and a swelling rage [2/?, Hobbitfic, Durincest, NC-17]
Title: and a swelling rage
Author: free_pirate
Pairings: Kili/Fili, Fili/Thorin
Words: ~6500 (this part)
Warnings: Incest, angst, major character death, King Fili (is this a warning?)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He feels the weight of the mountain on top of them, millions of tons of stone bearing down, pressing him to breaking.
When they were younger, their favorite stories were the ones Thorin told them of Erebor. They were bedtime stories, told in the hush of the dark house; Kili would curl up in their uncle’s lap, eyes slowly drifting shut and starting back open on a cycle that rose and fell with his words. Fili would sit on the floor, chin on Thorin’s knee, rapt.
They absorbed his words, breathed them like air. Erebor was written into their minds as strongly as it was written into their blood, a home they’d never known but that must surely be wonderful, golden and glittering. They’d reconstructed the mountain on an idea that it couldn’t possibly live up to.
The mountain is nothing like those stories, not initially. The dragon has left much untouched, but what he has corrupted is almost too far gone to salvage.
Fili gets his side re-stitched, ignores Oin’s grumbling and Dwalin’s fuming, settles back onto his cot and waits. He stays there dutifully, moving about only to regain the sense of moving. Kili spends less time sitting at his bedside. There are things to tend to in the city and Fili itches to get out there and deal with it himself. He wants to stop sending Kili because Kili isn’t made for this. This was never supposed to be his job.
They bring him reports like they’re supposed to, and they do nothing to stifle the urge to ignore his wounds and get to work fixing the kingdom.
By his own stubbornness he ends up stuck in bed for longer than he was originally supposed to. The gash in his side takes twice as long to heal because he didn’t stay off of it the first time; long after the muscles in his shoulder have knit back together, his side twinges with every breath.
The Dwarves that once called the mountain home are returning. It’s a slow trickle of craftsmen at first, men with skill in metalwork and masonry; they leave their families behind in the scattered villages of Men and come ready to rebuild. It’s a show of loyalty Fili didn’t expect, but it’s not loyalty to him. It might not even be loyalty to the Line of Durin. Erebor inspires things in people, though how much of that inspiration stems from the mountain itself and how much is connected to her vast wealth is unknowable.
It feels like ages before he’s well enough to deal with the demands of the people. More are coming every day. No matter how quickly the craftsmen are working to get the city back to an operational level there are still more dwarves to house and feed. He sends Bofur and a small group of others to evaluate the ruins, to find out where they need the repairs most.
The first day Fili is deemed capable of dealing with his own affairs is spent in meetings with the head craftsmen, discussing where they should focus their efforts. Kili is a constant presence hovering behind him, like he’s waiting for Fili to fall over at any moment. By midday he’s so exhausted he can’t even be frustrated about it.
The King’s apartments are situated down a dark, labyrinthine passage that hasn’t seen light in over a century. Only minor repairs are needed to the royal complex; this part of the city escaped the dragon’s reach. Fili resolutely refuses to let them anywhere near it with their tools. The residential districts are crumbling around them, and with the volume of dwarves arriving to the mountain they’re going to need those inhabitable.
It’s a noble excuse, and a good cause, but it helps to disguise the taste of fear at the back of his throat, the feeling of innate wrongness when he thinks of living there.
There are a few pockets of rooms that were mostly used for servants before that have been untouched. Fili takes one of the smallest he can convince them to give him (and even then it has a fireplace, but that’s something he’s going to have to accept). Kili takes a room down the hall. It’s the first time in his life Fili’s had a room to himself, and despite how tired he is after long days in the ruined city he finds himself unable to sleep without the sound of his brother’s steady breathing. The room feels too empty without Kili’s soft snuffling snores.
A large caravan arrives from the Blue Mountains shortly after Fili is up and moving. It forces him to consolidate different families to the same rooms to give everyone a place to sleep without them spilling into the corridors and stairwells; the first move he makes is putting Kili in his room.
That night is the first he truly sleeps.
*
Trade negotiations are terribly tedious. Meetings are fast becoming his least favorite occurrences, long hours locked into a dusty room with envoys from any of the surrounding kingdoms, men and elves alike. They’re still walking the edge of a knife with the Elvenking; Fili is not his uncle, but he does remember long weeks locked in the dark, afraid that they might come for him but absolutely terrified they would come for Kili.
A civil relationship with their neighbors to the east is the key to prosperity. He repeats it like a mantra, hoping it will sound more convincing each time. He is continuously disappointed.
Despite his best efforts to keep them away from his symbols of status, the craftsmen have repaired the throne. Smashed and half-missing, it is now returned to its former glory. Fili’s coronation looms, a constant presence lurking on the horizon to match the dark cloud that is his brother constantly at his side. Kili is mostly quiet, sits in on the meetings without contributing a word. Sometimes Fili catches his brother watching him, but he has little time to think about it.
All of his time is devoted to worrying.
He tries to remember what Thorin had begun to teach him about leadership, about what they’d have to do when this time came. What he doesn’t remember Balin does, and together they figure out a plan of action that will get the mountain to its knees, if not entirely back on its feet.
They’ve yet to set a date for the ceremony, but Balin insists it must be soon. The longer they stay kingless the more vulnerable they are, and with the gold in their treasury it would take a fool not to see it as an opportunity. Fili sets conditions only to be denied. There is an old Khuzdul proverb about not feasting until your halls and family are secure; tradition tells them they must wait.
Need tells them otherwise.
*
It’s been a long day of debating. Fili has been in the meeting chambers almost since he woke, and by the time the evening meal is brought to them he wants nothing more than a nice rowdy tavern and a bottomless mug of honeyed mead. Kili is watching him; he can feel the weight of the gaze resting between his shoulders and he rolls them, tries to physically shake the feeling off.
When he sits again, his point made and reasoning exhausted, Kili is closer than he remembers him being before. He rests a hand on Fili’s shoulder, a casual touch that burns through his layers of clothing. The stab of want hits him full in the stomach and he can’t remember the last time he was touched in affection; even this small touch sends him aching and needy.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes briefly.
“I think it’s time the meeting was adjourned for the night,” Kili’s voice says near his ear, low so the Men in the room won’t hear, and Fili nods, breathes out slow and stands, shaking Kili’s hand off of him.
“Perhaps it is best if we reconvene in the morning; we have had a long day, and rest will help us see clearer,” he says, trying to incite half the noble bearing Thorin would have exuded. This seems a constant personal failure. Thorin wore his status like an addition layer of furs draped across his shoulders, regal and steadfast. Fili feels like he’s folding beneath the weight.
The envoy looks like he might argue, but in the end his better sense wins out. Fili leaves the meeting room, breathes in the smell of the mountain with something akin to reverence. Kili is right behind him, and they walk back to their room in silence.
As soon as the door is shut behind them, Fili sheds his overcoat and drops into a chair by the fireplace. He rests his head in his hands and sighs heavily. He half-expects Kili to say something, but the silence endures; he approaches, heavy footfalls stopping behind his chair.
There are hands on his shoulders, thumbs laid along his neck. It’s an intimate touch, too intimate, and Fili’s torn between pulling away and sinking back against those hands. Kili’s fingers are far too nimble for a dwarf; comes from all the archery, Fili supposes. They work their way under his shirt, tentative feather-light touches down his neck.
