved in arts, healing, or battle. However, Silvan naming customs is far easier. I was named Tauriel, Daughter of the Forest because my mother had a great love of green and growing things while my father willed for me to always have a place in these woods he worked so hard to protect."

"It is a beautiful name," Kíli mused, "Daughter of the Forest. In Khuzdul that would be Guhulnathith."

The strange consonants slipped by Tauriel quickly. Because her unpracticed ear was much more attuned to the lilting flow of Sindarin, the word sounded more like Kíli was trying to clear his throat with a thick slice of bread and butter stuck to the roof of his mouth than an actual name. However, she smiled in return, flattered by his compliment and honored that he trusted her enough to share the secret language of the Dwarves so openly with her.

"So would that be my Dwarvish name?" She said with a laugh.

"No," Kíli replied immediately. "You're right, the inner name is in Khuzdul, but it's not given to you, it's earned. For the first twenty-nine years of my life, my name was just Kíli. Then when I was thirty I earned my true name—my inner name. Inner names are secret; we only share them with people we trust and who are like family. They hold so much power because inner names show who you truly are—you can't just trust them with anybody. Only my family, Dwalin, and Bofur know mine. Even fewer people know Unc—Thorin and Fíli's. Their inner names won't even be written on their tombs when they die. They'll just be known as Kings Thorin and Fíli. Of Erebor." 

His eyes darkened at the reminder. His uncle and Fíli were mortal. He, on the other hand, was not.

"Sometimes it feels like my names are the only thing I have left," Kíli admitted. "Names and memories. Names have power, but now it feels like Thranduil's trying to take mine away." Cílion. Kíli suppressed a shudder at how close the Elven name was to his own. Did he even deserve his true inner or outer name if he was an Elf?

"A name doesn't change who you are," said Tauriel. "A mother may name her child after something she senses about their nature at birth, but Elves see names more as descriptors than destiny or words of power. To me, you are Kíli, always and only Kíli, unless you choose to share your inner name with me or take another of your own choosing." At Kíli's questioning glance, she gave his hand a squeeze. "We have names we are born with, but is common for Elves and Elf-friends to adopt different names throughout their lifetime. We don't believe it changes who you are. To the Elves Gandalf is Mithrandir. That doesn't make him any less Gandalf. It just means that he is both Gandalf and Mithrandir."

"I don't think Thranduil means it that way," Kíli said. "It feels like he is trying to change who I am, starting with my name."

He hung his head. Already the Elves called him Kíli Naugonnen. Ever since he was a Dwarfling, Kíli had wanted an honorific, just like his uncle. He remembered when he and Fíli were children playing at being warriors. How many names had they bestowed upon each other? It must have been hundreds. Fíli the Strong and Kíli the Fearless. Kíli Raven-eyes, Oakenbow, Lightninghand.

Fíli had earned a name just as noble as Thorin's own: Lionheart. But what was Kíli now?

The Dwarfborn. 

Better than Elfscum or Kíli the Traitor, Kíli thought, but not by much. Life had turned out much differently than he and Fíli's pretend stories. But at least Naugonnen reminded everyone that he was a Dwarf, and not some nameless Elf like Thranduil wanted him to be. Therefore, around the Elvenking and his subjects he would wear Naugonnen like a badge of honor.

Elves adopt many names, often given to them by those they love. He looked at Tauriel hesitantly.

"But maybe, one day I will let you give me another name. One I can wear alongside my own."

Tauriel looked at him, clearly surprised. "I would like that." Tauriel tilted her chin up boldly, half-teasing, half in challenge. "But only if you give me a Dwarvish one in turn."

Equally surprised and delighted, Kíli laughed. "It's a deal." However, his laughter quickly faded as he hastily added, "Only, not yet. I don't know if I'm ready for an Elvish name," Or if I'll ever be, another part of him muttered darkly, "even if it's only for you, Tauriel. I'll just end up hating myself because that's not who I am. But one day," he said, brightening at the idea, "I want to tell you my Inner Name."

"I look forward to it," said Tauriel, "If I teach you Sindarin, then you can teach me Khuzdul. In the meantime, I'll be patiently waiting for the day you can tell me your name in full."

She looked at Kíli. Bright, beautiful, open Kíli. Who despite the challenges he faced, was beginning to again shine as bright as mithril again as she remembered. What would his Inner Name be? She was hard-pressed to think of something, in either Westron or Sindarin, that would reflect the lovable and bold nature of her princely Dwarf-turned-Elf. However, she was drawn from her musings as she remembered the time.

"It is almost time for our first patrol. Are you ready?"

A determined gleam entered his eyes. "I am."

Tauriel led him out of the training hall and into one of the higher levels of the palace where the rest of the patrol was already gathered. She saw Thalion, a tall Sindar who now served as Thranduil's new Captain of the Guard, and five other assembled Elves. However, it was the last member of the patrol who caught her eyes. Tauriel drew in a sharp breath.

"Hir nin Legolas."

Legolas looked at her and smiled, although the light faded from his eyes as he caught sight of Kíli. In an instant, he looked as cold and hard as Thranduil. Surely you knew he was coming back with us to Mirkwood? She wanted to demand. For the first time, Tauriel felt a stab of irritation towards her old friend. He was a prince in charge of leading his own patrols. It didn't make sense for him to shadow a patrol with Thalion unless the sole purpose of it was to see her.

Part of me thought he would leave after the battle, Tauriel thought, but he is the king's son, is he not? His place is here in Mirkwood. Even if he and his father fought, Legolas would not set off alone, not even to find out more about the coming darkness we learned of at Dul Guldor. It was not his desire to be a part of the bigger world, but mine. Her fleeting feeling of anger turned to a dull ache. Ai Valar, how was it possible to miss someone who wasn't even gone?

However, if she thought Legolas' reaction was bad then Kíli's was no better.

The former Dwarf stiffened at the sight of the Mirwood Prince. "Hir nin," he said after an awkward pause. but made no move to bow his head or body to Legolas. Legolas glared daggers at him, and Kíli glared daggers right back. Tauriel sent a quick prayer to the Valar begging them for patience as she fought the un-Elvish urge to roll her eyes.

Elflings, the both of them.

Thankfully, an interruption came in the form of Thalion, the newest Captain of the Guard.

"My Lord," he said, nodding respectfully to Legolas, "Cílion."

Kíli flinched. "Don't call me that. My name is Kíli."

The tall Elf's gray eyes flickered in surprise, but the rest of his face remained smooth and impassive as he bowed his head in acquiescence. "My apologies. Kíli Naugonnen."

"Dwarf," Legolas muttered under his breath, but the word had opposite the intended effect on Kíli. The former Dwarf shot him a look and squared his shoulders with pride. He felt a twinge of satisfaction in noticing that he was taller than the Mirkwood prince. It wasn't much—only two or three inches—but still. It was much harder for Legolas to look down his nose at him than it was when the princeling threw him and Fíli in prison. Kíli couldn't resist.

"Says the one looking up to me."

Tauriel felt her heart drop in her chest as the room filled with a collective gasp. No one spoke to the prince of Mirkwood like that.

However, Legolas took a step toward him and answered without missing a beat. "Perhaps I misspoke, Elf, or you would be right back in the dungeons where you belong."

Kíli's voice dropped dangerously. "I am not an Elf." Legolas gave him one long, slow look-over, the expression in his eyes clearly saying I doubt it which only served to incense Kíli further, "Call me that one more time! I dare you!"

"That's enough!" Thalion barked, pushing his way in between them. "Kíli, Legolas is your lord, you will treat him with respect! He could throw you in the dungeons if he very well wanted to. And my Lord Legolas, I only say this because I am many seasons older but this behavior is beneath you. What would your father think to find you out here arguing with the newest member of our Guard, and one with only the sense of a Dwarf, no less?"

"Hey-!" Kíli protested, but Tauriel touched his arm.

