A/N: Well, my friends… this is the final installment. On a happy note, this is another monster-sized chapter, beating Chapter 6 by all of fifty words!

My last public thank you goes to EVERYONE who has been loyally following along all these months—for all those who have clicked follow and/or favorite, as well as those who have taken the time to review. It's been a pleasure presenting my writing to you, and it has remained a bright spot during this difficult year. Dear reviewers— MoonCrown, chestry007, wardog85, Vault108, Thousandsmiles, Cockapoo, Jedi Ani Unduli, Ilovevollyball, BM originally, gpgal, People Person I'm Not, Fey Nim, rollwithbutter, Horserida, Purestrongpoem, MistakenMagic, Abear, LiL PriNCeSs Me, plus all those others who have reviewed in the past—you all rock, as you should well know by now.

Special kudos for the lovely Italian Hobbit, my Tolkieniester genius. Thanks for being my awesome writer buddy, and for making sure I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard or randomly die in a car crash, LOL. *huggle*

And now, my dear Hobbit enthusiasts, please enjoy the conclusion to this little tale.

Chapter IX

"Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past

Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine!"

– Edgar Allan Poe, "Sancta Maria"

The initial noise of the clamorous dwarflings below is incomparable to the profound hush that befalls them when Fíli and I appear over the ridge. All heads rotate; all faces upturn; all eyes are raised upwards. The dwarflings gaze with expressions of bemusement and awe, unprepared for the sight of two blue princes instead of a solitary figure in a dusty tunic.

I count many faces, many more than is customary. Word must have spread that Besor planned on ending the mockery this eve, planned on humiliating me in one last game, and they all came to watch me fail. Not all look upon me with malice; some of these lads and girls are familiar, friendly companions, but I know that even though their loyalties lie with me they still expect me to lose. They lost faith in me long ago.

Not so my brother. When I cast a glance at him, Fíli smiles with such grim confidence that my heart soars at the sight of it. Bah!—I have no need of those down below as I have for my Fíli, who has never stopped believing in me for even a moment.

And as I look down my nose at the lot of them, I feel nothing but a hot, tenacious fire of passion burning comfortably in my chest and slowly growing in size. At that moment, I am unafraid.

I am going to win today.

We stand there a few moments longer before slowly descending the crudely cut stairs—I leading the way—and taking great care to watch our footsteps. When we reach firm ground once more and find ourselves on the edge of the small crowd, the others strangely choose not to swarm around us as they had done with me in the past. They hang back with tentative expressions, and when we walk forward they part before us like a school of small fish. I can't help but think of how their behavior mimics that of their parents when my uncle walks among them. With a small feeling of pride, I hold my chin a little higher as Fíli and I stroll along side-by-side.

It is when we have passed through the little throng that we finally see my opponent standing cross-armed with his head tilted to the side, a faint frown battling for a place on his fair face.

"Fíli." Besor ignores me completely, snarling my brother's name with such annoyance I almost laugh. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I think you know," Fíli replies with idle cheeriness, standing before my enemy with his hands folded behind his back. He examines Besor up and down with the manner of one choosing a side of beef at a market stand. His blue eyes glitter. "I came to watch you get kicked in your sorry rear end, big that it is."

There are a few surprised titters in the crowd; Besor reddens slightly, his chest puffing out with indignation before he quickly recovers himself. "Ah! Dear me, well," he laughs, his frown melting into his customary smirk. "Then I'm very much afraid that you're going to be dreadfully disappointed," he sneers. "I'm sorry that your trip will be for naught."

Fíli's confident smile only grows bigger and brighter. Besor's expression wavers slightly, bordering on irritation once more. After a moment Fíli squarely turns his back to him and walks away at a leisurely pace, winking merrily at me.

"The bigger they come, the harder they fall, eh little brother?" he says nonchalantly, causing another small wave of titters to overcome some of the spectators. As Fíli passes by he tosses me my training pads and I yank them easily over my head. I resist the urge to steal a glance over my shoulder at him, for now Besor locks his gaze with mine and I will not be the first to break that connection.

Fíli has done all that he can do. It's up to me, now.