Kili’s hands meet skin and they rest there for just a moment, half a second, like he’s waiting for Fili to pull away. When Fili doesn’t move, Kili presses in with his thumbs and fingertips, kneading the skin under his hands. After a few moments of just this, manipulating the muscles in his brother’s shoulders, Kili moves Fili’s hair out of the way, pushing it over one shoulder to keep from pulling.
He reaches around the other shoulder, reaches down Fili’s chest and touches the laces holding his shirt closed. At first he just touches them, almost asking. One of Fili’s own hands reaches up to close over Kili’s, stopping him. “Kili,” he says, and he sounds just as miserable as he feels.
“Relax, ‘m just. Need more room,” Kili says, voice too close to Fili’s ear for comfort. After a quick squeeze, Fili drops his hand, lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Kili makes short work of the laces, pushes Fili’s shirt open and off his shoulders so he can see the muscles there twitching as he works at them.
The fire is warm. Someone set it earlier in the evening and a little circle of warmth has collected in front of it. Fili makes a small happy noise as Kili forces him to relax with quick, clever strength. He thinks only of the way those hands feel on him now and not that he knows how they feel when set to other, more intimate tasks.
“You’ve taken to leadership,” Kili says from somewhere above, bringing Fili back to the room and the fire. His voice is soft, low, something Fili hasn’t heard in so long - his brother talks so rarely these days that he treasures each word, rolls them around in his mind.
After a moment, he snorts, an unforgiving sound. “Like a cat to water.”
“Not true. They love you.” Kili presses deeper, harder, working at a knot in the muscle. “They’ll be glad to have you as king.” He’s choosing his words carefully, but it’s a reminder Fili doesn’t need. He sighs, flopping back against Kili’s hands in a decidedly undignified way.
“I’ve told you, I don’t-I’d rather they have a home to come back to.” He’s tired, and it must seep into his voice because Kili stops for a moment, brings one of those talented hands to the back of Fili’s neck and plays lightly with the muscles on either side of his throat. “And besides,” Fili continues with a happy sigh. “I’d like Mother to be here, if nothing else.”
Kili moves back to his shoulders, snaking downwards and working against the awkward angle to start on his middle back. “And it seems wrong to bring her back here when it’s still not perfect, I understand.” Fili makes an approving sound and smiles. It’s his first real smile in what feels like decades “But we should send for her regardless.”
His smile fades a bit, falters. He feels like this Erebor, the Erebor that still reeks of dragon and destruction, would break his mother’s heart. But he concedes his brother’s point. She’d want to be here, and if she knew that it’d been this long and they hadn’t sent word she would have tanned their hides, king or not. “I suppose you’re right. That should buy some time. It’s a long way to Ered Luin.”
“If she’s not on the road already,” Kili says, and Fili can hear the smile in his voice. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s heard today.
“I’ll see who I can send in the morning.” Fili sighs again, leans back into Kili’s touch. “Mahal you’re good with your hands.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Kili stops moving, presses his body close to Fili’s back for a few seconds before removing his hands and pulling away. He brushes through Fili’s thick golden hair with his fingers, takes the clasps out of his braids and undoes them, lets his hair fall in a curtain around his face. He brushes all of it together, off Fili’s shoulders and out of his face.
“Thorin would be proud of you,” is what he says, voice husky. Fili doesn’t look around no matter how much he wants to, doesn’t let Kili see the flinch that his words bring. Because that’s not true, no matter how much Kili would insist it was. Thorin would have things moving by now. Thorin would tell the envoys exactly what was going to happen, wouldn’t allow room for argument or acknowledge the fact that they were in a precarious place politically. Thorin would wear the crown already.
But Fili doesn’t need the heavy, physical weight on his brow to feel the pressure. He feels the phantom of it just fine, and it leaves him aching and angry.
He’s always angry lately. That’s usually that’s Kili’s job, or at least it has been for decades now. Fili’s always there to mellow him out, to be calm and collected in the face of his brother’s wrath.
They’re changing, being molded into new shapes. He misses Kili’s smile, his wide, wild laugh. He misses his brother happy, chattering away about everything and nothing, offended to death at the slightest dig against his beard or skill with his bow. This Kili, this brown-and-blue storm cloud, is a pale imitation of what he once was.
Perhaps in time the sting of loss will fade, the responsibility of leadership won’t be quite so heavy. Perhaps one day they can be themselves again, FiliandKili, two halves of the same whole. There are too many jagged edges to both of them now; they slant off each other, scraping and bruising, trying to fit but never quite able to manage it.
*
Dis arrives on a clear, warm spring day. Fili and Kili emerge from the front gates to meet her caravan, all traces of dignity forgotten as they jostle each other, light and laughing. For a moment they are children again. Fili attempts to school his expression into something less gleeful as the caravan reaches them, as he directs them into the mountain and ignores their bowing and scraping.
There is grey threaded through her hair, mimicking her brother’s. It wasn’t there before they left for the quest, and she looks tired more than anything, face drawn as she leads her pony. When she sees them her face lights up, grin splitting her face. She urges her pony faster and they move forward to meet her. Fili takes her into his arms without preamble and Kili embraces both of them pressing his face into their mother’s hair like a child.
They cling to her like they’re small again, like she’s the only one in the world that can make things better.
Later, they sit by the fireside in their room, Dis resting in Fili’s usual chair and her sons sprawled on the furs in front of her. She’s brushing through Kili’s hair, trying to untangle it and work it into some semblance of respectability. Fili knows as soon as she retires for the night Kili will undo all of her careful work, but it doesn’t matter. His brother is squirming, talking easier than he has in a long time.
Fili is watching them, happy to just observe them interacting. They are very much alike, Kili and Dis. When they fight it feels like the mountains will shake down with their combined fury, but they don’t fight very often. Thorin was always overpowering when he was angry, an unstoppable force that few were able to stand against. Dis is mostly gentle, but she has a streak of wild fury that Kili matches step for step.
“Sit still!” She hisses at her youngest, his squirming dislodging yet another braid from her talented fingers. She weaves them through and through again expertly, quickly, and despite Kili’s constant complaining she manages to get two neat sets of braid to stay in his hair, capping them off before he has a chance to worry at them. “There,” she says when she’s finish, pulling his head back into her lap, forcing him to look at her. “It won’t do to have to running around with your hair loose like a Man.”
Kili scoffs at her, rests his head out of her hands. “Mother, they won’t stay. You know they won’t!”
There’s a knock at the door, cutting through Fili’s laughter. It fades almost immediately and he stands, brushes off his clothing and assumes a place of authority by the mantle. Dis and Kili watch with identical dark eyes as Fili bids them enter; there is some trouble with the caravan that arrived today, and Fili is needed to sort out where people should sleep. There were residences completed this morning, but they need to be assigned with a fair hand.
He throws on his overcoat and leaves to take care of it.
*
The door closes behind Fili with a finality that echoes around them. Kili pulls away, shifts to face his mother on the floor. They look at each other for a long moment.
“I’m worried about him,” Kili finally says, nodding towards the door.
Dis shifts forward in her chair. “It’s not an easy thing, being a king. Less so when you’ve taken over a kingdom in ruins.”
“I wish-“
“I know,” she says, cutting him off. Pain passes over her face for a half a second before it’s gone again. She reaches out to run a hand down his face. “I wish that too.”