"Leave it," she said quietly enough that only they would hear. "Captain Thalion does you a favor." She looked directly at him, and Kíli was caught off guard by the sadness in her eyes. "Legolas was my dearest friend. I would not see you two fight."

Kíli's throat tightened in shame as he mentally kicked himself. "I'm sorry." He'd forgotten that she and the snooty prince were close. Judging by the way Legolas lowered his eyes, Kíli guessed that he overheard the last part of Tauriel's statement as well.

The blond prince looked at her and murmured something in Sindarin. Tauriel answered, her tone clipped, but Kíli heard the note of longing underneath. For a moment Kíli felt a flare of jealousy, but he quickly pushed it back down. Tauriel chooses me. And I trust her, just as she trusts me. I won't apologize to that arrogant son of an Elf but I don't want to make things harder for Tauriel either.

After a moment, Legolas looked at Kíli. He didn't look friendly, but he didn't look overtly hostile either. "Dwarf."

Kíli supposed that was the closest he would get to an apology. Once again, he narrowed his eyes and didn't incline his head. "Hir nin."

Despite the words being in Elvish, it was much easier to call Legolas hir nin than "my lord." Legolas wasn't his lord. He never would be.

The rest of the introductions passed in a blur. In addition to Captain Thalion, there was Rethiel the dark-haired tracker, and her sister Tavorwen, the silent and silver-cloaked Gwendor, and a smiling golden-haired Elf that Thalion introduced as either Fainir or Fainor, Kíli couldn't remember which. Briefly, Kíli wondered if this was what Bilbo felt when he was introduced to the Company all at once. However, upon seeing the last member of the Guard, Kíli smiled.

"Meludir!"

"Kíli!" The other young Elf exclaimed, his brown eyes glowing with warmth. "It is good to see you, my friend!"

"You as well," said Kíli. Although he should probably find it concerning that less than a week in Mirkwood and he was already finding comfort in the presence of an Elf other than Tauriel, he was going to need all the help he could get to get through this patrol with him, Legolas, and his sanity all intact. "Where were you these past few days?"

"At my sister's home," Meludir explained. "She lives a day's ride from the palace."

"I thought all the Elves lived here in Mirkwood Palace?" Kíli asked, puzzled. After all, all the Dwarves belonging to the kingdom of Erebor lived alongside the king and his family Under the Mountain.

"Many but definitely not all," said Thalion, looking pleased that Kíli was taking interest in the matters of Mirkwood. "Over half of our subjects live outside the palace's walls. That's why border patrols are so important. We must keep our subjects safe. However, hunting and scouting patrols are small. It makes it easier for us to slip through the forest unnoticed."

"You and the rest of your Company were noticed by a scouting patrol," Tauriel murmured to him quietly. "They reported back and Legolas and I were sent out leading a larger patrol to capture you and bring you back to the palace."

Kíli glanced at the small group of Elves around him. "So this is a scouting patrol?"

"Correct," said Thalion. "Though it is getting dark so we will not be heading out too far. The main purpose of this excursion is to test your skills and help you to get your bearings." He looked sternly at both Kíli and Tauriel. "And we are only going to patrol. That is the goal of the King's Guard. To protect our borders, to stay hidden, and to obey the king's wishes. If there is not an immediate threat we report straight back to the palace." This time, his sharp look was reserved for Tauriel only. "No engaging in battle or trying to fight off a threat alone."

Tauriel dipped her head in acknowledgment, though she looked like she wanted to argue

"What was that about?" Kíli asked, clearly amused. Even another dirty look from Legolas couldn't dampen his spirits.

"My main task as Captain of the Guard was to clear out giant spider nests. But I wanted to track them to their source. There's too many of them, and they're only growing bolder. We couldn't let them stay and risk the darkness taking hold."

Suddenly reminded, Kilí's grip on his bow tightened. "I hate those spiders. Do you think we'll see any tonight?"

"Maybe," Tauriel said, but she sounded unsure. "Now that the cesspits of Dul Guldor have been emptied some believe the evil is lessened, but there are still many dark things that live in this forest."

And we'll be ready for them. Kíli felt for his dagger with new determination. He remembered getting attacked by the spiders but felt a lot safer knowing he now was armed to teeth and not reeling from the effects of the foul creature's venom. Those spiders don't stand a chance. Despite himself, Kíli felt a growing sense of excitement. It'd been too long since he'd gone outside, between being trapped in Erebor, recovering from his wounds from the Battle of the Five Armies, and reeling from the effects of the poisoned river water.

However, Kíli felt stronger now than he had in a long time. The pesky Light of the Eldar leapt in his chest, and for once, Kíli's spirit leaped with it. Let the spiders come. Let the Orcs try to touch him or Tauriel. They would get a taste of Dwarvish skill and Elvish steel. It was time to prove his worth. To both himself, and to Tauriel's people.

Chapter Text

It felt strange to be walking over the bridge out of the Mirkwood Palace rather than into it. Twice now he'd walked over the bridge and into the palace- once as a Dwarvish captive and a few weeks later as a reluctant Elvish subject and prisoner. It felt strange now to be seeing it from the other side. Mirkwood loomed before them, bare branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled fingers before disappearing into a heavy shroud mist. Kíli couldn't tell where the treetops ended and the sky began. The air was also far colder than Kíli imagined it. His breath came out in frosty curls.

How long was I unconscious? Kíli thought anxiously, remembering his unexpected poisoning and waking up in the Halls of Healing with Tauriel and Hithrim. He felt like it had been only a few days, but Mirkwood already looked like it was deep in the heart of winter. Kíli shook his head. Tauriel would've told him if he'd been out longer, wouldn't she?

Despite the cold, Kíli felt fairly warm even though he was only wearing a modest tunic beneath his armor and thin leather boots and gloves. He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the lightweight material of the gloves give and stretch in response. Whether the increased warmth spoke to the skill of Mirkwood craftsmanship or another strange aspect of his altered physiology, Kíli wasn't sure.

The forest river—or Celduin, Tauriel had called it—roared as they crossed over the bridge, roared in his ears, the current frothing and foaming white with only the faintest hint of blue.

Glad we weren't in it when it looked like that, Kíli thought, feeling slightly dizzy as he looked down. He was unable to resist thinking that their escape in the barrels would've gone very differently if it had. Already the tumultuous trip had left him sore and bruised from slamming up against the inside of the barrel—but today the Celduin would've torn anyone to bits. Countless branches and leaves bobbed in the river before being dragged under by its violent current, causing Kíli's ribs to twinge in sympathy.

"The Celduin is our protector as well as a means for transportation," Tauriel followed his gaze, seeming to understand his thoughts. "It runs all the more fiercely after snow or rain."

The bridge was wide enough for only two people to walk over safely at a time. Captain Thalion and Legolas brought up the front in silent agreement while Kíli and Tauriel trailed at the rear. However, on the other side of the bridge, the path widened as the roar of the river faded behind them. The footsteps of the patrol hardly made a sound.

Overall, Kíli was surprised at how normal traveling with a pack of Elves was. They weren't as boisterous as the Company-there were no raised voices, dramatic shows of physical affection, or rambunctious laughter (Rethiel was only lightly tapped her sister's arm before telling a joke instead of slinging an arm over one shoulder or nudging her in the side to like a Dwarvish sibling would've done) but the easy camaraderie among them was unmistakable.

"—and I told him, truly, even Rock Giant would have made less noise coming down that slope—"

"Sister, you did not—"

Even their conversations were far more ordinary and mundane than Kíli imagined.

He couldn't hear what Thalion and Legolas were discussing quietly in Sindarin up front, but the two sister's conversation sent a painful pang of reminder through his heart as he remembered the endless conversations and pointless debates that he had with Fíli. Fainir and Gwendor walked quietly but companionably alongside each other while Meludir cheerfully identified bird calls and pointed out birds to anyone who would listen.