Besor's hand comes to rest on his sword hilt and I reflect his behavior. The others quickly shuffle backwards, emptying from the area and coming to stand outside of the huge chalk circle around us. My white-blond opponent stares me down for almost two minutes, saying nothing, simply glowering at me with smoldering eyes.

He's trying to unnerve me. I refuse to give in, refuse to flinch or fidget under his uncomfortable gaze. I stare back at him, my dark eyes just as hard and unforgiving. I don't even blink.

I watch him studying me from head to toe, noting my royal clothes. I watch him silently chew on this glaring change, watch him eventually swallow and accept it. I watch him digest the rather important fact that he had conveniently forgotten or ignored about his chosen victim: that his victim is the sister-son of our people's king, second heir to a distant kingdom. For all intents and purposes, no matter who Besor is in our little social group, he can never exceed—or even touch—my social class: I outrank him by default, whether I lose our fight or no. If I wanted to, I could get him into a lot of trouble if made enough noise.

Besor licks his lips.

I smile, having won this little standoff. Kíli one, Besor zero.

He scowls at me, a black expression that only makes me smile all the more sweetly. I can't help but feel inwardly pleased at how easily it seems I've managed to ruffle his feathers, all without saying a single word. Besor casts a sharp glance over my shoulder at someone behind me—presumably Fíli— then presents me with a disarming smile that spells danger.

"Well, Kíli," he finally begins. "Here we are again. How many times has it been, now? I've quite lost count."

I amaze myself by the inward calm with which I receive that rather scathing remark. I say nothing.

He jerks his head at me, eyes roving up and down my garb once more. "You think that pretty little thing changes anything?"

"Nope. Nothing's changed," I reply coolly. "I am who I've always been."

An amused snort. "Then I guess I have nothing to worry about."

Those words sting but I don't falter. "Oh, surely my mere choice of dress did not give you cause to worry?" I say slyly, raising an eyebrow at him. "I just happen to like the color blue. So does Fíli. We find it quite flattering; too bad you wouldn't be able pull it off."

Besor's face contorts in an ugly grimace. Obviously he no longer cares about disguising his dislike for me. "I don't care if you wore pink," he hisses. "It takes more than a color to change one's mettle… or lack thereof. I'm not worried."

"Neither am I," is my unemotional reply. It causes a bit of a stir among the spectators and Besor's eyebrows twitch upwards with surprised amusement. "If you're so confident," I continue in a raised voice ringing with surety, "Let's dispense with this useless verbal sparring and get on with it. I'm not interested in what you've got to say and I haven't got all day to waste with this nonsense."

The stir erupts to a loud buzz as the dwarflings talk and gasp among themselves, chortling to their neighbors while some crow for the fight to start. Besor's eyes flash and part of me quavers at the sight of it; I spoke out of faith, with more confidence than I actually feel. I mentally whisper a quick prayer to the almighty Eru and ask him for strength.

"Very well," Besor simpers, drawing his blunted sword and stepping back a number of paces, "As you wish, my liege. I hate to dirty that pretty frock but there's naught to be done about that."

"Fighting's a dirty business," I retort smoothly. "It'd be a folly for such a thing to be considered bothersome."

"It's only bothersome when you get your face grounded into the earth," the other hisses menacingly, out-and-out angry, now. "Temper is a dangerous thing," I can hear Mister Dwalin saying now, "But something that can be quite advantageous when handled correctly." One more point in my favor and we haven't even started.

I turn away and walk an equal number of paces toward the circle's edge, towards my stoic brother who stands there quietly. "And you think you can do that, then?" I say as I move, meeting and holding Fíli's gaze for too-brief a moment. His look gives me much-needed encouragement and I turn back around, feet planted firmly on the ground. "You think you'll grind me into the dust?"

"I don't 'think' so," Besor snarls. "I know I will."

With bravado I give him one of my widest, brightest, most mischievous grins. My training sword makes a shrill sound as I whip it out of its scabbard. "Then come and get me," I declare stoutly.

The infuriated dwarf gives a mighty roar and rushes at me. I feel my heart skip a few beats but I too run forward without hesitation; adrenaline kicks in as I raise my sword high, matching his cry with a shout of my own.

