When Fíli woke and did not feel pain, he knew that he was dead. He had suspected it for a while. Ever since he had sent Kíli away, actually. He had known he was as good as dead then. At least it had been quick. Painful while it lasted, but quick. And there was no more pain now. He had been able to tell them to run. Kíli, his little brother who should never have seen such pain and destruction. He was safe. And Thorin, his uncle... In the end he had been his uncle once more, not just his gold-crazed king. They were safe. Even their little burglar who had been more courageous than all the rest of them combined. They were all safe now. Dwalin would see to that. Fíli's pain was forgotten now; his death had not been in vain. It had all been worth it.

When Fíli tried to stand, he found that his legs were trembling. While death seemed to heal all wounds, it apparently did take some getting used to. It was a curious thought – being dead. Fíli leaned against a stone pillar. Not the green marble of Erebor, but a light-grey stone that he did not recognise. He assessed his own body. He was dressed in a simple tunic, not the filthy garments and rent armour he had been wearing during the battle. He tentatively touched his torso. There was no pain as such, but the skin was tender and breathing still came with a slight sting. He shuddered as he remembered what had happened. His final moment, the moment when he had died. It had been gruesome. Maybe some would say that his death had been unworthy of a son of Durin, that he had been nothing but a trophy. To Azog, maybe. But to those that really mattered, he had been a warning. The one who drew Azog out of hiding. Fíli did not regret his death. It was of little consequence. His brother and uncle had survived. That was what really mattered. The line of Durin was unbroken, secure in the hands of Thorin, King under the Mountain, and Kíli. King Kíli, eventually. Oh dear, too bad he would not be around to witness that! Fíli chuckled to himself, but soon stopped as his sore lungs protested the strain. Then he just smiled. It had all been worth it. His brother would live a good long life, the hope and future of Erebor. Now there was a thought — Kíli, King under the Mountain.

When Fíli first heard it, he thought it was just the wind. But it was not. It was a moan. A moan full of so much pain that it simply should not exist here, in the Halls of Waiting. By all accounts, as well as Fíli's brief personal experience, life — or rather, death — was relatively free of pain here. But it was a moan. Fíli turned. There was another, on the stone bench opposite the one he had woken up on. A Dwarf, lithe, dark-haired. No. Not him, no, not Kíli! He ran, strength returning to his legs in an instant, and was by his brother's side in a heartbeat.

"I told you, I told you to run. I sent you away. You were supposed to be safe. Alive. You can't be here, Kíli. You have to live. You can't..." Fíli whispered frantically as he cradled his brother's prone body against his chest. He was crying. Tears slid down his face and he did not wipe them away, simply letting them fall onto his brother's hair. Not Kíli. He was not supposed to be here. Kíli was supposed to live. Kíli was supposed to be cheerful and reckless and... alive. He was breathing. Long, deep breaths as if he was merely asleep. Kíli had always been a heavy sleeper. He was wearing an identical blue tunic to the one Fíli had found himself to be dressed in, a pair of breeches and light leather boots. He looked so young. He was so young. Too young for this. Too young to die. Then again, they were all too young to die. The children of Laketown. The Dwarves and Men that had fallen around them on the battlefield. Even the Elves. Nobody was ever old enough to die. But die they did. Even Kíli.

When Kíli moaned again, Fíli was there. Holding him, supporting him, whispering words of comfort into his ear. Though what comfort there was now that they were both dead, he did not know. He had always protected his brother. From monsters under the bed, from dreadful schoolwork and tedious chores, from their uncle's wrath, from all the dangers on the road. And now he had failed. He had led his brother to his death. The least he could do now was to make his death as comfortable as possible. A comfortable death. He seemed to be adapting quickly to this new reality.

When Kíli woke, it was with a shout. He struggled against Fíli's embrace, eyes wide, terror on his face. Fíli comforted him, said sweet little nothings, told him he was safe now. He supposed they were safe. Dead but safe. Finally, Kíli's eyes met his. He stopped his struggle, went limp, jaw falling open.

"No... T-... Fíli," he finally said, voice raspy. His hand flew to his chest. A groan. They had that in common then. Oh, how Fíli longed to be able to avenge his brother. Nobody caused his brother pain without punishment. Nobody.

When Kíli sobbed, Fíli just held him closer. They cried together. From exhaustion, for what they had lost, for what they still had. Each other. They had each other. They cried. When their tears subsided, Fíli helped his brother sit up. They sat next to each other on the stone bench, hands clasped. They were together. Fíli looked at his brother. He was so young. A little pale, but that was probably to be expected. There were no wounds to be seen. All was well. Except for the fact that he should not be here at all.

"You... why? How?" Fíli asked clumsily, clutching his brother's hands. "You should have lived. I sent you away, I did not let you go where Azog was. You should have lived!"

"I... messed up..." Kíli said, averting his gaze.