Before coming to Mirkwood, the former Dwarf had imagined that Elves were distant, unreachable; as unknowable as the distant stars and silent trees that they so loved. He imagined Tauriel was different, full of fight and fire that was distinct to her as her red hair. Now, listening to the merry if subdued hatter of the Elves around him, he couldn't help but wondered if he'd been mistaken. These Elves seemed full of fire and fight as well, even if it was more restrained than what he was used to.

Could everything he'd learned about Elves from his kinfolk have been wrong?

They're snobby, they're flighty, they're cold an' faithless. You can only trust 'em 'bout as far as you can throw 'em, a voice in his head that sounded something like Dain warned him. Who knows the mind of an Elf?

I know the mind of one Elf, Kíli thought, glancing at his companion beside him.

The dullness of the forest couldn't hide how brightly Tauriel shone in her own element. She held her head high, and he admired the nimble way her feet seemed to glide almost soundlessly around the scattered leaves without even looking. He, meanwhile, seemed determined to accidentally step on step on every leaf in the forest. The leaves crunched noisily beneath his feet. How do they make this look so easy? Kíli wondered. Even with his lighter boots, the task seemed nearly impossible.

The Elves made no effort to be quiet now, but Kíli knew that in a forest as dangerous as Mirkwood, the ability to move as quietly as would be invaluable. Otherwise, he risked drawing the attention of the Mirkwood spiders—or worse. To move through the forest unnoticed in hopes of eventually finding his way back to Fíli meant learning how to slink like an Elf.

Kíli tried mimicking Tauriel, carefully lifting each foot higher than he normally would've, unintentionally holding his arms slightly out to the side for balance as he picked his way across the leaves. Because he had to slow down to think about where he was putting his feet, he paused in some places and then had to hop quickly over others to keep up. This gave him a slightly more erratic, exaggerated gait than the others, so he felt a bit like a Dwarfling playing hopscotch. However, his footsteps did grow quieter.

His pride only lasted until Tauriel looked at him with an eyebrow raised, her expression torn between confusion and amusement. "What are you doing?"

Suddenly distracted, Kíli hopped a little too far to the left and violently snapped a twig underfoot. "Slinking. Like an Elf."

Meludir whipped around. "We do not slink!" He protested with mock indignation. "It's Dwarves who tramp on everything!"

Kíli rolled his eyes. "Meludir, before me, you didn't know any Dwarves."

Kíli stopped his "slinking" for a moment and looked at his unlikely friend with wide eyes. "Do you remember me...from before? I don't remember you."

"I suppose in the eyes of a Dwarf one Elf looks like another," Meludir said with a laugh, "especially since brown hair and brown eyes are so common in Mirkwood. We do not use unique braids or styles of hair to tell each other apart. But to answer your question, yes and no. I did not recognize you at all when you came to us as the Dwarf-born.”

For a momen, the young Elf’s eyes were shadowed in memory. “I did not know your name, but I do remember the young Dwarf Tauriel caught on the day of Mereth nuin Giliath. I was too preoccupied with taking knives off of your brother. With so many hidden blades I was surprised he did not bristle like a hedgehog!"

Tauriel let out a soft snort of laughter at that.

The former Dwarf felt a sharp pang of longing at the mention of his brother but quickly pushed it away. "Aye, Fíli loves his knives. He and my uncle actually made many of those themselves back in Ered Luin." A warm swell of pride filled his chest at the memory. "Do you think I could have them back? For safekeeping."

Meludir hesitated and cast a look at Tauriel.

"I do not know where Lord Thranduil confiscated them, but I will do my best to find where they are located when we get back," Tauriel agreed. "You deserve to have those pieces of your brother."

"Thank you," Kíli said gratefully. Feeling a lump in his throat, he quickly changed the subject. "Do you know where we are going?"

"I patrolled this route often when the Elvenking did not want his scouts far from the palace," said Tauriel. "If we keep heading west we will reach the banks of the Enchanted River."

So we're headed west. Kíli thought. The Enchanted River.

Kíli cast a longing glance behind him. Erebor lay to the east; west was the opposite direction that Kíli wanted to go. Had Thranduil planned this on purpose? Did he know that Kíli hoped to one day find a way back to his brother? 

If he does, then he's doing a good job, he thought with a silent grumble. But it doesn't matter. I'll prove myself and win his trust. And even if today didn't work out, I still get to spend more time with Tauriel.

The Silvan elleth caught him staring.

"Yes?" She asked.

Amrâlimê, he thought, but didn't dare say it around so many Elves."I'm just admiring the view." He said, giving a wink so she knew he wasn't talking about Mirkwood. Mahal, she was so fun to tease. It always lifted his spirits. "I'm so glad to be out of the Palace. Even if all we did was kill spiders, it wouldn't be too bad. Just this time you have to throw me a dagger."

Tauriel actually laughed at that. "If we run into them I will." Though her next glance was conspiring "Though I hope we have an opportunity to do more today than merely hunt spiders."

Kíli grinned, and from there they settled into a comfortable silence. The mist cleared the further away they got from the Mirkwood palace, even though the woods grew darker. The trees were thick in this part of the forest, birch, and ash overshadowed by the biggest oaks Kíli had ever seen. Their gnarled branches overlapped and tangled together to make a dense canopy of half-dead leaves. The narrow Elf-path they walked on grew sandy underfoot, made even narrower as the patrol was hedged in on both sides by a tangle of dense undergrowth and spidery ferns.

At last, the path got so narrow that they came to a complete stop. "Daro," Captain Thalion said, holding up one hand. Kíli assumed that word meant "stop." "As I overheard Tauriel mention earlier, we are indeed heading to the Enchanted River. This will mark the edge of the Palace territory and on the other side lies Mirk-eaves." For Kíli's benefit, he added, "there are eight territories surrounding the Palace. Mirk-eaves, Taur Morvith, Emyn Lûm, the Scuttledells, Dourstocks, Drownholt, Dúathlas, and Ashenslades. In time, you will see them all, and come to know them all by name."

Legolas added in, "It won't hurt for some of the younger members of this patrol to familiarize yourselves with the boundary as well." He glanced back at Kíli. "Be careful you don't fall in."

I won't. You be careful not to fall all in. You don't need to treat me like I'm some foolish Dwarfling! Kíli wanted to argue, but didn't because he didn't want a fight with the blond princeling to hurt Tauriel.

Thankfully, Thalion intervened.

"However, the trail here is too narrow to continue on foot." He said, with an expression that would've been perfectly neutral aside from a raised brow. "That leaves us with only one question, Naugonnen. Can you climb?"

Chapter Text

Kíli bounded after the other Elves, his heart racing with a strange mixture of joy and fear as he ran across the sturdy boughs of the trees. The air was cold up here, oh so cold, and he felt so alive. His booted feet gripped the tree like a second skin. The cold burned at his throat and bark stung at his hands. He kept himself focused on chasing after the bright flame of Tauriel's hair.

"Can you climb?" Captain Thalion had asked.

"It's not something I'm incapable of," Kíli had said lightly, thinking back on his time spent playing out in forests of Ered Luin as a Dwarfling as well as the time he and the Company fled up the pine trees and ended up throwing pinecones at Azog and the White Warg.

However, climbing wasn't the hard part.

Sure, he might not have been as swift as Legolas or as nimble as Tauriel, but Kíli was surprised at how easy it was to take advantage of his longer reach to find handholds and footholds in the knotted trunk and scramble his way tree. Slowly, he was becoming used to the differences his strange new body provided.

Kíli grinned to himself, pleased that he climbed right on Tauriel's heels-literally-and the way his muscles responded with startling strength and fluidity. Dwarves weren't made for trees, but he was good at this—always had been. At least by Dwarvish standards, anyway, raised above ground and spending his childhood running through the forests of Eren Luin. Now, maybe, he was even better.

Unfortunately, nothing could've prepared him for what they did next.

Once every Elf was to the top—where the heart of the canopy was large enough for them to stand in the center where the trunk divided into four, study limbs—Captain Thalion said something out in Sindarin then confidently walked out onto the nearest limb. He glanced back over his shoulder and his gaze found Kíli. His voice glinted with a hint of a smile and a challenge.