Moments before impact Fíli touches my mind and I hear his unspoken words:

Go get 'im, little brother.

Besor throws the entirety of his strength into the first blow, and I surely would not have been able to withstand it if I had met him head-on. Instead I side-step and brush the blow aside as neatly as I can, yet even so the sheer force of the attack shakes me to the core. Besor recovers quickly and spins around, once again swooping down on me with his total strength poured into a single blow. Again I side-step and redirect the blow, but his ferocity almost knocks off my feet in the process. Thus it continues; I dodge and parry, dodge and parry, riding out the storm of Besor's unrelenting attack. I had known that this confrontation would be difficult, rivaling all the others before, but I had not anticipated that it would be quite this vehement. It is as though some dark, inner beast was released inside of Besor once he found himself grasping an actual sword. In all our previous encounters he has behaved with a kind of cold self-restraint, a contemptuous mask always set on his flawless face. He fought with bloodthirsty zeal but there was a false sense of gaiety about him—but not so today. So help me, I feel as though Besor would kill me if he could.

All at once it hits me.

He doesn't merely want to make a mockery of me. He's done that already.

He wants to put me in my place.

Besor has played me, toyed with me, pushed me around and thrown me down enough to satiate his sadistic desire to inflict misery on a 'weaker' being. He had planned on finishing me off today, like a cat that tires of teasing a trapped mouse and abruptly decides to devour it. Besor thought it would be a simple task that would be short, dirty, and effective… But then Fíli came, meaning that there would be a hostile witness—and we wore royal blue. Rank has been pulled and thrown in Besor's face and he can no longer deny it. Nobody present can deny it. He was prepared to socially bury me forever in the mud, but now he and everyone else has been reminded that he can't do that… not even if he beats me to a pulp.

And that makes him angry.

I foiled his picture-perfect plan of a grand finish and now he's taking it out on me. His great dislike—nay, hatred—that he has held for me and kept on a tight leash is now being given free rein. His behavior screams: Maybe I can't destroy you, but I can make you suffer.

Accidentally losing focus, I block a tremendous blow instead of dodging it and I stagger backwards, shaken. By now I have suffered several cuts and the sight of blood has done nothing to deter Besor's murderous assault. Few on the sidelines dare to cheer now; they have been shocked into silence. Our labored breathing echoes eerily on the rocks.

Besor remains aggressive but becomes increasingly reckless. He swings his blade about so much that he almost swipes me in the face, missing me by mere inches. His is so infuriated and overconfident in his self-assumed superiority that he is mishandling the weapon, treating it more like a sparring rod than a sword in a mock bottle. And there is nothing 'mock' about this battle. As this becomes clear to me I realize that I must exert extreme caution, for I can no longer assume that my Besor is in control of his own weapon.

My plan—as advised by my uncle—has been to preserve my strength and allow Besor to waste his own. I simply let Besor strike way while I successfully dodge or deflect most of his blows, not allowing them to fully land. The special maneuvers that Uncle taught me are of great help and allow me to continue in this manner. For a while, however, it seems that my plan has the opposite effect, for Besor's confidence continues to grow as I continue to back off and dance around. It's apparent that he comes to believe he has the upper hand as he grows more and more intimidating, making me lose ground as he slowly but deliberately advances. Once again I become too focused on the sword-work and I do not pay enough attention to my surroundings; when my sword tip scrapes loudly against the rock wall behind me I realize that I am trapped. I grit my teeth, hearing Uncle Thorin in my head sharply correcting me for not paying attention. A long, terrifying minute passes before I am able to duck and roll out of the way, far away from that dreadful wall. Breathing heavily I can feel the unwanted fear bubbling up inside, and I am no longer certain that my methods are going to work.

Then the unexpected happens: I slip.

