Alternate Scene

Author's Note: I'll be honest. I've just started posting a new Hobbit story, and I wanted to move "The Price of Brotherhood" up my author's list so they would be side by side. Adding a chapter is the only way I know to do that, but it felt wrong to loophole the system knowing that some people might get alerts about this story, even though it's complete. So, to make up for that, I'm making some bonus material available, at least for a short time. This was the original version of the second scene in the final chapter, and it features Elrohir, son of Elrond. It's not a better version, but if you'd like, you can think of it as "the extended edition" (wink).

Kíli looked up, hearing the sound of footsteps moving on the floor above. A slow, measured tread to the left, where the dresser was, then back again to the bedside where boots had been laid. Quiet as they were manipulated, fumbled, mastered. Kíli listened until the sounds reached the staircase, and then he went and stood at the base of it, though in this case his help was not needed. Fíli reached the bottom unaided, and when he found Kíli's eyes, he smiled.

"What? Have you nothing better to do than watch me creep down a flight of stairs?" he asked, and Kíli thrilled to hear the easy, teasing note in his voice, which had been absent for so long.

Kíli reached out and straightened the shoulders of the tunic Fíli wore, easing a clasp in place that had not quite been managed. It was the small things that remained difficult, mostly. He raised an unimpressed brow when Fíli huffed. "Did you not do the same for me, once?" he asked. "I seem to remember you rebraiding every plait I ever made until I finally gave up the art all together, to say nothing of boot straps and buttons."

"It's a wonder you're able to get up in the morning, sure," Fíli answered. "But you cannot blame me for the braids. You've been stubborn about it since the day you were old enough to squirm."

Fíli's own hair was just now becoming long enough to be woven properly again. He still had yesterday's slightly mashed plait trailing behind one ear. On the other side, the skin had healed, but the new growth was still very sparse and soft. As was the fair, golden beard just beginning to fill back in on his mostly smooth face. In a year or so more, he would look almost like himself again, except for the scar. That remained as before, still pink and raised.

Fíli reached out and smoothed his thumb over Kíli's brow. "You're going to look like an old man before your time," he reproached. Then, his voice softening, he asked, "Try to think of kinder things."

However much he tried, Kíli wasn't able to mask all of the sorrow that lingered, but it was tempered by the warmth he felt when the two of them were together. Taking his brother by the arm, Kíli tugged him toward the window. "It's a nice morning. Let's sit in the light."

Taking back up the leather journal Ori had given him to read, Kíli glanced over the words their cousin had written. It had begun as an epic history, but more recently bits of poetry and airy prose had worked their way in. Ori was much in awe of the elves, and their songs seemed to be going straight to his head.

Near to him, he watched as Fíli reached for a long slender shaft of wood, letting his scared fingers caress the stick. On the table beside it, a beautiful, delicately wrong fiddle sat – or something like one, as it resembled the dwarvish equivalent in the essentials only. It had been a gift from one of the people here, who had seen Fíli's rapt face as it was played, back in the times when he still barely spoke.

"Do you like it?" the elf had asked when Fíli had touched the body, the strings. He was very tall and wore a sword, and though Kíli did not understand their society well, he believed that this was a soldier.

Kíli answered for him when Fíli did not respond, saying, "We used to play. However, such things aren't much use on long, dangerous journeys. We left ours behind."

There had been sadness among the three of then, as though it was something they all understood very well. Then, without preamble, the elf had pressed the fiddle into Fíli's surprised arms, passing the bow into his other hand. "Perhaps it will give you some peace," he said. "A piece of home. Take it with my blessing."

Now, as Kíli watched, the lines went out of Fíli's face as he carefully picked up the instrument and set it under his chin.

The notes were basic, limited to simple melodies as Fíli worked his way around the unfamiliar grip with only three fingers, but slowly the stiffness faded, and the sweet, true tone found it's way to expression in spite of all obstacles. Kíli listened and let the music wash over him, soaking in the joy of seeing his brother so content. Not very long ago, even this would have been impossible, yet Fíli came back to him a little more every day.

The song came to an end, and Fíli paused, sighing. He stretched his fingers around the neck of the instrument. "It's getting a little easier."