"You did well. Now try to keep up."

Without warning, he broke into a run, racing across the narrow bough of the tree. Right before the bough tapered to an end, he leaped onto the gnarled branch of a tree, nearly a full arm's length away. The bough held firm, the Elvish captain keeping his stride as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if he hadn't just been suspended Mahal-knows-how-far above the forest floor below. The rest of the Elves started following after.

Kíli stared after them in shock. He had barely survived the Battle of the Five Armies, and now they wanted him to do this? Maybe Thranduil was trying to kill him after all.

Finally, it was just him and Tauriel.

She sensed his hesitation.

"Are you afraid of heights?" Her voice held no rebuke.

"No," Kíli said stubbornly, but made the mistake of peering over the side. Immediately, he wished he hadn't. Not until now, an ironic part of his mind added. This ancient tree may have as well been a watchtower for how high it stood off the ground.

A watchtower.

Right. It was just a watchtower. A watchtower with no railings and no stairs in the middle of an eerie forest where everything tried to kill you. Like giant spiders. Or a certain blond princeling who probably secretly hoped he'd fall to his death or be eaten by said giant spiders.

Once again, Kíli found himself thinking almost longingly of the Rivendell Elves. Even though they lived precariously close to the edge of a cliff, they seemed like the kind of folk who would keep two feet on the ground. For the second time since he'd arrived, Kíli wondered, why couldn't the Mirkwood Elves just be normal?

Then again, Mirkwood Elves didn't wear those ridiculous flowy garments that Rivendell Elves did—as if the slender build and embarrassing lack of facial and body hair didn't make them look maidenly enough already. He had already received a taste of his own medicine from Dain Ironfoot—the last thing he wanted was another person wondering if he were an Elf-maid. And besides, if he were stranded in Rivendell, he would be even further from Erebor and not get to spend as much time with Tauriel.

Kíli was tempted to sigh. Mirkwood it was, then.

With no little effort, he drew his gaze away from the distant forest floor. Tauriel was still waiting.

"I'm not afraid of heights, I promise," he assured her. "I will prove myself to your people."

Her eyes were searching, most likely trying to see if he was truly afraid. Kíli drew himself up tall and proud in response, squaring his shoulders in a way that subconsciously reminded him of Uncle.

She stepped closer. He felt the warmth of her hand as she reached out and tucked a flyaway strand behind the point of his ear. "You are brave, my foolish Dwarf." Like him, he wondered if she worried about his poorly controlled coordination even on the eve of the battle. He had had enough skill to survive then, but only barely. How would be fare this high up among the trees?

However, if this was Tauriel's concern, she didn't voice it. Instead, all she said was-

"You should have to prove yourself to no one. But if you must, you will not walk this path alone. I will always be by your side."

"I know." said Kíli. He caught her hand before it could fall back at her side. He squeezed it gently. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. But I'm ready for this challenge."

And it was true. Living in Mirkwood wasn't the adventure he had planned, but he would make the most of it. For now. His blood thrummed with the promise of adventure, of hunts and small skirmishes, of exploring places no Dwarf before him had ever seen. He was ready.

And hopefully, the thrill of action and the unknown would keep away painful thoughts of Fíli and his uncle, which hollowed out his chest with a dull ache.

He released Tauriel's hand. "We better get going. It sounds like they're waiting for us." Although he could no longer see the other Elves, dimly, he could hear their voices drifting through the wind.

"Should you go first or shall I?"

"You go first. I'll only slow you down, so this will give me a reason to keep up," Kíli said lightly. "Go on ahead, I'll be fine."

"If you are sure."

And with that, she was off, as light-footed as a sparrow preparing to take flight. If Kíli didn't know any better, he would've sworn she was hollow-boned herself. But hollow-boned she was not, and no songbird, either. Tauriel was a warrior, a hunter. A bird of prey like the red-shouldered hawks that circled the Blue Mountains.

Now, he was learning to be a hawk, too.

I can do this! Kíli thought as he leaped from the safety of the trunk to follow her out across the limb. He was reminded of the first time they met, the graceful way Tauriel had darted through the trees, leaping across branches and down onto the backs of spiders.

However, Kíli was not so graceful.

Within a few steps, his foot slipped from the branch. His world lurched towards the ground.

"Agh!" The startled cry escaped his lips before he even knew what was happening.

Kíli caught himself just in the nick of time. His ribs hit the wood, knocking the breath out of him, and he wrenched his shoulder at an awkward angle as he caught the branch to keep from falling. For a terrifying second, he dangled over precariously over the forest, legs kicking at nothing but thin air.

"Kíli! Hold on!" Tauriel called. She must've noticed he'd fallen. But she sounded far away.

I'm not going to fall. Maybe it was determination, maybe it was pure instinct, but Kíli rallied his strength and swung, kicking both of his legs and tandem and using the momentum to haul himself up onto the branch. His shoulder ached in protest, but it didn't feel dislocated or torn. Just strained, most likely. It was able to support his weight as he slowly rose from a crouch to stand.

He looked up to see Tauriel coming towards him.

"I'm fine!" He called back to her. "Really. It was just a scratch, s'all."

Now that some of the adrenaline had worn off, he could feel a dull burning in his hands. He flipped his palms over and saw that they had been worn raw by the bark as well.

He watched his feet more carefully this time as they set off again. Only occasionally did he dare a glance up at Tauriel. Gradually, his pace picked up. Just as it had when he had learned to run again on the ground- that terrible he discovered his immortality-he began to anticipate the obstacles around him, picking up his feet to avoid knobs on the branches and how to time his leap to the next tree.

Soon, the ground passed below him like a blur. Over one branch, across the next.

This was freedom.

And so now here he was at the present, excitement blending one moment seamlessly into the next.

Kíli gave a breathless laugh as he effortlessly cleared the leap onto the next limb, a distance at least a Dwarf-length long and still a Raven's-eye view above the ground. He savored the delicious moment of weightlessness before his feet landed on solid wood—a moment that would've terrified him only hours before.

He landed albeit unsteadily, but still. He did it.

For the first time since he got stuck in this body, Kíli didn't feel clumsy and useless. He felt strong. Capable. The distance between him and Tauriel was steadily closing. He was determined to narrow it entirely.

I wonder what the others would think of me now? The former Dwarf wondered, his mind inevitably drawn back to his kin at Erebor.

He could clearly picture Fíli's startled face, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and concern. Kíli. What are you doing up there like an Elf? Be careful, brother. Bofur, wild, free-spirited Bofur, likely cheering him on. And Uncle—

He didn't want to think about Uncle.

They hedged deeper into the forest, where the shadows grew darker still. It was like the other Elves were trying to lose him. But Kíli found that he didn't mind.

It felt like a game now, one that he wanted to win fair and square. He was good at this; this precarious race through the trees. He was sure-footed now, but the hint of danger he felt from being this high up had just enough edge to kindle a fierce joy in his chest. A joy that burned almost as bright as the Light of the Eldar.

Could he climb?

Yes, but what they were doing now wasn't climbing—

It was flying.

By the time they slowed down, Kíli's breaths were harsh rasps. He finished mere footsteps behind Tauriel.

A cheer went up from Meludir. "Way to go, Kíli! I knew you could do it!" He said teasingly, "Not bad for a naug."

Some of the other Elves congratulated him as well. Tauriel turned, a hint of a proud smile on her lips as she offered him her hand. Gratefully, he let her drag him the rest of the way into the fork of the tree. Even Legolas gave a small nod, and Kíli had to fight down the surge of satisfaction that rose in his chest.

They're not my people. It doesn't matter. The only person here whose opinion should matter to him was Tauriel.

Captain Thalion inclined his head. "You kept up well, young Kíli," he said, unable to keep the note of surprise out of his voice. "I admit I may have underestimated you. We have reached the borders of Taur Morvith, the Forest of Dark Mist. Its boundary is the Enchanted River. Learn it, and learn it well. We will stop here for a short rest."