He wants to tell her everything, the overwhelming sense of foreboding that’s settled over him, the constant worry for his brother, the niggling, sickening sense of want he thought he’d banished a long while ago. He wants to tell her how angry he is at Thorin for leaving this to them, how much he wishes they’d never left home.
Kili feels like an empty shell, full of fury and swirling emotion he can’t outlet. He needs to get away from the mountain but Fili can’t leave and he can’t leave Fili.
“I’m so proud of you,” Dis says after a long moment of silence, stroking through his hair. “My brave boy.”
“Not me,” he says, sounds just as small and lost as he feels. “I’ve done nothing that merits pride.”
Dis makes a small protesting sound. “Stop that. You’ve done-“
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” Kili stands abruptly, moves back out of the circle of warmth afforded by the fire and reaches for the jug of water on the nightstand. He turns his back, splashes his face and shakes the water off like a dog. By the time he turns again, wet hair dripping, he’s alone.
*
The last time there was a coronation under the mountain was centuries ago. There are nearly none alive now who remember the celebration. Fili’s ceremony will be based heavily on tradition because there is nothing else to go on, and it will be remembered not for its grandeur but because he is the first King Under the Mountain since Thror, two generations removed from the last.
Work on the city kicks into overdrive, craftsmen working day and night to provide guests with places to stay and the promised grandeur of Erebor. The malachite walls gleam in the lantern light and the complicated mirror system that channels the shafts of light to the deepest parts of the mountain are repaired. Families have long since been arriving, and the houses of the residential districts are beginning to show personal touches.
Some days it feels like there was never a dragon at all.
Dis pulls Fili into her room one day as he’s finishing up a meeting, closing the heavy door behind her to keep even Kili’s ears away. “I wanted to wait to give you this, but it seems that necessity has forced my hand.” The box she’s holding is made of heavy ash wood, carved with intricate ancient runes. Fili watches it warily, already out of sorts from the day’s debates.
She pulls the lid off slowly, reverently. Resting inside is the heavy crown of the House of Durin. It still shines, glinting roughly in the low light of the torches around them, and Fili’s eyes are riveted to it. For a long moment he says nothing, mouth dropping open, and then, “I thought it was lost when Thror-“
“A great many things were thought lost. I have kept this even from Thorin out of hope we might one day reclaim Erebor. You have delivered us home-“ she fixes him with a look to halt his protests - “and so it is yours.”
“I… thank you, mother.” Fili watches it for long moments, reaches out and runs his fingers along an edge of the heavy metalwork. It’s as beautiful as it is deadly. He can already feel the weight of it upon his brow and he hesitates, pulls his hand back. “I will wear it proudly.”
Dis puts the box on her desk and pulls him close. “You will do great things, haban. So much is expected of you, and you are so young. But you will prosper. You will build the mountain up again and you will rule for years and years.”
Fili clutches at her back, hands tangling in her hair, every inch the little boy she remembers. “I’m not him,” he says, sounding defeated. “I can’t-“
“You can.” It’s the only thing she can say. It will not assuage his fears. It will not take away the guilt he’s feeling, the overwhelming feeling that this isn’t his. It won’t solve anything in the long run, and Dis feels useless for not being able to bring her father or either of her brothers back from the dead, for not being able to inherit herself and save her son this fate.
*
It is perhaps more important now than ever before to cling to their traditions. Of course, most of the dwarves that have returned to the mountain aren’t entirely sure what those traditions are, and Fili himself is getting by on only a vague understanding of his childhood lessons with Balin.
The night before his coronation is spent in preparation. It isn’t like he would have been able to sleep anyway, not with the knowledge of what will happen at first light. He has no idea what the ceremony will entail; he descends to the level of the meeting room he was summoned to with shaking hands.
It’s horrible not knowing what is required of him. This is something that really should have been discussed before now, so he might have had more time to prepare himself for the tasks ahead. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as having the crown placed upon his head and saying a few words to seal his place as king.
Balin waits for him within the room, accompanied by a few other older dwarves that Fili didn’t know. There is a steaming basin made of some precious, shining metal in the corner and a large wooden table in the center of the room. There is another door on the other side of the room, directly across from the one he’d entered through.
They stand there in silence for a moment, facing each other across the long expanse of the table. Fili steps further into the room, closing the heavy door behind him and taking a seat at the end of the table. He figures this might be what’s expected, and he breathes a tiny sigh of relief when the others quickly assume their own seats.
Balin sits on his right, approaches the topic diplomatically. It’s the only real way Fili’s ever known him to approach a delicate topic, and this is far from the first time Balin’s used that tone on him. This alone makes him feel more relaxed, at ease with the situation.
There will be a ritual purification that will be attended by the dwarves surrounding, priests and councilmen. They never set much store by religion in their exile, but now that they’ve again found their home the old ways are returning. These men have kept their vows even while away from the mountain, and now they are tasked with preparing Fili - an ignorant youth in their eyes, he imagines - to take the mantle of King upon his shoulders.
After he is pure of body, he will approach the sanctuary through the door opposite and spend an undetermined amount of time becoming pure of spirit. When that is done and first light approaches, he will be told about the ceremony the next day, and the priests will leave him to Balin while they prepare the Grand Hall.
He will not be allowed to sleep or eat until these tasks are complete. The grand feast is already in the beginnings of preparation in the halls below, and at the prospect of not eating until this is finished Fili imagines he can almost smell the meat cooking.
When he’s been given a few minutes to process this information, he stands, eager to begin the process so it may be completed.
*
It is many hours later when Fili steps into the ring of fire in the middle of the ceremonial hall. He is mentally and physically exhausted. Regardless of the heaviness of his limbs, his mind is almost serene with clarity. There has never been a time when he wishes for his heavy leathers more than now. He’s been stripped down to only clean linens, light and scratchy against his skin. He’s at least been given the opportunity to use his own swords, a small blessing; they are extensions of his arms, move with him rather than because of him.
He has a better chance of pulling through this victorious with them.
The dwarf across the ring cuts an impressive figure against the air wavering above the fire. Fili doesn’t know him, and there is a possibility that he was chosen specifically for that reason. He’s been imagining the way this would play out since Balin told him what would happen, and in his mind it’s always been Dwalin standing across from him, wielding his mighty axes.
But Dwalin had a hand in teaching him swordwork. He knows the way Dwalin fights, and it would demean the honor to be found at the conclusion of the fight.
The fact is, Fili will be crowned no matter what happens here. It’s more a show of prowess than anything. This is how he gains the respect of his people. They close the ring of fire behind him, heat crawling up his spine as it catches and flares. The other dwarf bows respectfully, and Fili copies the motion, readjusting his grip on his swords.
The fight begins without any clear indication; they’re circling each other, backs pressed almost flat to the fire. And then the other dwarf steps into the middle of the circle. Fili watches the way the fire dances in his eyes, already breaking into beads of sweat as the other dwarf lunges at him.
He wields a hammer, impossibly large and heavy. If Fili had known, perhaps he would have chosen his own as his weapon of choice. But with his swords and the swiftness they afford him, he almost has the advantage.
Almost.