Kíli didn't answer. There had been dark days, and darker nights, when neither of them had been able to believe things could get easier. Even after Elrond had come and Kíli had finally begun to see his brother reflected in shadowed blue eyes, it had been so. There had been tantrums, and there had been tears, and several times, there had been despair. He answered, "I'm glad."

"I'm glad too," Fíli said, looking contemplatively out the window to where the Golden Wood stretched beyond. "I'm glad we came here. I'm even glad...glad for what happened."

Kíli's head snapped up. "You don't mean that."

But his brother had put the bow back against the fiddle, sliding it across to make a long, mournful sound. Then he stopped and said solemnly, "I've been having dreams, Kíli. Of battle, and corpses. Dwarves, men, and elves. And orcs. I'm looking for you, but when I find you...I think we died."

Kíli said, "I didn't know you were having dreams again."

For a brief moment it was the exasperated older brother who shot him a look, raising his eyebrow in consternation. But then he grew solemn again, and Fíli said, "They're just dreams, but they make me think...maybe this is the way it had to happen." He pressed his hand to his chest. "For the first time, I think I really believe that we'll survive this quest. Both of us."

Disquieted, Kíli searched for something to say, but before he was able to, there was a sound at the door. Grateful for the chance to break the mood brought on by Fíli's strange words, Kíli rose to answer it. The chill thawed when he saw that it was Lord Elrond's son, Elrohir. He welcomed him inside, pleased to see his friend.

"Oh, Elrohir," Fíli said, looking up from his instrument. Not long ago, any sudden appearance would have made him uneasy, but now he only smiled. "Quel amrun."

"Good morning to you, too," Elrohir replied. "Your pronunciation is becoming quite good. I brought you this for practice, though try as I might, I couldn't find anything so dull as grain inventories. You'll have to be content with a few ballads." He laid a small volume down on the table.

"Just so long as you didn't write them. I thought elves were supposed to be gifted at poetry."

Elrohir's lip twitched, but he took the jest as it was intended, the words eased by the comradery that had grown between them. "No more than any other race, I fear. But these are not mine. I enjoyed them when I was a child, and my relatives were able to find me a copy."

Curious, Kíli picked up the little book. "Do you have many relatives in Lothlórian, Elrohir?"

"Some. My grandparents dwell here. It is where my mother was born," said the young lord of Rivendell. As he spoke, his eyes were tracing the line of Fíli's shoulder with the astute gaze of a healer. "Your back seems less stiff."

"It's better," Fíli admitted. "The salve your father gave me helps."

"Although it stinks awfully," Kíli inserted, grimacing with revulsion. "You would pity me if only you knew."

Fíli rolled his eyes, snorting. "You have no room to talk. Thank goodness the elves think so highly of cleanliness. I think you've bathed more in the past few months than you have in your entire life."

"At least I'm not vain," Kili countered. "Some of us are most interested in deeds than wafting with the scent of roses."

Elrohir watched their banter with amusement, but after a moment he said, "I'm afraid I must go now that I've finished my errand. Though perhaps I'll see you tonight. I believe there may be something special planned."

"Something special?"

Elrohir hummed mysteriously. "I don't want to say too much, but there may be cause for celebration soon. Until then, tenna' telwan, melloneamin."

They wished him goodbye, and Kíli plucked his brother's sleeve, drawing him back toward the table. However, they had barely settled before there came another sound, followed by boots in the hall. Thorin came in, his face guarded, but Kíli could see that he brought good news. His knit brows could not hide the fierce light in his eyes. Kíli hadn't seen that fire in his expression for a long time, and it caught his attention immediately.

Fíli, too, sensed that something had changed. Carefully, he laid down the fiddle and walked around the table. "Thorin?"

They had gone so long without hearing his voice utter anything but noises of fear, that whenever Thorin heard Fíli say his name, he looked at him with such affection that it could not be veiled. Kíli watched his uncle and understood. It was another thing that had changed. The tiny fear of abandonment that he had carried around with him since his childhood days had passed; the seedling of bitterness and guilt had been pulled up by the root. He had always loved his uncle, but now he trusted him.

Thorin put out his hands, one on each of his nephews' shoulders, gazing between them both. "I have news," he said.