I land on one knee and I catch myself before I fall further. Besor, however, pounces on the opportunity and moves in, leaving me unable to rise for the intensity of his attack. With an almost crazed glint in his eyes, he raises his sword high over his head and brings it down hard… where I block it, hold it, as he presses down with all his might. We remain frozen in this position for some time, me trapped in place while an ugly smile spreads across his features. I can't help but grimace from the terrible effort it takes to keep him at bay while I inwardly begin to panic: I'm stuck, I'm stuck, what do I do, I can't move, I've never been in this situation before and I'm wasting my strength and ruining everything I've been trying to do and I can't lose again I just can't and he's insane and Oh Mahal this is not how this was supposed to go at all, please please I don't know what to do—

My flow of consciousness is interrupted by a familiar voice.

Kíli! Snap out of it!

Startled and desperate, I tear wild eyes away from Besor's blade and look past him, all the way to the circle's edge. It's Fíli… and it takes me a second to realize that he hadn't spoken—at least, not out loud. His expression is grim but his blue eyes are burning bright with emotion.

You can do it, Kíli, his eyes say, searing the unspoken words into my brain. You've got this. Just stay calm and focus.

That's all I need. Feeling heartened, the adrenaline flowing through my veins once more, I snap my gaze back to Besor and his immovable blade. A thought occurs to me; with a concentrated frown I shift my wrist in a way that allows me to push his weapon aside. I slide sideways and scramble quickly to my feet before he can recover, risking a triumphant glance in Fíli's direction before the struggle continues.

After a time Besor slowly cools down, regaining his customary control over his temper. I can see him studying me with puzzled eyes; I know he is wondering why I am not meeting his power with power, as I have done in the past. Our eyes meet and his brow is touched by a confused frown, his expression giving away the unasked question. Jaw set, I just give him a steely stare.

As we continue to fight I mentally wait… and wait… for my key window of opportunity.

Presently, it happens. I can see it in the way his arm shakes and his neck muscles strain: Besor is tired. After throwing his weight around for so long he is finally reaching his limit, his endurance sure to fail. Unfortunately for him, I'm only just starting: now it is my turn to attack with ferocity. I muster my loudest, most intimidating roar and set upon him with all my saved strength. One by one I bring to the field all of my newest offense maneuvers that Thorin taught me so painstakingly, deep satisfaction growing within me as Besor is caught unprepared almost every time. He rallies for a while, returning my blows with those of greater strength—but he is unable to maintain his previous intensity and falters under my own. So shaken is he by this turning of the tables he begins to make simple mistakes, much to his horror and my amusement. He makes increasingly poorer and poorer decisions, and he earns himself numerous cuts for his trouble. More than once his feet nigh slip out from under him. He begins to stagger about in exhaustion, and while I am far from fresh, I am still going strong in my relentless assault.

Suddenly I give a particularly vicious swipe and his sword goes flying out of his hand, clattering noisily on the rocky ground far behind him. We both stop, gasping for breath, Besor wide-eyed with astonishment… and his eyes only grow wider at my next words.

"Pick it up," I command quietly.

"What?" he gasps. Sweat pouring freely down his face, he stares at me as incredulously as if I had two heads.

"Pick. It. Up," I repeat vehemently. I point my sword at him to emphasis my point and I take a step forward.

After another moment's hesitation Besor turns and runs to his fallen weapon, picking up and quickly turning back to me. We continue where we left off, Besor's performance continuing to decline, until he loses his sword a second time. Again, I order him to pick it up and resume fighting—and this occurs a third, fourth, fifth time. Each time Besor is further disillusioned, further humiliated, and soon is almost sobbing from fatigue. When his sword is sent hurtling through the air a sixth time my would-be bully all but goes to pieces.

"Pick… Pick it up, Besor," I manage to gasp.

"No, no, stop," he cries pitifully, rocking dangerously on his feet. "Please Kíli, no."

I narrow my eyes at him and step a little closer, weapon still pointed in his direction while Besor collapses to his knees, wheezing loudly and totally spent.

"P-Please," he pleads, chest heaving with dry sobs of desperation and misery, "Enough, Kíli; enough!"

Unable to believe anything that comes out of that snake's mouth, I step forward and grimly shove him onto his back with a single push. He yelps in alarm as I place my boot on his chest and pin him in place, sword pointed at him. Panting heavily, I stare down at him for a long moment, eyes scouring his face for any traces of deception. I see none. There is no fight left in my opponent, no pride or arrogance—he has been sorely beaten. He knows is, and I know it. It's over.