Fili dodges sideways, careful not to let the hammer touch him. This is not a contest of killing; the object is not to maim his opponent in any way. To do so would be seen as an act of dishonor rather than what is intended. No, they fight to draw blood. The dwarf who draws first blood will be judged as the more worthy, will have the respect of the people.
Fili dodges another heavy swing of the hammer, wondering if his opponent was given that particular piece of information. Perhaps he’s testing.
He’s never been as light on his feet as his brother, but he’s still lighter than most dwarves. He places himself on the other side of the fire ring, watching the way the other dwarf hefts his hammer, the way he holds it. The placement of his hands is all wrong; at least, it doesn’t match what he’s been taught, and perhaps that will be his advantage.
He’ll never draw blood if he keeps on the defensive.
The other dwarf circles for a moment, and they get back to their earlier form; tracing the inside of the ring, staring each other down. The crowd outside is completely silent, held in thrall by their careful dance. It’s far more graceful than any fight Fili’s been in recently, and for a moment the phantom of an orc’s blade cuts through his side and he twitches, trying not to betray the pain.
Fili starts forward, trying to draw the other into the offensive. His heart is thundering in his ears, adrenaline unlike he’s felt since the day he received the wound propelling him onward despite the exhaustion settling in his limbs. He gets the other to take a few tentative steps forward.
Sweat falls down his scalp, itching under his hair as the fire heats the air around them. He lunges with one sword and the dwarf leans out of his reach, swinging his hammer around with a fluidity that doesn’t seem like it should belong to someone so large.
And suddenly their graceful dance is broken; the other dwarf parries furious sword thrusts one after another with the shaft on the large hammer; Fili’s limbs ache with the exertion but he doesn’t let up, pressing his advantage. When he switches paths and tries to bring one sword into the flesh of his opponent’s thigh the dwarf stumbles, barely brings his hammer around in time to stop the swing.
Fili snarls, the only sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire and the pounding of their feet on the stone as they run each other across the ring and back again with furious slashes and heavy-handed parries. It seems like ages that they do this, chasing each other forward and back. Fili’s arms ache with the jarring force of the hammer landing across the broadest part of his swords. Sweat falls into his eyes, wriggles down his spine; the clean linen he’d been given to wear for the occasion is soaked through with it, darkening the fabric, and tendrils of curling hair stick to his forehead.
This is what he imagines a blade feels like as it’s being forged, metal heated and struck until it assumes a more useful shape.
The fight lasts long past when it should have ended; if they were aiming to kill each other it would have been done a long time ago. But this is more delicate and after a while their movements become slow, sluggish, affected by lethargy. Smoke has gathered near the ceiling and pulls back down, clouding the ring and making it more difficult to see his opponent, but he must be in as much pain as Fili is with how he’s moving. And of course, his heavier weapon is not helping him.
Fili can feel the strength leaving his muscles as they reach breaking point, as he weakens beyond what his body was created to endure. He gathers what he can find remaining and presses forward one last time, counting on the other warrior’s weariness to slow him down further. He is rewarded when the hammer misses a beat, doesn’t automatically come up to block his attack. Fili’s second sword makes a daringly wide arc, air whistling as the blade cuts through, and the blade lands on the other dwarf’s shoulder.
The feel of the blade cutting through skin reverberates up the metal, singing into Fili’s palm. He lets out a triumphant sound as the thick red begins oozing out to coat his blade, and he pulls it back before he unintentionally buries it further and ends up hurting his opponent.
There is a roar rising up from beyond the fire ring as the crowd catches sight of the red. Fili drops both of his blades and sags, all strength gone from him, task accomplished.
The dwarf in front of him drops his hammer, bows low and averts his eyes. The fire around them is doused, and one of the councilmen from the night before steps across the cinders and bows before him, raises his arm to the crowd. The roar intensifies, and Fili grins despite himself, trying to catch his breath.
He has proven himself worthy. For the moment, all of his worries are gone.
It might be an hour before the cheers die down for all Fili knows, staring dazed out at the crowd. When it is quiet again, or relatively so, his councilors lead him away. They leave the smoky hall and follow a winding corridor to a small room with a basin of steaming water.
He must clean himself for his presentation as the King Under the Mountain. Right now his limbs don’t feel capable of the task, but he tells himself that it’s just two more steps, three more steps, and then he can rest. He just has to get through his presentation and the hardest parts are already over.
They don’t stay this time, don’t watch over him as he purifies himself, and in the brief moment of privacy Fili sits in the scalding water and tries to work his head around what’s happening. He has done his family proud in this if nothing else. He doesn’t deserve the praise, but right now his resolve is weak and he is tired enough to accept it. The cheers of his people still ring in his ears as he sets about cleaning himself, washing sweat away with the soft cloth they’ve give him.
When he stands, water sliding down his body, he is immediately attended to. A servant brings him fresh linens and a coarse brush to work his hair back to something manageable, something more regal than the mess it’s become through his trial.
He’s working his hands through, finding the strands he usually braids together, when his brother finds him. “Kili,” he says, tries to keep his exhaustion out of his voice. “Should you be here?”
“Balin sent me,” Kili says, eyes roving over Fili’s body, checking for signs of injury he knows won’t be there. He’s still paranoid; Fili can’t blame him. If it were his brother in that ring instead of himself, he would have been right there beside him as soon as the flames died. “You need the new braids in your hair.”
Fili had almost forgotten about this. In all of the other things that had happened since he last slept, the braids had gotten lost. He hands Kili the brush, bows his head just that small amount more so Kili can see, and submits himself to the fingers pressing along his scalp, massaging. It’s those nimble fingers undoing him again, and he’s too tired to resist the small sound that wants to escape at the touch.
But Kili ceases his teasing and finds the hair he wants, pulls the braids through quickly and effortlessly. These are special for more than the obvious reason; the design is intricate, but Kili’s been practicing them. Fili tries to imagine Kili working them into his own hair, weaving dark strand over dark strand until the braids of kingship rested there, and finds that Kili with any sort of braid is impossible for his mind to achieve.
When he’s finished, he admires his work, takes Fili’s jaw between his fingers and tilts his head to see properly. Fili reaches up to touch them, run his fingers over the loops and dips. “Thank you, Kili,” he says as he touches them reverently.
This moment feels more like a coronation than it will when they place his grandfather’s heavy crown on his head.
Kili steps back, claps him on the shoulder suddenly. “You did well. The people will love you for it.”
There’s a moment when Fili almost slips, in the haze of elation that Kili’s words bring. He flushes with pride and glances down at the floor.
“Now,” Kili continues without waiting for him. “We have to get you into your new armor so the people can properly greet their King.” He’s grinning, just a little sadness lingering around his eyes, and Fili wants to wipe it away.
His new armor is made of heavy plate, nothing like what he was expecting. The craftsmen haven’t had much time to prepare it, but the plate still shines, is still heavy when Kili lifts it onto his shoulders and does the straps along the sides. The breastplate is engraved with his own personal symbol, gems set heavy at the points of the stylized crown he’s always considered his. It’s strange how that symbol is so like him but the reality of it suits him far less.
Kili helps him strap it on, complicated and nothing like what he’s used to. If this is finery than he’d rather not have it, would rather go back to his dirty leathers and heavy overcoat and leave it at that.
But this is what’s required of him, at least today. So he puts it on and wears it proudly, the King Under the Mountain, one of three living members of the line of Durin the Deathless.