As soon as he said it, Kíli became aware of a strange smell. Stagnant, loamy, thick. It smelled of dead leaves and decay. A scent Kíli knew all too well. The last night he'd smelled it was the night he'd been poisoned. Then, he heard the gurgle of a slow-moving stream as well.

The former Dwarf looked down.

As if on cue, mist shrouding the river's surface slowly drifted away, revealing sickly-looking water as black as Orc blood. The Enchanted River. Chills prickled across his body. So this was where it was. The remains of a stone bridge stood on each side of its banks, but the middle section had fallen away. The only way to cross would be on the ancient-looking vines that hung perilously over the water and wrapped themselves in chokeholds around the neighboring trees.

Legolas grasped one of the vines that hung from their tree and slid down. He peered thoughtfully out at the fog that now drifted at the opposite bank.

His curiosity getting better of him, Kíli slid down as well. His boots squelched slightly in the damp mud.

"Something in this forest is wrong," the Sindarin prince said quietly, almost to himself. "Someone-or something tried to cross this path but could not."

It was then Kíli caught sight of what he meant. Not all of the vines spanning over the bridge were intact. In fact, several of them looked mangled, as if they were violently torn apart.

I don't think this was spiders. Kíli thought.

Legolas retreated from the water's edge and then called out something in Sindarin to the others. Then, as if just remembering that Kíli was among them, added in Westron, "Fan out. Search the surrounding area. If something lingers we must find it."

Something in the air had shifted.

Kíli drew one of his daggers. Tauriel was down the tree next. She stood beside him as they turned in the direction from which they came. Meludir, Rethiel, and her sister slipped off from their party in another direction, as quiet as shadows. Gwendor and Thalion remained watchful in the tree, while Fainir jumped down to examine the torn vines with Legolas on the banks.

"What do you think it is?" Kíli asked quietly.

"I'm not sure." Tauriel replied. "The vines are old, but they are strong. My first thought was a troll. They awake occasionally and come down from the mountains in the north. But if it was a troll, we would have seen footprints. Whatever it was, it was skilled at concealing its footprints or knew how to climb and was using the trees."

Kíli glanced up with renewed suspicion. "Whatever it was, I wish it could've fallen in the river."

Tauriel murmured her agreement as they edged further from the river. The shadowy trees opened up into a dimly-lit glade filled with ferns. Kíli and Tauriel were just getting ready to turn back when suddenly, something caught Kíli's eye. A glint in the ferns.

"Look!" He exclaimed, whispering loudly. "I see something. A footprint!"

Or rather, footprints.

There were a set of them behind the first, half-hidden by the foliage of the glade. They were not the footprints of Man, Dwarf, Elf, or even Orc. No, these were the paw prints of some large animal, wickedly sharp-looking claw marks at the end of each toe. Each track formed a puddle. It was the glint of the water that had caught Kíli's eye.

"A Warg," Tauriel breathed, bending down to examine the tracks better. "It must have wandered into the forest and got lost after the battle."

Kíli joined her. "But it's wrong, see?" He pointed at the toes. "There's five toes on this foot. Wargs only have four. Believe me. We saw enough of those tracks on our journey. I don't think it's a Warg."

A flash of white fur. Terrible teeth. Kíli gasped, suddenly remembering the creature from his dream.

Tauriel turned to look at him with concern. One of her hands strayed towards her dagger. "Kíli, what is it?"

"It's nothing," Kíli said, shaking his head. "I just—had the strangest sense I've been here before."

Already, the vividness of his dream was fading. Was it just a coincidence, or was the creature he dreamed about real? But I thought it was just a normal wolf! Kíli thought. And not to mention, he'd been the creature in his dream as well. However, he'd assumed the experience was just a strange fever dream triggered by the poisoned river water. There was no way it was real.

But what about your dream of Ravenhill? A dark voice asked. You knew where to find Fíli during the battle. Was that not real as well?

That dream had saved his brother's life. And if that were true...

Were these not dreams but visions?

For a moment, Kíli almost told Tauriel. But what else was there to tell her? That the giant Warg (or whatever it was) was white? That it had a taste for spiders? None of that was useful. Besides, Kíli had a suspicion that these visions (that's what they truly were) weren't normal—even for Elves.

I don't know if what I saw was real, Kíli argued with himself. It could still be just a coincidence. Mahal, he hoped it was just a coincidence. According to old wives' tales in the Blue Mountains, those who saw glimpses of the future met strange fates. But not, and he kept having strange dreams...

Then he would tell Tauriel.

Tauriel eyed the prints one last time. "These tracks are at least a day old. Whatever it is, it was headed toward the ruins of the old bridge. Come, meleth nin. We must tell the others."

No one was sure what to make of the strange tracks found by Kíli and Tauriel. However, the general consensus seemed to be that they were possibly made by a rogue Warg ("A mutant," Legolas said grimly, "Perhaps an outcast from its pack. That would explain why it was traveling alone.")

After the Battle of the Five Armies, the outskirts of Mirkwood had reported occasional sightings of riderless Wargs; riderless beasts with no home or master to go to, who after being chased off from carcasses on the battlefield and the ruins of Dale, entered Mirkwood in pursuit of prey.

Most of these Wargs were quickly dispatched by Elves or became a meal for Giant Spiders and other fell creatures of the dark forest. It was unusual that one made its way so deep into the heart of Mirkwood. Thankfully, its tracks headed not further toward the palace grounds, but deeper into the relatively uninhabited regions of Taur Morvith.

Legolas and Captain Thalion decided the group would no longer follow its trail. However, a lone Warg was still dangerous, even when hunting alone.

"My lords," Tauriel protested, "Should we not seek out this evil and find where it rests? What is to stop it from coming down from Taur Morvith and hunting again? Not all of our people carry bows and swords. What if it attacks travelers or a child?"

Kíli was inclined to agree. Why wait for something bad to happen? The time to act was now.

However, any hope of pursuing the strange Warg was cut short by Captain Thalion.

"Peace, Tauriel." He said, raising up his hand in a way that booked no arguments. For once, his eyes held a flash of steel. "Do not question my decisions or those made by Prince Legolas. You are no longer a Captain of the Guard."

Tauriel looked like she wanted to argue, but didn't.

She glanced at Kíli, and saw her own impatience reflected in his gaze.

"We will tell my father, and he will warn all future patrols to be on the lookout. For the time being, we will make sure no Elf travels alone and send word to the few who live in Taur Morvith. If they wish it, they will have a place in our halls until this creature is no more. We will find it, mellon," Legolas promised, "If it is truly evil, it will reveal itself in time. But don't go looking for evil that isn't there.

Tauriel—" Something in his gaze begged her to see reason."—the hour is late, and the shadows grow no darker than in Taur Morvith. It would be folly to pursue this any further."

Tauriel let out a slow breath. Kíli watched her body deflate.

"Very well," She said, defeated."As you wish, hir nin Legolas."

The princeling stiffened slightly at the address.

The patrol set off again in a tense silence through the trees. However, as they neared the palace grounds, the murky bowels of the land around the Enchanted River gave way to open glades and burbling streams. Weak sunlight filtered through the leaves, and Meludir started up again with his merry chatter. Kíli began feeling more lighthearted once again, and by the time they reached their next stopping point, the heavy weight pressed upon them by Taur Morvith was all but gone.

Kíli slid out of the tree, his pulse still pounding from the exhilaration but happy to have his feet on solid ground once again.

After a while, he caught sight of Legolas doing something strange.

"What's he doing?" The former Dwarf asked Tauriel quietly.

The princeling was walking through the trees, laying a hand on each of them in turn. Kíli didn't know for certain, but he thought he caught the Sinda muttering something under his breath. It looked like a ritual, or maybe a nervous habit, although the Elven prince didn't strike Kíli as the type to be anxious.