There is but one thing left to do.

"Do you—Besor, son of Rognus—then yield to me now," I cry in a loud voice, heart beating fast, "And for all time henceforth? For let this folly end here, ne'er to be repeated."

Dark eyes brimming with tears of shame, he clamps his jaw shut and says nothing in a last stand of defiance. In another few seconds, however, the stubbornness fades into oblivion and he shuts his eyes, turning his face away from me.

"Aye." His voice is pained, resigned. "I yield to you—Kíli, son of Dis."

"You swear it?" I insist, my voice touched by a slight growl.

Another pause. "I… I swear it."

There. It's done. Sheathing my sword, I remove my foot from his chest and step back, my mouth set in a straight line. "Then so be it."

With that, I turn my back on him and walk slowly away, barely registering the noises of his pathetic blubbering.

It's over. The weight of that thought hits me hard. It's over. It's really over. This time it is not one of hopelessness, but of triumph.

It's well and truly over.

Dazedly I search the crowd of meaningless faces for the only person that matters. I find him, see him standing in the same position he assumed at the beginning of the fight, his hands folded gravely before him. Fíli treads the chalk circle edge, taking three steps forward into the ring as I approach him. When I come close in front of him I stop, breathless, feeling strangely numb and a little lightheaded.

Fíli is the first to speak.

"You did it, brother," he murmurs, a smile slowly easing across his face.

I nod wearily. "Aye, so I did," is my whispered answer. There is an odd rushing noise in my ears and the rest of the world seems to blur out some. "It doesn't seem real somehow."

Fíli's smile grows even wider, and before I am even aware of it he has pulled off my training pads and wrapped his arm firmly around my shoulder. "Oh, it's real," he says, pulling me away from that dreadful place, leaving my defeated foe alone amongst the gawking observers. "You can bet on that, mister."

Everything after that seems to happen as though in a dream, like the world as perceived from deep in the depths below a watery surface. We're floating heavily up, up the winding stairs. Strange white noise gurgles in my ears, all but drowning out the eruption of awed murmurings in the gathering now far below us. The beautifully glowing colors of the dying sunset pierce my vision in a distorted, disembodied mass of light. I am so overwhelmed by my thoughts and senses that these are all the things I know; I am aware of nothing else.

Then it is quiet; the noise in my ears has stopped. I realize that Fíli is gently pushing me onto a rock to sit upon, and as I look up at him crystal clarity abruptly returns. All my sense are burning hot, my mind racing at a ridiculous speed; then something within me melts and I am laughing hard and loud with total abandon. I laugh more freely than I have in months, with giggles, chuckles, guffaws and all. My brother is grasping me by both shoulders, looking down at me with one of his famous tomcat grins and looking awfully amused.

"Fíli! Oh, Fíli!" I exclaim loudly, saying his name over and over again, too overcome by joy to function. I grasp his arms in an iron grip and just laugh while holding onto him for dear life. My brother's eyes crinkle with merriment, his young laugh ringing delightedly with mine. I try to talk between my occasional gasps for air but fail for a long time.

"Fee-eee!" I eventually shriek, "I WON!"

He guffaws loudly and shakes me hard. "Of course you won, you silly goose!" he cries blissfully, "I said you would, didn't I? Well, didn't I?"

I leap to my feet and tackle him with an undignified squeal of unmitigated glee. Fíli grunts with surprise, and—both of us still laughing—he swings me in a circle like he did when I was years younger. He catches me off guard with this old gesture and as I cry out loud with delight, and I briefly wonder if it is possible to die from an overdose of pure happiness. Fíli tosses me unceremoniously on my feet, and I fall backwards into a convenient pile of wet leaves, gasping for breath. I am about to say something cheeky when we are suddenly interrupted by the loud sound of someone clearing his throat. At Fíli's wide-eyed expression I whip my head around to see our certain someone step out from behind one of the surrounding trees.

"Evening," he says quietly, arms folded behind his back. Surprised, Fíli and I babble one over the other as I scramble hastily to my feet.

"Unc—"

"Uncle Thorin!"

"What are you—"

"—you doing here?"