He marches out to meet his people, head held high.
Author: free_pirate
Pairings: Kili/Fili, Fili/Thorin
Words: ~6500 (this part)
Warnings: Incest, angst, major character death, King Fili (is this a warning?)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He feels the weight of the mountain on top of them, millions of tons of stone bearing down, pressing him to breaking.
When they were younger, their favorite stories were the ones Thorin told them of Erebor. They were bedtime stories, told in the hush of the dark house; Kili would curl up in their uncle’s lap, eyes slowly drifting shut and starting back open on a cycle that rose and fell with his words. Fili would sit on the floor, chin on Thorin’s knee, rapt.
They absorbed his words, breathed them like air. Erebor was written into their minds as strongly as it was written into their blood, a home they’d never known but that must surely be wonderful, golden and glittering. They’d reconstructed the mountain on an idea that it couldn’t possibly live up to.
The mountain is nothing like those stories, not initially. The dragon has left much untouched, but what he has corrupted is almost too far gone to salvage.
Fili gets his side re-stitched, ignores Oin’s grumbling and Dwalin’s fuming, settles back onto his cot and waits. He stays there dutifully, moving about only to regain the sense of moving. Kili spends less time sitting at his bedside. There are things to tend to in the city and Fili itches to get out there and deal with it himself. He wants to stop sending Kili because Kili isn’t made for this. This was never supposed to be his job.
They bring him reports like they’re supposed to, and they do nothing to stifle the urge to ignore his wounds and get to work fixing the kingdom.
By his own stubbornness he ends up stuck in bed for longer than he was originally supposed to. The gash in his side takes twice as long to heal because he didn’t stay off of it the first time; long after the muscles in his shoulder have knit back together, his side twinges with every breath.
The Dwarves that once called the mountain home are returning. It’s a slow trickle of craftsmen at first, men with skill in metalwork and masonry; they leave their families behind in the scattered villages of Men and come ready to rebuild. It’s a show of loyalty Fili didn’t expect, but it’s not loyalty to him. It might not even be loyalty to the Line of Durin. Erebor inspires things in people, though how much of that inspiration stems from the mountain itself and how much is connected to her vast wealth is unknowable.
It feels like ages before he’s well enough to deal with the demands of the people. More are coming every day. No matter how quickly the craftsmen are working to get the city back to an operational level there are still more dwarves to house and feed. He sends Bofur and a small group of others to evaluate the ruins, to find out where they need the repairs most.
The first day Fili is deemed capable of dealing with his own affairs is spent in meetings with the head craftsmen, discussing where they should focus their efforts. Kili is a constant presence hovering behind him, like he’s waiting for Fili to fall over at any moment. By midday he’s so exhausted he can’t even be frustrated about it.
The King’s apartments are situated down a dark, labyrinthine passage that hasn’t seen light in over a century. Only minor repairs are needed to the royal complex; this part of the city escaped the dragon’s reach. Fili resolutely refuses to let them anywhere near it with their tools. The residential districts are crumbling around them, and with the volume of dwarves arriving to the mountain they’re going to need those inhabitable.
It’s a noble excuse, and a good cause, but it helps to disguise the taste of fear at the back of his throat, the feeling of innate wrongness when he thinks of living there.
There are a few pockets of rooms that were mostly used for servants before that have been untouched. Fili takes one of the smallest he can convince them to give him (and even then it has a fireplace, but that’s something he’s going to have to accept). Kili takes a room down the hall. It’s the first time in his life Fili’s had a room to himself, and despite how tired he is after long days in the ruined city he finds himself unable to sleep without the sound of his brother’s steady breathing. The room feels too empty without Kili’s soft snuffling snores.
A large caravan arrives from the Blue Mountains shortly after Fili is up and moving. It forces him to consolidate different families to the same rooms to give everyone a place to sleep without them spilling into the corridors and stairwells; the first move he makes is putting Kili in his room.
That night is the first he truly sleeps.
*
Trade negotiations are terribly tedious. Meetings are fast becoming his least favorite occurrences, long hours locked into a dusty room with envoys from any of the surrounding kingdoms, men and elves alike. They’re still walking the edge of a knife with the Elvenking; Fili is not his uncle, but he does remember long weeks locked in the dark, afraid that they might come for him but absolutely terrified they would come for Kili.
A civil relationship with their neighbors to the east is the key to prosperity. He repeats it like a mantra, hoping it will sound more convincing each time. He is continuously disappointed.
Despite his best efforts to keep them away from his symbols of status, the craftsmen have repaired the throne. Smashed and half-missing, it is now returned to its former glory. Fili’s coronation looms, a constant presence lurking on the horizon to match the dark cloud that is his brother constantly at his side. Kili is mostly quiet, sits in on the meetings without contributing a word. Sometimes Fili catches his brother watching him, but he has little time to think about it.
All of his time is devoted to worrying.
He tries to remember what Thorin had begun to teach him about leadership, about what they’d have to do when this time came. What he doesn’t remember Balin does, and together they figure out a plan of action that will get the mountain to its knees, if not entirely back on its feet.
They’ve yet to set a date for the ceremony, but Balin insists it must be soon. The longer they stay kingless the more vulnerable they are, and with the gold in their treasury it would take a fool not to see it as an opportunity. Fili sets conditions only to be denied. There is an old Khuzdul proverb about not feasting until your halls and family are secure; tradition tells them they must wait.
Need tells them otherwise.
*
It’s been a long day of debating. Fili has been in the meeting chambers almost since he woke, and by the time the evening meal is brought to them he wants nothing more than a nice rowdy tavern and a bottomless mug of honeyed mead. Kili is watching him; he can feel the weight of the gaze resting between his shoulders and he rolls them, tries to physically shake the feeling off.
When he sits again, his point made and reasoning exhausted, Kili is closer than he remembers him being before. He rests a hand on Fili’s shoulder, a casual touch that burns through his layers of clothing. The stab of want hits him full in the stomach and he can’t remember the last time he was touched in affection; even this small touch sends him aching and needy.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes briefly.
“I think it’s time the meeting was adjourned for the night,” Kili’s voice says near his ear, low so the Men in the room won’t hear, and Fili nods, breathes out slow and stands, shaking Kili’s hand off of him.
“Perhaps it is best if we reconvene in the morning; we have had a long day, and rest will help us see clearer,” he says, trying to incite half the noble bearing Thorin would have exuded. This seems a constant personal failure. Thorin wore his status like an addition layer of furs draped across his shoulders, regal and steadfast. Fili feels like he’s folding beneath the weight.
The envoy looks like he might argue, but in the end his better sense wins out. Fili leaves the meeting room, breathes in the smell of the mountain with something akin to reverence. Kili is right behind him, and they walk back to their room in silence.
As soon as the door is shut behind them, Fili sheds his overcoat and drops into a chair by the fireplace. He rests his head in his hands and sighs heavily. He half-expects Kili to say something, but the silence endures; he approaches, heavy footfalls stopping behind his chair.
There are hands on his shoulders, thumbs laid along his neck. It’s an intimate touch, too intimate, and Fili’s torn between pulling away and sinking back against those hands. Kili’s fingers are far too nimble for a dwarf; comes from all the archery, Fili supposes. They work their way under his shirt, tentative feather-light touches down his neck.