"He is listening to the forest. It is a common gift among the Eldar." Tauriel replied.

"Can you?"

The Silvan elleth shook her head. "No. Not very well. I can faintly feel the life in trees and other green, growing things, but I cannot sense them as Prince Legolas can. But simply knowing that they are there is enough to bring me great peace."

"Oh, so it's like stone-sense." Kíli realized. At Tauriel's confused glance, he elaborated. "Some Dwarves can sense the vibrations in stone. It's mostly to detect safe and unsafe areas in a mine, or carve a stone or gem in the way it wants to be shaped to bring out its full beauty."

"Did you—or do you have stone-sense?" She looked almost afraid of the answer.

"No." Kíli admitted, shaking his head. That was one thing this blessing or this curse hadn't taken away. He could almost see Tauriel's palpable relief. "I was never really good at it. Some say it's because Fíli and I were born above ground, but I think it's just a silly superstition. Mum doesn't have stone sense either, and she was born deep in the heart of Erebor. Some Dwarves just have it and others don't."

Tauiriel looked thoughtful. "Some Elves can sense stone as well but it's far less common. Do you want to try?" said Tauriel, and it took Kíli a moment for him to realize that Tauriel wasn't talking about the stone but a tree instead. She gestured towards an ancient-looking elm further up the bank.

"Sure," Kíli said with a shrug, not thinking too hard about it. He hadn't felt anything in the forest so far—and he'd been climbing trees all day. It wasn't like anything was going to happen now. "Er, how do I?" He gestured uncertainly.

"Like this." said Tauriel, taking his hand in hers. Kíli enjoyed the close proximity to the beautiful elleth as she spread his fingers out and placed his palm flat against the gnarled trunk. Her green eyes glinted as she glanced sideways at him. "Now close your eyes. Everything in this forest is alive. Silvan Elves are above all healers. Listen. Feel its feä touch yours. If the elm wants to it will respond."

Kíli nodded and did as he was told. Let its feä touch yours. It didn't make any sense, but Kíli allowed his mind to drift. In just a moment, he felt a dim, growing warmth flicker beneath his fingertips like a candle. It spread across the palm of his hand, resonating through his skin. Strangely, it felt a bit like a song, echoing with centuries of growth. It took Kíli a moment to realize that what he was sensing was the tree. He jumped back as if burned.

He saw Tauriel looking at him with a mixture of concern and surprise. "You felt it that strongly?"

"I didn't—It wasn't that strong. I was just surprised. Really."

He continued staring at the tree in dismay. He had just done something Elvish, like it was the most natural thing in the world. As a Dwarf, he hadn't had stone-sense, but now he could listen to trees? He wiped his palm hard against his pants and tried hard not to think about the implications of what he'd just done. "I didn't think it would work."

Fainir wandered over curiously. "The naugonnen can feel the forest?"

"He can," Tauriel supplied as Kíli, still stunned, nodded mutely. Fainir brushed past them and put his palm to the tree. Kíli suddenly realized he must be a gladh pethron as well.

However, he wasn't the only one who caught Kíli's display.

"How old do you think this tree is?" Legolas demanded, at Kíli's side in an instant.

Kíli's eyes narrowed. "I don't know. Er, three hundred years?" He hazarded. The former Dwarf had no idea how old these trees lived and frankly, he didn't care.

"I would say a little over." said Fainir appraisingly. He looked at Kíli with newfound respect. "You'll make a fine gladh pethron." The corners of Legolas's mouth turned down almost imperceptively.

"I don't want—" Kíli began.

"To be a gladh pethron is a gift," said Tauriel, "And they are among the Elves most closely connected to the forest. It is not uncommon among the Eldar, especially for Silvan Elves. They can hear the songs in the branches, coax life from the roots of the trees. It is said that the Al'kwentro, the first tribe of the Silvans, sang and awakened the trees that became the Ents."

"And gladh pethron make exceedingly good trackers." Meludir chimed in. "My adar spoke of a mighty ellon who could follow a trail through the trees long after the trail turned cold, just by sensing memories held in the forest's branches. A few centuries and you could be the envy of Greenwood!"

"No, you're wrong." Kíli shook his head. "It was a mistake. I didn't feel anything—I can't—It must've just been my imagination." His heart beat wildly in his chest. First strange visions. And now this.

I'm not an Elf. I can't do Elvish things.

He looked at Tauriel desperately. While there was sympathy in her eyes, she made no move to deny his experience.

Kíli clenched his fists, trying to get rid of the phantom sensation still tingling through his hands, the echoes slowly fading. This was wrong, it was all wrong. As a Dwarf, he'd lacked stone-sense, but had never felt lesser for it. So why had he developed a uniquely Elvish gift now?

It just wasn't fair. His whole life, he had been the odd one out. Kíli, the tall. Kíli, without stone-sense and a sparse beard. Who chose a bow and arrow over an axe. Why can't I be as bad at being an Elf as I could at being a Dwarf? Kíli silently demanded, before catching himself on that last thought.

No. He wasn't a good Elf. He wasn't a bad Dwarf.

He wasn't.

That wasn't true.

"Dusk approaches, so we must make haste back to the palace before nightfall," Captain Thalion said solemnly, breaking Kíli from his inner turmoil for just a moment. "That's enough of the trees for now. Come, we will use the hidden paths to make our way back home. When we get back to the palace, I will report to Lord Thranduil all we have learned. Kíli, you will come with me to inform him of the Warg prints and your new abilities. The king will be very pleased to learn we have another gladh pethron in our ranks."

If any member of the party noticed that Kíli didn't touch a single plant with his bare hands for the rest of the patrol, they said nothing of it.

Chapter Text

Thranduil was enjoying a rare dinner alone when Thalion swept into the room with Thorin's young nephew in tow, the latter looking like he wanted to be anywhere other than here. The Elvenking sat down the goblet of wine he was nursing.

This should be good. He thought, already intrigued by the unsettled expression on the Dwarf-born's face.

"My lord," Thalion began, placing a closed first over his chest and giving a short bow in greeting that was customary for the Guards. Thranduil dipped his head in acknowledgement of his Captain before waiting expectantly for his younger subject to do the same.

"My lord," the former Dwarf bit out.

"Cílion." Just as he'd hoped, the Silvan Elf responded to the bait beautifully. His whole body tensed, his eyes going wide with—what was that? Shock? Surprise? Fear?—at the sound of his Elvish name. Thranduil merely tilted his head slightly in response, asking Remember our deal?

The fire remained in the Naugonnen's eyes a moment more they widened in realization. He hastily bobbed his head. "Hir nin."

Thranduil gave a barely perceptively nod. Much better.

He listened intently as Thalion described the events of the patrol. Kíli hovered by his side restlessly. Apparently, the Naugonnen had done surprisingly well. He had managed to keep pace with the patrol even through the trees. They had gone as far as the Enchanted River and the borders of Taur Morvith, where Kíli had spotted spied some unusual tracks. A Warg—

"Not a Warg," Kíli interrupted.

Thranduil looked at him with surprise. "You know for certain that it was not?"

Kíli's brow furrowed. "I'm not—I'm not sure. But it was wrong. Those tracks were huge, and whatever it was that made them had five toes instead of four. You might think I'm young and inexperienced but I know Warg tracks when I see them. My unc—Azog and his Wargs chased us for almost our entire journey."

"I see." Thranduil studied the Naugonnen carefully. Kíli seemed earnest, and Thranduil could not sense in him any desire to mislead. And why would he? Unless he didn't want to be assigned any more patrols to the West, which Thranduil had done purposely to keep him far away from Erebor as well as show him the Enchanted River.

But that seemed unlikely. And surely the Naugonnen would recognize Warg prints better than most Mirkwood Elves; he who made up for the shallow breadth of his years living in a outside world hunted by his enemies. A sense of kinship unknowingly shared with the ancient Elvenking, who could never forget the enemies that prowled outside his own gate.

"And tell me, what direction were these tracks headed?"