"You did not," Fíli assured him. Slowly, gently, he extracted the tale from Kíli. It was not a very long one. Certainly not a good one. His brother's death — there was nothing good about that. He had failed when he should have protected him. Kíli looked dejected and Fíli could not bear to see his brother so downcast. It was not Kíli's fault. It was not his fault that he had died. He brought their foreheads together. They were still brothers. They were still together. And he would not fail Kíli again.

"Sounds like you left behind a broken heart," Fíli said with a smirk. "A pretty maid by your side, there's somebody weeping for you!"

"Sure is," Kíli said, grinning widely. "Pity the same can't be said for you!"

"Such a shame," Fíli agreed easily, happy that his diversion had worked. He did not mind Kíli's teasing. He did not mind that there was nobody mourning him. He only regretted that they had had to witness his death.

"Uncle Thorin will probably grumble about your death for a bit," Kíli said with a wink.

"Is he..." Fíli could not bring himself to ask the question.

"He is well," Kíli confirmed.

When they rose, Kíli was very unsteady on his feet. Fíli supported him. They walked slowly, out into the corridor, long and light and finely hewn from the grey rock that Kíli could not name either. They wondered why they were all alone. Certainly, there must be other new arrivals. They had seen them fall all around them. Had seen the blood. The black blood of the Orcs. The red blood of Dwarves, Men and Elves. They all bled red. They all bled together. They all died together. But apparently they did not wake together. At least the Dwarves should have been here.

When they reached the tapestries, it dawned on Fíli. This was theirs. Their space, their story, being woven in never-ending tapestries. The Fall of Erebor was there, then the wandering of their folk, faces that must have been their grandfather and great-grandfather. The war against the Orcs was depicted as well, a mass of fighting and death. Azanulbizar ended in the funeral pyres. Fíli gently stroked the grey smoke in the fabric. It was soft to the touch, the thread smooth and cool. They could see the Ered Luin. Fíli appeared, then Kíli, the heirs of Durin. Their people prospered. A blond Dwarf, prominently featured. Kíli stared at him, gasped, looked to Fíli for confirmation. Only when he nodded did his younger brother step forward to touch the Dwarf's face. Their father.

When they came close to the end of the tapestry that seemed to be continuously woven by invisible hands, they came upon familiar scenes. Their quest. All their many adventures were depicted in countless small scenes: Laketown, the death of Smaug, then Erebor. The armies. The battle. So much death. Fíli's came first. Kíli averted his eyes, clutching Fíli's hand tightly. Fíli squeezed his shoulder, but then became mesmerised by the next scene. Kíli, on the ground. So young. So sad. So broken.

"Thorin!" Kíli cried, as the invisible fingers wove a new picture in front of their eyes. It was indeed Thorin, though the figure was small and indistinct. It could be no other. He was fighting Azog. Fíli clenched his teeth. Kíli's grip on his hand tightened. They waited, watching the scene take shape before their eyes, slowly, so slowly although the invisible weaver was nimble indeed. White thread again. Azog.

"Yes!" they shouted as the shape of the giant Orc appeared. Crumbled. Broken. Dead.

"He did it! He avenged you!" Kíli danced a little jig, and then embraced his brother. "Look at that! The line of Durin — triumphant!"

"Indeed. Look!" Fíli said with a smile. The next scene was taking shape, a wide panorama, overlooking the battlefield. The sky was clear now.

"Are those the eagles?" Kíli asked.

"Yes," Fíli confirmed. "I think they turned the tide in the battle. It looks like the Orcs are scattered, they might even be withdrawing."

"There's Thorin!" Kíli exclaimed. Indeed. Their uncle was facing away from them, but it was clearly him, overlooking the battlefield from Ravenhill, alone but bathed in glorious sunlight.

"He lives," Fíli breathed. "Our line continues."

"Well," Kíli said with a snicker. "He'll have to actually work for that then. Thorin needs to produce a new heir! No cop-outs this time around!"

"Oh, I had not thought of that," Fíli allowed, feeling suddenly guilty for leaving his uncle in that situation.

"Just imagine," Kíli said, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "Thorin has to find himself a dwarrowdam now. He will have to court!"

"The poor dam," Fíli said seriously. Then they both erupted into laughter. Thorin. Courting. Ideally one of their mother's friends, a lady with a will of iron, a quick wit and some very firm opinions.

"I hope that will show up on the tapestry," Kíli gasped when he had recovered a bit. "Wouldn't want to miss that! The battle will seem like a stroll across a summer meadow to him by comparison."

"Kíli. Look," Fíli interrupted his brother's hilarity. His eyes had been drawn back to the tapestry. A new picture was being woven. A head came into view. Short, unruly brown hair. The figure of their Hobbit. Bilbo. He was crying. He was holding something. Someone.

"Thorin!"