Kili’s hands meet skin and they rest there for just a moment, half a second, like he’s waiting for Fili to pull away. When Fili doesn’t move, Kili presses in with his thumbs and fingertips, kneading the skin under his hands. After a few moments of just this, manipulating the muscles in his brother’s shoulders, Kili moves Fili’s hair out of the way, pushing it over one shoulder to keep from pulling.
He reaches around the other shoulder, reaches down Fili’s chest and touches the laces holding his shirt closed. At first he just touches them, almost asking. One of Fili’s own hands reaches up to close over Kili’s, stopping him. “Kili,” he says, and he sounds just as miserable as he feels.
“Relax, ‘m just. Need more room,” Kili says, voice too close to Fili’s ear for comfort. After a quick squeeze, Fili drops his hand, lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Kili makes short work of the laces, pushes Fili’s shirt open and off his shoulders so he can see the muscles there twitching as he works at them.
The fire is warm. Someone set it earlier in the evening and a little circle of warmth has collected in front of it. Fili makes a small happy noise as Kili forces him to relax with quick, clever strength. He thinks only of the way those hands feel on him now and not that he knows how they feel when set to other, more intimate tasks.
“You’ve taken to leadership,” Kili says from somewhere above, bringing Fili back to the room and the fire. His voice is soft, low, something Fili hasn’t heard in so long - his brother talks so rarely these days that he treasures each word, rolls them around in his mind.
After a moment, he snorts, an unforgiving sound. “Like a cat to water.”
“Not true. They love you.” Kili presses deeper, harder, working at a knot in the muscle. “They’ll be glad to have you as king.” He’s choosing his words carefully, but it’s a reminder Fili doesn’t need. He sighs, flopping back against Kili’s hands in a decidedly undignified way.
“I’ve told you, I don’t-I’d rather they have a home to come back to.” He’s tired, and it must seep into his voice because Kili stops for a moment, brings one of those talented hands to the back of Fili’s neck and plays lightly with the muscles on either side of his throat. “And besides,” Fili continues with a happy sigh. “I’d like Mother to be here, if nothing else.”
Kili moves back to his shoulders, snaking downwards and working against the awkward angle to start on his middle back. “And it seems wrong to bring her back here when it’s still not perfect, I understand.” Fili makes an approving sound and smiles. It’s his first real smile in what feels like decades “But we should send for her regardless.”
His smile fades a bit, falters. He feels like this Erebor, the Erebor that still reeks of dragon and destruction, would break his mother’s heart. But he concedes his brother’s point. She’d want to be here, and if she knew that it’d been this long and they hadn’t sent word she would have tanned their hides, king or not. “I suppose you’re right. That should buy some time. It’s a long way to Ered Luin.”
“If she’s not on the road already,” Kili says, and Fili can hear the smile in his voice. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s heard today.
“I’ll see who I can send in the morning.” Fili sighs again, leans back into Kili’s touch. “Mahal you’re good with your hands.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Kili stops moving, presses his body close to Fili’s back for a few seconds before removing his hands and pulling away. He brushes through Fili’s thick golden hair with his fingers, takes the clasps out of his braids and undoes them, lets his hair fall in a curtain around his face. He brushes all of it together, off Fili’s shoulders and out of his face.
“Thorin would be proud of you,” is what he says, voice husky. Fili doesn’t look around no matter how much he wants to, doesn’t let Kili see the flinch that his words bring. Because that’s not true, no matter how much Kili would insist it was. Thorin would have things moving by now. Thorin would tell the envoys exactly what was going to happen, wouldn’t allow room for argument or acknowledge the fact that they were in a precarious place politically. Thorin would wear the crown already.
But Fili doesn’t need the heavy, physical weight on his brow to feel the pressure. He feels the phantom of it just fine, and it leaves him aching and angry.
He’s always angry lately. That’s usually that’s Kili’s job, or at least it has been for decades now. Fili’s always there to mellow him out, to be calm and collected in the face of his brother’s wrath.
They’re changing, being molded into new shapes. He misses Kili’s smile, his wide, wild laugh. He misses his brother happy, chattering away about everything and nothing, offended to death at the slightest dig against his beard or skill with his bow. This Kili, this brown-and-blue storm cloud, is a pale imitation of what he once was.
Perhaps in time the sting of loss will fade, the responsibility of leadership won’t be quite so heavy. Perhaps one day they can be themselves again, FiliandKili, two halves of the same whole. There are too many jagged edges to both of them now; they slant off each other, scraping and bruising, trying to fit but never quite able to manage it.
*
Dis arrives on a clear, warm spring day. Fili and Kili emerge from the front gates to meet her caravan, all traces of dignity forgotten as they jostle each other, light and laughing. For a moment they are children again. Fili attempts to school his expression into something less gleeful as the caravan reaches them, as he directs them into the mountain and ignores their bowing and scraping.
There is grey threaded through her hair, mimicking her brother’s. It wasn’t there before they left for the quest, and she looks tired more than anything, face drawn as she leads her pony. When she sees them her face lights up, grin splitting her face. She urges her pony faster and they move forward to meet her. Fili takes her into his arms without preamble and Kili embraces both of them pressing his face into their mother’s hair like a child.
They cling to her like they’re small again, like she’s the only one in the world that can make things better.
Later, they sit by the fireside in their room, Dis resting in Fili’s usual chair and her sons sprawled on the furs in front of her. She’s brushing through Kili’s hair, trying to untangle it and work it into some semblance of respectability. Fili knows as soon as she retires for the night Kili will undo all of her careful work, but it doesn’t matter. His brother is squirming, talking easier than he has in a long time.
Fili is watching them, happy to just observe them interacting. They are very much alike, Kili and Dis. When they fight it feels like the mountains will shake down with their combined fury, but they don’t fight very often. Thorin was always overpowering when he was angry, an unstoppable force that few were able to stand against. Dis is mostly gentle, but she has a streak of wild fury that Kili matches step for step.
“Sit still!” She hisses at her youngest, his squirming dislodging yet another braid from her talented fingers. She weaves them through and through again expertly, quickly, and despite Kili’s constant complaining she manages to get two neat sets of braid to stay in his hair, capping them off before he has a chance to worry at them. “There,” she says when she’s finish, pulling his head back into her lap, forcing him to look at her. “It won’t do to have to running around with your hair loose like a Man.”
Kili scoffs at her, rests his head out of her hands. “Mother, they won’t stay. You know they won’t!”
There’s a knock at the door, cutting through Fili’s laughter. It fades almost immediately and he stands, brushes off his clothing and assumes a place of authority by the mantle. Dis and Kili watch with identical dark eyes as Fili bids them enter; there is some trouble with the caravan that arrived today, and Fili is needed to sort out where people should sleep. There were residences completed this morning, but they need to be assigned with a fair hand.
He throws on his overcoat and leaves to take care of it.
*
The door closes behind Fili with a finality that echoes around them. Kili pulls away, shifts to face his mother on the floor. They look at each other for a long moment.
“I’m worried about him,” Kili finally says, nodding towards the door.
Dis shifts forward in her chair. “It’s not an easy thing, being a king. Less so when you’ve taken over a kingdom in ruins.”
“I wish-“
“I know,” she says, cutting him off. Pain passes over her face for a half a second before it’s gone again. She reaches out to run a hand down his face. “I wish that too.”