"South. Into Taur Morvith." Thalion replied. "We dared not pursue them at nightfall."

At South, Thranduil stilled. Realizing Thalion was waiting for an answer, he replied, "That was wise."

However, his thoughts strayed far from Taur Morvith.

Mithrandir, the Lady Galadriel, and Lord Elrond paid a visit to Dol Guldur near the eve of the battle, did they not? A nagging voice whispered in the back of his mind. Despite it being in his own kingdom—for Thranduil laid claim to all of Greenwood even though his people could no longer settle the darkened lands to the South, beyond the Mountains of Mirkwood—he had not been invited on this oh-so-secret quest. Yet Thranduil knew. Greenwood was still his forest, after all; his eyes and ears were everywhere.

If it wasn't Dwarves disrupting his feasts and waking dragons and attracting Orcs then it seemed like his business was destined to be butted into endlessly by meddlesome wizards and arrogant Noldor instead.

Meddlesome wizards and arrogant Noldor who believed that they knew better, just because they or their ancestors had seen the Light of the Two Trees, and because they bore fabled magic Rings. Thranduil had glimpsed only upon the Lady Galadriel's Ring—Nenya—but once again, he had heard the rumors.

Yet Ringless and without any hope in the Powers That Be, he had kept the darkness in his land from spreading for a millennium. Who were these others, to steal into his lands now? Without even asking for his permission or advice.

His ire and unease were pitted against each other until at last, his unease won out.

Perhaps they have driven out The Necromancer, but what other evils might they have stirred up in Dol Guldur?

Carefully, he allowed none of that foreboding to enter his voice. "Double the patrols on the southern border. Warn the villages of Taur Morvith that a strange creature has wandered into their lands." To an outsider, his voice sounded level, maybe even bored. He glanced briefly at Thalion, then at Kíli. "Perhaps it is a Warg. Perhaps not. Regardless, we will weather this storm as we always have. Is there anything else?"

"Yes." The slight smile that played across Thalion's lips let him know that this, at least, was not bad news. "We discovered that Kíli is a—Well, I think I will allow Kíli to tell you himself."

It was clear from Kíli's face that Kíli would rather not.

"Well?" Thranduil prompted impatiently, after the stretch of silence had gone on for too long. "What are you?"

The former Dwarf refused to meet his gaze properly as he confessed, "I can feel the trees."

One glance at Thalion confirmed it. Ah, so the Naugonnen was still discovering the full extent of his newfound Elvishness, then. Despite knowing that the young Silvan was one of his people now, Thranduil felt a certain sense of perverse joy in watching one of Thorin's kin brought low. A gladh pethron—from Durin's folk, no less!

This was going even better than Thranduil had hoped.

He leaned forward. He wanted to see if Kíli knew.

"That is not what I asked. What are you?"

Kíli looked away, his cheeks flushed and his hands balled into fists. They both knew what game Thranduil was playing at.

"I'm a gladh pethron, hir nin." His accent was atrocious, but it was probably the most Elvish words the young Dwarf-born had ever strung together in his life. Thranduil was pleased.

"You are. And a fine one you will be."

Briefly, Kíli looked choked. But when he looked back at Thranduil again, there was something in his eyes that radiated pure Thorin. Thranduil was taken aback for a moment, considering that the two now looked nothing alike. Yet that very same fury, that identical determination and stubborn set of the jaw-was there.

Coming to Mirkwood had done very little to take the Naug out of the Naugonnen.

However, something else had the Elvenking even more unsettled.

It occurred to him that Kíli—for Kíli he still was, for as long as he chose to hold onto that ridiculous Dwarven moniker—was a gladh pethron. Tauriel was not. Since he had learned that his foolish Captain of the Guard had recklessly channeled her own life force into him, Thranduil had wondered if his nature had simply came to reflect her own. A mirror in both hröa and fëa.

Surely some of his shaping had been from her influence. He was a mere Silvan, after all, despite being descended from the most esteemed house of the Dwarves. It was plain from his tapered ears and gift with the trees. If his Elven form had reflected the nobility of his birth, shouldn't he have been reborn as one of the Sindar or Noldor?

He certainly had Tauriel's penchant for willful defiance and finding trouble as well, although the Elvenking suspected that he'd been like that to begin with. Before.

One thing though was clear: some of Kíli's gifts were uniquely his own.

Eru's gift. The Son of Renewal. For the first time, Thranduil wondered if his words were actually true, and not just an excuse he'd invented to lay claim to the Dwarfborn.

If so...

The Elvenking turned to his current Captain. "Thank you, Thalion. That will be all. Kíli, stay. I require your presence a moment longer."

He waited until Thalion's footfalls receded from earshot. What other abilities lay hidden in the Naugonnen, just waiting to be discovered? If they waited for the Naugonnen to find out himself, they'd be waiting for a millennia.

Thranduil smiled softly, just thinking about all of the possibilities. "There is much we need to discuss."

"Like what, hir nin?"

Kíli's voice had a tightness to it. Like he was barely holding everything together. Earlier, Thranduil would've rebuked such openness, such a display of vulnerability, but now it was oddly refreshing. In time, the Dwarf-born would learn to temper such openness with respect, but for now, it was a boon. Thranduil knew exactly where he stood with Thorin's young nephew.

He would use this to his advantage.

A change of tactics were in order.

Thranduil allowed his voice to soften. "It is about your gift." He looked away from Kíli, carefully nonchalant as he poured another goblet of wine. Even then, it was impossible not to notice the way the Silvan flinched. "You have my condolences. I realize you do not consider being a gladh pethron a gift, especially when it comes so quickly on the heels of your loss. I suppose it must be only natural. You were not dealt with kindly at the hands of your kin."

"I wasn't—" Kíli began to protest.

"Don't." Thranduil interrupted languidly. "If you were going to lie to me, then don't. I know all too well how the great Thorin Oakenshield deals with Elves. You said you wanted to save them, and that may be part of the truth, but I don't believe that's the full reason you are here."

He took a sip of wine, watching Kíli's expression over the rim of his cup. It was clear his words had found their mark. He pressed further.

"I have seen what you most fear. You fear what you are. You fear what you will become if you stay too long in this forest. Like Dwarves, we Elves only ever love One, but I doubt that even Tauriel can assuage this fear. So tell me, nephew of the great king, what did they do to force your hand? What treachery did they accuse you of?"

He drained his glass, setting it down with a soft thump. Kíli had fallen silent.

"That's what I thought." Before the Dwarf-born could come up with some hair-brained excuse to exonerate the Dwarves, Thranduil continued. "You are loyal to the Dwarves, even after all they have done to you. You cling to your people and their ways like moss to a mountain rock. That kind of loyalty is commendable."

Was that—? It was. He detected the faintest flicker of pride in the Naugonnen's eyes at the praise.

Thranduil felt a flicker of satisfaction as well, but for entirely different reasons. So, Thorin's nephew can be shaped after all.

"A loyalty," he continued, "that I hope you may one day feel for the Woodland Realm. But such loyalty is not given lightly—it must be earned. You spent decades fighting alongside your uncle and brother. I understand then, why you still dream of finding your brother and seeing a fire moon." With a pointed glance, he let Kíli know that his conversations with Tauriel had not gone unheard. "So allow me to earn that trust.

"In the afternoons, you will still report to Captain Thalion for training and patrols or whatever else needs to be done. But each morning now, you will begin by reporting to me. I will train you myself. Is that understood?"

Kíli gaped with bewilderment and dismay. "Why are you doing this?"

All positive feelings he'd previously had about the former Dwarf's openness instantly disappeared.

"Doe it matter? It is not your place to question why I have made a decision. I am your king." He pushed away his plate, which was now cold. This is an honor almost any other Elf would die for. "Your training will begin tomorrow. Early. You will meet me outside in the courtyard, before the thrush's first song. Am I understood?"

Kíli swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "Aye. Perfectly, hir nin."