His face ever unreadable, maintaining its customary stern visage, Uncle Thorin regards us calmly as he approaches. "I saw everything," is all he says.

An enormous jolt of adrenaline shoots through my body and rocks me to the core. He saw! He saw me win! I am practically trembling with excitement but I bite down on my tongue to keep me from exclaiming anything foolish. It's bad enough my uncle already saw me act like a dwarfling half my age, bouncing around with my brother like I was a minute ago. Another moment passes before I realize that I'm grinning from ear to ear and I immediately swallow it, clear my throat and make an effort to stand taller.

"You saw the match?" I ask him in a reserved, respectable tone. I notice a few seconds too late that my fingers are drumming nervously on my sword hilt.

"Aye," he replies with a slight growl, and suddenly a hoard of butterflies invades my poor stomach. What did I do now? Did I not fight honorably? I gulp nervously as Thorin comes to a halt, towering over us and regarding me closely. I am used to his scathing criticism and yet I must fight not to tremble in my boots.

"You've got a couple rips there," he mutters, nodding to my jerkin.

Paling at his declaration I venture a tremulous look down at my invaluable article of clothing. Sure enough, there are two distinct tears in the rich velvet fabric that I can see: one on my shoulder and the other by the collar. I gasp in alarm. What do I say? I know I'm absolutely forbidden from wearing royal clothing without yours or Mum's permission, but I did it anyway, and now I ripped it. Oops? That kind of response is hardly an option. I try to remember all the compelling reasons that I wore this thing and my mind races for an appropriate answer.

"Uhh," is all I can manage, and it is decidedly not the intelligent, grown-up response I was going for. I nervously raise my eyes to his.

"It's my fault, Uncle Thorin," Fíli swiftly interjects. "I insisted he wear it."

"N-No, it's not," I stammer, quite terrified now as my uncle fingers the bloodied fabric at my shoulder, examining it closely. "It was my decision. I-I didn't think it'd go right through the p-padding." I resist the urge to wince as his probing finger brushes over the uncomfortable cut on my skin.

"Hmm," Thorin murmurs thoughtfully, one impressive eyebrow raised high. "Your mother wouldn't like that, now would she?"

That is an absolutely dreadful understatement. I would like to confirm this fact but words escape me, so my horrified and slack-jawed expression has to suffice. At the forbidding look I get in return I am fully prepared to start begging and pleading for my life—when suddenly my uncle smiles at me. Nay, he grins at me. I blink, stunned at such a rare expression, as he begins to chuckle merrily.

"Ah well. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. We shall avoid my sister's vindictive temper," he says with a smirk, "And get this repaired on the sly."

I stare at him, saucer-eyed. "Y-Y-You're not angry?"

"Angry!" he exclaims. "Kíli, my boy," he says, grabbing my head and ruffling my hair fiercely, "I couldn't more pleased."

Stunned, I brush the hair out of my eyes and continue to stare at him, the triumphant feelings from moments ago tentatively prickling at my heart again. My voice is hesitant. "Really?"

His eyes are kind; his smile, warm. He nods. "I am proud of you," he says quietly, his voice rough like sandpaper.

At that point I forget that I am supposed to be the victorious warrior and I instead act the role of the delighted child. I jump forward and hug my beloved uncle tightly about his waist, feeling so unbelievably happy. I wish to tell him That's all I've ever wanted: your approval, but my tongue stills; he knows that already. Thorin says nothing, but he wraps his arm around me firmly for a long moment. His hand then brushes softly over the back of my head in a fond gesture before he slaps me gently on my back.

"Alright, you two," he grumbles good-naturedly. "Let's at least try to get home before the sun sets. The three of us will have a lot of explaining to do to your mother."

He holds out his other arm to Fíli, who skitters quickly to his side, and with one hand settled firmly on each of us Uncle Thorin guides the way home.

I take a deep breath of the chill spring air and allow myself to slump.