He wants to tell her everything, the overwhelming sense of foreboding that’s settled over him, the constant worry for his brother, the niggling, sickening sense of want he thought he’d banished a long while ago. He wants to tell her how angry he is at Thorin for leaving this to them, how much he wishes they’d never left home.
Kili feels like an empty shell, full of fury and swirling emotion he can’t outlet. He needs to get away from the mountain but Fili can’t leave and he can’t leave Fili.
“I’m so proud of you,” Dis says after a long moment of silence, stroking through his hair. “My brave boy.”
“Not me,” he says, sounds just as small and lost as he feels. “I’ve done nothing that merits pride.”
Dis makes a small protesting sound. “Stop that. You’ve done-“
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” Kili stands abruptly, moves back out of the circle of warmth afforded by the fire and reaches for the jug of water on the nightstand. He turns his back, splashes his face and shakes the water off like a dog. By the time he turns again, wet hair dripping, he’s alone.
*
The last time there was a coronation under the mountain was centuries ago. There are nearly none alive now who remember the celebration. Fili’s ceremony will be based heavily on tradition because there is nothing else to go on, and it will be remembered not for its grandeur but because he is the first King Under the Mountain since Thror, two generations removed from the last.
Work on the city kicks into overdrive, craftsmen working day and night to provide guests with places to stay and the promised grandeur of Erebor. The malachite walls gleam in the lantern light and the complicated mirror system that channels the shafts of light to the deepest parts of the mountain are repaired. Families have long since been arriving, and the houses of the residential districts are beginning to show personal touches.
Some days it feels like there was never a dragon at all.
Dis pulls Fili into her room one day as he’s finishing up a meeting, closing the heavy door behind her to keep even Kili’s ears away. “I wanted to wait to give you this, but it seems that necessity has forced my hand.” The box she’s holding is made of heavy ash wood, carved with intricate ancient runes. Fili watches it warily, already out of sorts from the day’s debates.
She pulls the lid off slowly, reverently. Resting inside is the heavy crown of the House of Durin. It still shines, glinting roughly in the low light of the torches around them, and Fili’s eyes are riveted to it. For a long moment he says nothing, mouth dropping open, and then, “I thought it was lost when Thror-“
“A great many things were thought lost. I have kept this even from Thorin out of hope we might one day reclaim Erebor. You have delivered us home-“ she fixes him with a look to halt his protests - “and so it is yours.”
“I… thank you, mother.” Fili watches it for long moments, reaches out and runs his fingers along an edge of the heavy metalwork. It’s as beautiful as it is deadly. He can already feel the weight of it upon his brow and he hesitates, pulls his hand back. “I will wear it proudly.”
Dis puts the box on her desk and pulls him close. “You will do great things, haban. So much is expected of you, and you are so young. But you will prosper. You will build the mountain up again and you will rule for years and years.”
Fili clutches at her back, hands tangling in her hair, every inch the little boy she remembers. “I’m not him,” he says, sounding defeated. “I can’t-“
“You can.” It’s the only thing she can say. It will not assuage his fears. It will not take away the guilt he’s feeling, the overwhelming feeling that this isn’t his. It won’t solve anything in the long run, and Dis feels useless for not being able to bring her father or either of her brothers back from the dead, for not being able to inherit herself and save her son this fate.
*
It is perhaps more important now than ever before to cling to their traditions. Of course, most of the dwarves that have returned to the mountain aren’t entirely sure what those traditions are, and Fili himself is getting by on only a vague understanding of his childhood lessons with Balin.
The night before his coronation is spent in preparation. It isn’t like he would have been able to sleep anyway, not with the knowledge of what will happen at first light. He has no idea what the ceremony will entail; he descends to the level of the meeting room he was summoned to with shaking hands.
It’s horrible not knowing what is required of him. This is something that really should have been discussed before now, so he might have had more time to prepare himself for the tasks ahead. Somehow he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as having the crown placed upon his head and saying a few words to seal his place as king.
Balin waits for him within the room, accompanied by a few other older dwarves that Fili didn’t know. There is a steaming basin made of some precious, shining metal in the corner and a large wooden table in the center of the room. There is another door on the other side of the room, directly across from the one he’d entered through.
They stand there in silence for a moment, facing each other across the long expanse of the table. Fili steps further into the room, closing the heavy door behind him and taking a seat at the end of the table. He figures this might be what’s expected, and he breathes a tiny sigh of relief when the others quickly assume their own seats.
Balin sits on his right, approaches the topic diplomatically. It’s the only real way Fili’s ever known him to approach a delicate topic, and this is far from the first time Balin’s used that tone on him. This alone makes him feel more relaxed, at ease with the situation.
There will be a ritual purification that will be attended by the dwarves surrounding, priests and councilmen. They never set much store by religion in their exile, but now that they’ve again found their home the old ways are returning. These men have kept their vows even while away from the mountain, and now they are tasked with preparing Fili - an ignorant youth in their eyes, he imagines - to take the mantle of King upon his shoulders.
After he is pure of body, he will approach the sanctuary through the door opposite and spend an undetermined amount of time becoming pure of spirit. When that is done and first light approaches, he will be told about the ceremony the next day, and the priests will leave him to Balin while they prepare the Grand Hall.
He will not be allowed to sleep or eat until these tasks are complete. The grand feast is already in the beginnings of preparation in the halls below, and at the prospect of not eating until this is finished Fili imagines he can almost smell the meat cooking.
When he’s been given a few minutes to process this information, he stands, eager to begin the process so it may be completed.
*
It is many hours later when Fili steps into the ring of fire in the middle of the ceremonial hall. He is mentally and physically exhausted. Regardless of the heaviness of his limbs, his mind is almost serene with clarity. There has never been a time when he wishes for his heavy leathers more than now. He’s been stripped down to only clean linens, light and scratchy against his skin. He’s at least been given the opportunity to use his own swords, a small blessing; they are extensions of his arms, move with him rather than because of him.
He has a better chance of pulling through this victorious with them.
The dwarf across the ring cuts an impressive figure against the air wavering above the fire. Fili doesn’t know him, and there is a possibility that he was chosen specifically for that reason. He’s been imagining the way this would play out since Balin told him what would happen, and in his mind it’s always been Dwalin standing across from him, wielding his mighty axes.
But Dwalin had a hand in teaching him swordwork. He knows the way Dwalin fights, and it would demean the honor to be found at the conclusion of the fight.
The fact is, Fili will be crowned no matter what happens here. It’s more a show of prowess than anything. This is how he gains the respect of his people. They close the ring of fire behind him, heat crawling up his spine as it catches and flares. The other dwarf bows respectfully, and Fili copies the motion, readjusting his grip on his swords.
The fight begins without any clear indication; they’re circling each other, backs pressed almost flat to the fire. And then the other dwarf steps into the middle of the circle. Fili watches the way the fire dances in his eyes, already breaking into beads of sweat as the other dwarf lunges at him.
He wields a hammer, impossibly large and heavy. If Fili had known, perhaps he would have chosen his own as his weapon of choice. But with his swords and the swiftness they afford him, he almost has the advantage.
Almost.
Fili dodges sideways, careful not to let the hammer touch him. This is not a contest of killing; the object is not to maim his opponent in any way. To do so would be seen as an act of dishonor rather than what is intended. No, they fight to draw blood. The dwarf who draws first blood will be judged as the more worthy, will have the respect of the people.