"Very good." said Thranduil. "Then you are dismissed."

Kíli gave a cursory bow, then left.

Thranduil called for one of his servants to bring him a fresh platter of food, staring off thoughtfully into the direction Kíli had come from while he waited.

His eventual plan was still the same— he would turn the Dwarf-born against the Dwarves. But first, he was going to see what the Naugonnen was capable of. There were few things in the world that Thranduil hated more than wasted potential. If he was going to do this, then he was going to do this right.

Finally, Fíli had an afternoon off from his princely duties. He determined to make the most of it. It was time to fulfill his promise—to help Kíli.

With Ori's help, he had scored the ancient tomes in Erebor's library, looking for anything he could about soul magic and transformation. Bofur too volunteered to come along.

Unfortunately, his desperate search revealed very little. Most of the stories of Dwarves transforming into other creatures had been animal transformations, and were very clearly fairytales written for young Dwarflings—Gísla and the Seven Badgers, The Raven Prince.

Only one read in a way that was meant to be historical—the supposed record of a young Dwarf prince who was so consumed by dragon sickness that he became a dragon himself. That one gave Fíli a pause. But whether the tale was true or not, it still wasn't helpful. Kíli's sudden transformation into an Elf had looked nothing like the Dwarf prince's slow decline into scales and madness.

After transformations, he looked for anything related to soul magic. What had Tauriel called it again? Feeya Eval-eer? Faya Eevaliar? He wished Tauriel was here so that he could ask her. He didn't even know how to spell it.

But whatever it was, the Dwarves seemed to have no concept like it. There were archaic spell books filled with instructions on how to enchant a rune stone—either to curse their bearer or keep them safe—create ink for moon runes, talismans to make someone fall in love, and spells that wished an enemy harm and shriveled up the hair of their beard (Once again, Fíli wondered how many of these things were actually true).

He decided to hunt for anything Elvish next.

Predictably—and as he should have suspected—there was nothing in the vast halls of Erebor written by Elves. Plenty about Elves, sure, and most of it wasn't flattering. The only book written at least in part by an Elf was a treatise on stone-craft by some Dwarf called Narvi. There was writing in both Sindarin and Khuzdul on the front. The book was badly water-damaged, but Fíli learned by flipping through the pages that his Elvish companion was named Celebrimbor. Apparently, he and this Celebrimbor had worked together to build an enchanted gate in Khazad-Dûm. Narvi went on to describe this gate, but the rest of the writing bled and was too worn away for Fíli to read any further.

Still just as useless.

However, the book still interested him, so he carried it back to the table where he, Ori, and Bofur read through page after page in the candlelight. When he arrived, Ori was still diligently pouring over an ancient-looking text while Bofur was slumped over his, snoring softly.

Fíli dropped the book he was carrying right down in front of him with a thump.

Bofur awoke with a splutter. "I'm up, I'm up! What did I miss?"

"Nothing much," Fíli said with a sigh. "I've looked at fairytales, spell-craft, and history, but not a word about Dwarves turning into Elves. Did you find anything, Ori?"

"Nothing," the scribe said with a shake of his head. "Sorry, Fíli."

At that Fíli felt his spirits fall. If anyone was going to find anything worth mentioning, it was Ori. But still... Kíli needed this. We can't just give up!

"It's getting late, lad." said Bofur. "We're all tired, and I don't know how much more of this we can last. Why don't we all look it over again with fresh eyes tomorrow? Besides, I think you need to feed that bird again."

The Raven chick, which Fíli had and been carrying around in a large pouch stuffed with soft fabrics to create a makeshift nest, started to squawk, having been disturbed by the noise of the book landing as well. It was a rusty, croaking sound, surprisingly deep for a creature of such a small size.

After taking the chick to Oin for medical attention, he'd tried returning the chick to its own kind. However, the young Raven stubbornly refused the adult Ravens that flocked around it, croaking and crying until it was picked up by Fíli again. For better or for worse, the hatchling had bonded to him.

"Alright. Fine. We'll meet back here tomorrow."

Fíli hated the idea of leaving the library so soon, but he knew that Bofur was right. On both accounts. One, he was getting pretty tired and two, his Raven needed to feed.

Despite his earlier misgivings—Fíli remembered how much the Ravens had unnerved him at first, with their unblinking stares and intelligence gleaming bright in their beady black eyes—it was impossible to deny now that he was almost as attached to the chick as it was to him.

As they headed up the winding stairs to the rookery, Fíli once again found himself debating on what to name the chick—Tethra? Huginn? They were strong Dwarf names relating to Ravens, since Fíli had no idea what Ravens called themselves. Although like Dwarves, more Ravens returned to the Mountain every day, the Talking Ravens remained few and far in between.

At last they reached the top of the Ravens' Tower. Fíli paused at an unfamiliar sight. Perched in the open window was the largest Raven he had ever seen. It was also probably the oldest. Its feathers were tinged with gray and its stance was decidedly hunched over as it studied Fíli with rheumy eyes.

It was hard to tell, but Fíli thought its eyes lit up as it caught sight of the bundle he carried.

Spreading its wings, the Raven stooped forward in a low bow. "Hail Prince Fíli, son of Dís!" Its voice was harsh, like sandpaper over granite, and cracked even more so by age.

Just in time, Fíli caught sight of the glint of gold fitted around one of the Raven's talons. He was too far away to see the crest emblazoned on it—a token of friendship given to honor this particular Raven many years ago by the Dwarves—but he immediately knew what it meant. He bowed in time to save face.

"Hail Roäc, son of Carc. Most noble Chieftain of the Ravens. I'm glad you made it safe to Erebor."

It felt surreal to actually be talking to one of the Ravens. Like something straight out of one of Uncle's stories. Fíli remembered the tales Thorin had told him of Roäc's father, Carc, who had been Chieftain in the days before Smaug attacked Erebor.

"Safe, but not glad!" Roäc squawked. "I had gone to the Iron Hills to winter. These bones can no longer take the Mountain winter, so I sought out Dwarf-fires to keep warm. Now I return to find my son and his mate dead! Dead! Their nest crushed by Orc-rocks. They would not leave their hatchling." The Raven deflated, a rasping sound of sadness coming from his throat.

"I am sorry for your loss," Fíli said. He couldn't imagine returning to Erebor, triumphant, only to find out his family was dead. However, the Raven continued like he hadn't heard him.

" But then I am told their hatchling lives. Saved by none other than Prince Fíli of Erebor. Erebor! I can never thank you enough, Dwarf-prince. You saved—and still keep safe!—my granddaughter."

"Your granddaughter," Fíli murmured in surprise. He looked down at the squirming bundle he carried, then back up at the elderly Raven. "What's her name?"

"Coräc."

He listened carefully to Roäc's croak. Cor-awk, the last part pronounced much harsher than Fíli suspected his Dwarven vocal cords would allow. Still, it didn't hurt to try.

"Coräc," he approximated, gently fishing the Raven out of its—out of her—makeshift pouch. "Do you want to go see your sigin'adad?"

The Raven chick squirmed in his grasp, so he set her down on the ground. Roäc swooped down from the window to alight in front of them. Coräc bobbled on unsteady legs toward her grandfather, stubby wings flapping as if attempting to fly. The old Raven bent forward and preened her baby-down, crooning and cawing softly in the language of Ravens the entire time.

Regarding Fíli, he switched back to Westron. "I may not be able to thank you enough, but any favor you have to ask—Ask! And it will be yours. Dwarf-prince who kept my granddaughter safe."

"Thank you." Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. "I do have a favor to ask." The Raven watched him with interest. "I know you do not fly into Mirkwood unless there is a dire need of it—" Fíli had asked a Raven of it, once, shortly after Kíli had left for Mirkwood, and found out the hard way that Ravens were just as afraid of the dark enchantments and Giant Spiders as everyone else—"But please. I'm asking you for this favor anyway. I need to send a message to Mirkwood."

The Raven chieftain bowed once again. "It will be as you ask."