The fresh breeze blows away the wisps of smoke filtering out from inside our uncle's hot forge, bringing along fresh scents from the marketplace. Leaning firmly against the wall behind me I shut my eyes, trying to put a name to each fragrance as I stretch out my legs comfortably. There's the aroma of steaming bread from the bakery ovens, pastries and apple pie set aside to cool; perfumes and exotic spices of countless varieties; sweet wisteria and hyacinth from the flower stall; the musty smell of sweaty horses and people crowded into small spaces. At that last whiff I wrinkle my nose and open my eyes with a sigh.

Fíli and I have been attending our weekly session with Uncle Thorin at the forge, and are currently enjoying a fifteen minute respite from the oppressive heat. Fíli sits beside me, half-leaning against my shoulder while he lazily chews on a piece of straw. We sit in companionable silence for a time, both of us feeling significantly tired, speaking only occasionally. It's another crowded day in the marketplace and I quietly enjoy people-watching.

"I saw you talking with Dagan after sparring practice yesterday, and the twins," Fíli suddenly says, interrupting my silent musings.

"Eh? Yeah. Dagan's been pretty decent ever since the fight. We've talked a bit. Tasli and Tamli are feeling rather ashamed of themselves and want to be friends."

Fíli snorts. "Do they indeed."

"Aye. I think they mean it, too. I'm willing to give them a chance."

He grunts. "Y'know that Besor isn't sittin' all that pretty anymore?" He turns to me with a smirk. "I heard that some of the others challenged him to a few duels after your fight—and beat him, too. Guess they got bold after you showed him for what he really is."

"I guess wasn't the only one who had a bone to pick with him," I muse, suddenly retracting my legs to avoid being stepped on by a passing human merchant. "Has he become the latest underdog?"

Fíli chuckles. "Not quite, but most everyone's lost their respect for him. Talk about falling into his own grave, huh?"

With a sigh and nod thoughtfully, crossing my arms and shifting my numbed shoulder; it has fallen asleep under Fíli's weight. We pass a few more peaceable minutes in silence until I venture to speak once more.

"I wonder," I say thoughtfully, "How Uncle Thorin ever found out what was going on."

"How do Uncle or Mum find out about anything?" Fíli mutters. "They're adults. They know everything."

I shake my head insistently, absorbed in my memories. "But he knew everything. He couldn't have figured it out all by himself. He just couldn't."

Fíli is silent.

"He followed me that day. He saw me fight, and lose. But…"

I trail off as a thought comes to me, something that hadn't occurred to me before.

"Where was he when I came home?" I ask myself aloud. "I was long past our curfew; he's usually back by then." Another thought emerges, and I turn towards my brother. "And where were you, for that matter? You didn't seem to be at home, either, and nobody has mentioned your breaking curfew."

Fíli becomes engrossed in a spot of soot on his trousers.

I watch him, frowning at the tell-tale signs of a guilty conscience. "Is there something you want to tell me, Brother?"

He awkwardly brushes at the spot and mumbles, "Not really."

"Let me rephrase that," I grumble. "Is there something that you are not telling me that I should know about?"

Another period of silence ensues before Fíli answers my question. His shoulders crumple and his head bows as though from some great weight.

"I'm sorry, Kee," he whispers. "I know I promised you. I didn't want to tell him. He cornered me and I couldn't lie to him, not to his face. Not about that."

I wait for him to continue but when he falls silent again I prod him: "What happened?"

Fíli stares at the pavement, looking thoroughly abashed. "Uncle was on his way back to the forge when he intercepted me on the path. He told me what he saw between you and Besor and he bade me walk with him back to town to talk with him." My brother takes a deep breath and shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't say anything at first. We just sat alone in the forge and we didn't talk for a long time. He kept giving me that scary stare of his, patiently waiting for me to speak. I couldn't take that awkward pressure and eventually blurted out that I'd promised you to remain silent. I tried to tell him that I couldn't rat out on you, that I gave you my word as your older brother, but—"

"—But Uncle Thorin doesn't take no for answer, especially where our personal welfare is concerned," I interrupt, offering Fíli a little smile. "He told you it was your duty as an older brother to act in my best interests, regardless of what I want."

Fíli looks up, startled by my mild expression. He smiles a bit in return and nods sheepishly, his eyes still sorrowful. "Aye," he murmurs.

I smirk at him, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I forgive you for acting in my best interests."