Fili dodges another heavy swing of the hammer, wondering if his opponent was given that particular piece of information. Perhaps he’s testing.
He’s never been as light on his feet as his brother, but he’s still lighter than most dwarves. He places himself on the other side of the fire ring, watching the way the other dwarf hefts his hammer, the way he holds it. The placement of his hands is all wrong; at least, it doesn’t match what he’s been taught, and perhaps that will be his advantage.
He’ll never draw blood if he keeps on the defensive.
The other dwarf circles for a moment, and they get back to their earlier form; tracing the inside of the ring, staring each other down. The crowd outside is completely silent, held in thrall by their careful dance. It’s far more graceful than any fight Fili’s been in recently, and for a moment the phantom of an orc’s blade cuts through his side and he twitches, trying not to betray the pain.
Fili starts forward, trying to draw the other into the offensive. His heart is thundering in his ears, adrenaline unlike he’s felt since the day he received the wound propelling him onward despite the exhaustion settling in his limbs. He gets the other to take a few tentative steps forward.
Sweat falls down his scalp, itching under his hair as the fire heats the air around them. He lunges with one sword and the dwarf leans out of his reach, swinging his hammer around with a fluidity that doesn’t seem like it should belong to someone so large.
And suddenly their graceful dance is broken; the other dwarf parries furious sword thrusts one after another with the shaft on the large hammer; Fili’s limbs ache with the exertion but he doesn’t let up, pressing his advantage. When he switches paths and tries to bring one sword into the flesh of his opponent’s thigh the dwarf stumbles, barely brings his hammer around in time to stop the swing.
Fili snarls, the only sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire and the pounding of their feet on the stone as they run each other across the ring and back again with furious slashes and heavy-handed parries. It seems like ages that they do this, chasing each other forward and back. Fili’s arms ache with the jarring force of the hammer landing across the broadest part of his swords. Sweat falls into his eyes, wriggles down his spine; the clean linen he’d been given to wear for the occasion is soaked through with it, darkening the fabric, and tendrils of curling hair stick to his forehead.
This is what he imagines a blade feels like as it’s being forged, metal heated and struck until it assumes a more useful shape.
The fight lasts long past when it should have ended; if they were aiming to kill each other it would have been done a long time ago. But this is more delicate and after a while their movements become slow, sluggish, affected by lethargy. Smoke has gathered near the ceiling and pulls back down, clouding the ring and making it more difficult to see his opponent, but he must be in as much pain as Fili is with how he’s moving. And of course, his heavier weapon is not helping him.
Fili can feel the strength leaving his muscles as they reach breaking point, as he weakens beyond what his body was created to endure. He gathers what he can find remaining and presses forward one last time, counting on the other warrior’s weariness to slow him down further. He is rewarded when the hammer misses a beat, doesn’t automatically come up to block his attack. Fili’s second sword makes a daringly wide arc, air whistling as the blade cuts through, and the blade lands on the other dwarf’s shoulder.
The feel of the blade cutting through skin reverberates up the metal, singing into Fili’s palm. He lets out a triumphant sound as the thick red begins oozing out to coat his blade, and he pulls it back before he unintentionally buries it further and ends up hurting his opponent.
There is a roar rising up from beyond the fire ring as the crowd catches sight of the red. Fili drops both of his blades and sags, all strength gone from him, task accomplished.
The dwarf in front of him drops his hammer, bows low and averts his eyes. The fire around them is doused, and one of the councilmen from the night before steps across the cinders and bows before him, raises his arm to the crowd. The roar intensifies, and Fili grins despite himself, trying to catch his breath.
He has proven himself worthy. For the moment, all of his worries are gone.
It might be an hour before the cheers die down for all Fili knows, staring dazed out at the crowd. When it is quiet again, or relatively so, his councilors lead him away. They leave the smoky hall and follow a winding corridor to a small room with a basin of steaming water.
He must clean himself for his presentation as the King Under the Mountain. Right now his limbs don’t feel capable of the task, but he tells himself that it’s just two more steps, three more steps, and then he can rest. He just has to get through his presentation and the hardest parts are already over.
They don’t stay this time, don’t watch over him as he purifies himself, and in the brief moment of privacy Fili sits in the scalding water and tries to work his head around what’s happening. He has done his family proud in this if nothing else. He doesn’t deserve the praise, but right now his resolve is weak and he is tired enough to accept it. The cheers of his people still ring in his ears as he sets about cleaning himself, washing sweat away with the soft cloth they’ve give him.
When he stands, water sliding down his body, he is immediately attended to. A servant brings him fresh linens and a coarse brush to work his hair back to something manageable, something more regal than the mess it’s become through his trial.
He’s working his hands through, finding the strands he usually braids together, when his brother finds him. “Kili,” he says, tries to keep his exhaustion out of his voice. “Should you be here?”
“Balin sent me,” Kili says, eyes roving over Fili’s body, checking for signs of injury he knows won’t be there. He’s still paranoid; Fili can’t blame him. If it were his brother in that ring instead of himself, he would have been right there beside him as soon as the flames died. “You need the new braids in your hair.”
Fili had almost forgotten about this. In all of the other things that had happened since he last slept, the braids had gotten lost. He hands Kili the brush, bows his head just that small amount more so Kili can see, and submits himself to the fingers pressing along his scalp, massaging. It’s those nimble fingers undoing him again, and he’s too tired to resist the small sound that wants to escape at the touch.
But Kili ceases his teasing and finds the hair he wants, pulls the braids through quickly and effortlessly. These are special for more than the obvious reason; the design is intricate, but Kili’s been practicing them. Fili tries to imagine Kili working them into his own hair, weaving dark strand over dark strand until the braids of kingship rested there, and finds that Kili with any sort of braid is impossible for his mind to achieve.
When he’s finished, he admires his work, takes Fili’s jaw between his fingers and tilts his head to see properly. Fili reaches up to touch them, run his fingers over the loops and dips. “Thank you, Kili,” he says as he touches them reverently.
This moment feels more like a coronation than it will when they place his grandfather’s heavy crown on his head.
Kili steps back, claps him on the shoulder suddenly. “You did well. The people will love you for it.”
There’s a moment when Fili almost slips, in the haze of elation that Kili’s words bring. He flushes with pride and glances down at the floor.
“Now,” Kili continues without waiting for him. “We have to get you into your new armor so the people can properly greet their King.” He’s grinning, just a little sadness lingering around his eyes, and Fili wants to wipe it away.
His new armor is made of heavy plate, nothing like what he was expecting. The craftsmen haven’t had much time to prepare it, but the plate still shines, is still heavy when Kili lifts it onto his shoulders and does the straps along the sides. The breastplate is engraved with his own personal symbol, gems set heavy at the points of the stylized crown he’s always considered his. It’s strange how that symbol is so like him but the reality of it suits him far less.
Kili helps him strap it on, complicated and nothing like what he’s used to. If this is finery than he’d rather not have it, would rather go back to his dirty leathers and heavy overcoat and leave it at that.
But this is what’s required of him, at least today. So he puts it on and wears it proudly, the King Under the Mountain, one of three living members of the line of Durin the Deathless.
He marches out to meet his people, head held high.