Looking immediately relieved, Fíli smirks back and nudges me with his elbow. "Especially since it all turned out for the best."

"Especially," I say with a wink.

He laughs, elbows me again, and I elbow him back. Chortling and playfully bickering, we are hard at it by the time our uncle steps in the forge doorway, wiping his brow. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbows, his skin dark with soot and coated with a sheen of sweat.

"Fíli, Kíli," he barks, gesturing his head towards the interior. "Come along."

Quickly, we obediently clamber to our feet and follow him inside. The wall of heat almost physically slams into me and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim light.

"I want to show you something," Thorin says, picking up something from a scrap pile on another dwarf's workbench. "It's important, so listen well."

My brother and I solemnly stand side-by-side as my uncle turns to us with a large fistful of long, thick wires. "These are composed of a mixture of various metals and are used in ornament-making. They can be further heated and hued to finer gauges to become more pliable, but as you can see these are yet in a rough state. Quite thick, but still workable." He then turns his attention solely to me. "Kíli," he says, holding out the small bundle to me, "I want you to bend them for me."

With an attentive nod I dutifully accept the handful of metals and move to do as my uncle bid me. However, it is not as easy as I had expected. The wires are indeed thick and rather unwieldy, and when I try to bend them they do nothing; surely, they should move at least a tad? Unfazed I attempt it again, putting more effort into it, but still the wires do not bend. I can feel Thorin's uncomfortable stare burning on my head and I feel myself turning red with embarrassment.

"I'll get it—um, just give me a minute," I mumble, trying yet a third time. Grunting, I put all of my strength into it but the bundle scarcely bends at all. I make one last valiant effort but it is again futile, for despite my best intentions there is hardly any visible change in those confounded little strips of metal. Cheeks burning, I sheepishly hold out the fistful of wires to my uncle.

"M'sorry, Uncle Thorin," I say, cringing with shame, "But I can't do it."

He gravely accepts the wire bundle and weighs them thoughtfully in his hand.

"No," he replies, "Of course you can't. When they're together like this, each one tightly supported by the other, they do not bend so easily under pressure." With careful fingers he selects and extracts a single wire and discards the rest onto the workbench. "However," he intones forcefully, "Singly, they can be bent." He takes the wire then and easily bends it, looping it around itself half a dozen times before he looks up again and studies each of us intently. "By itself, without the support of others like it, it can bend prematurely. Each one of these can be bent, even broken, with the right amount of pressure. That's why they need support."

Uncle Thorin lays down the twisted piece of metal and then lays his hands heavily on our shoulders, studying each of our faces in turn. "The same goes for people," he mutters, "Alone, we can all buckle under the weight of our burdens. It's a hard lesson that you boys best not forget." His piercing blue eyes burn bright as they hold their gaze with mine. "Remember it well."

He allows a short pause for his words to sink in, and then our uncle is back to his stern, reserved self. He beckons for us to follow him back to the anvil and he walks on ahead; I start after him but Fíli tarries, grasping my arm. A smile plays on his lips.

"You won't push me away and be a lonely little wire anymore, will you?" he asks me quietly.

I raise my eyebrows at him, amused, before giving him a happy smile. "No, Fíli," I whisper back. "Not anymore. I promise."

He slips his hand into mine and gives an encouraging squeeze, a smile brightening his own face. "From now on," he whispers fervently, "We face the world together, as it should be."

I nod, squeezing his hand back. "Together for always, Big Brother. We won't bend so easily."

"Always," he echoes in a hushed voice.

Then with a firm nod he releases my hand… and together, we hasten to our uncle's side.

The End

A/N: I sincerely hope that you've enjoyed the final chapter to young Kíli's adventure. I can hardly believe I have finished this story. It makes me feel a wee bit sad!

I shall continue to write more Hobbit tales when I have the time—and if the mischievous Blue Canary continues to inspire me—so please 'follow' me! In the works is another angsty family tale, this time told from our beloved Fíli's perspective, plus a (hopefully) humorous one-shot about Kíli's hair troubles. Fun times are ahead!

God bless you all and may you all have a lovely day. Keep looking up!

~xoxo, Nalbal