He's lying on the threshold of the mountain of his forefathers, staring up at a sky full of soaring eagles and circling birds of prey. Here, he is certain, there was a battle; he is certain that he fought in it, that he fought for the right to the home he has never known...

And now, feeling the blood pool beneath him, he is certain that he has failed.

There's a face hovering over his own, eyes wide and mouth moving (there's no sound coming out, at least none that he can hear, but maybe that's because his life is roaring through his ears as if on its final lap), and he thinks he recognizes it but there's no telling whom it might be. Nothing's making sense right now—not the sharp, blinding pain in his abdomen, not the force that seems to be holding him down as he tries to buck against the agony. In this moment, he knows nothing at all.

The figure above him is yelling, though it's getting harder and harder to focus, and the tempting waves of unconsciousness are growing ever closer. He wants so badly to give in. But the face above him is full of such abject horror (he knows him, he knows he does) that he feels like he should try and comfort him. A brother, perhaps, or a friend. He does not know. But he hates seeing others in pain, so he will do his best to calm him. He must stay awake.

There is another voice to his right, calling something out in a desperate tone though he cannot understand the words. He gives up on this after a moment, focusing again on recognizing the face not a foot from his own. The image comes and goes, as if he's looking at it through a rushing river, and he has no more luck than he did moments ago.

He is so tired.

Quick, light footsteps come toward them, and he attempts to tilt his head to see who it is. (He thinks he's unsuccessful.) The figure above him does not release the pressure on his arms and legs, but he turns away momentarily, speaking to the new arrival in the same, desperate tone. They must come to an agreement, because after a moment, the weight holding him down is gone; instead, his blurry vision is full of long blond hair, and all he can feel are wandering fingers that send his agony soaring to new heights.

He tries to scream but doesn't think anything comes out. Spots are appearing in his vision, now, and unconsciousness is becoming more and more appealing, and oh Mahal it hurts so much—

That same voice is speaking to him, barely pausing for breath except for choked sobs that won't seem to stop, and there are fingers running through his dark hair, grasping his hand in some semblance of comfort, but he can't understand anything anymore.

The relief mingles with guilt as he slips into unconsciousness, as someone screams his name.

.

.

.

The next thing he knows is a tent's roof, a lumpy pillow, a rough blanket.

(And then, of course, the pain.)

It's not as sharp, not as biting as he last remembers, but there's no one holding his limbs down, now; he moans pitifully and attempts to roll to his right. Something shifts a few feet away, in the direction he's turned, and he looks up through blurred vision to see someone on another bed. Another someone he should recognize, if only his eyes would focus well enough for him to see.

"Kíli? Are—are you awake?"

He's surprised, despite himself, that he can understand the words; and he recognizes the voice as Ori's as the figure shifts again. He can only moan in response.

"Healer? Someone, please, he's woken up, I don't know if he's all right or—"

Ori's turned from him, now, facing the entrance of the tent and calling desperately, his voice rising in volume. Someone enters the tent, someone with long blond hair (not Fíli, not his brother—this man's hair is too straight and perfect and that must mean it's an elf) who quickly reaches his bed, pushing him gently onto his back and pulling the blanket away to inspect the wound.

He tries to shy away, because elves are never a good thing and the last time he met one, the monster locked them up for weeks—weeks—in those godforsaken dungeons where he was sure he was going to lose his mind. But this one, this creature, is smoothing his hair away from his face and speaking in a low, soothing tone (he can't understand the words, but he doesn't know if it's the pain and terror clouding his mind or if he's speaking a different language) and despite himself, he feels his body relaxing. He knows he should regret this, and his uncle would rage at him for ever letting his guard down around an elf, but Ori was the one who called him in and surely that means he can be trusted?

Bandages are being unwound from his abdomen, and he looks down despite himself to see a large, ugly wound in his left side, right beneath his ribs. Spear, he realizes numbly, and he vaguely recalls something like that from the battle. He's lucky to have survived, if he can remember his anatomy lessons correctly. He was never a very good student...but things like this are important. Intestines, he thinks, trying to remember the organs that might have been ruined. Kidney. Stomach. Either someone healed him with a miracle, or he is luckier than he has ever thought before.

The elf looks pleased with what he sees, though, and simply cleans the wound with something that makes him wince before rebinding it with new bandages, a new salve. He retrieves something from the table across the room—a small cup—and sits Kíli up slightly, holding it to his lips. He hesitates (after all, his trust of such creatures only goes so far) and glances to Ori for guidance, but the elf only shifts so Kíli can see his face. Honest, open.

"It is only a pain reliever. Drink; you will feel better."

He thinks he believes him, but only after Ori nods encouragingly does he allow the liquid to slide down his throat.

The elf is soon gone after ensuring he is able to easily reach the water at his bedside, instructing him to drink so he doesn't become dehydrated, and to yell for a healer if he thinks something is wrong. I know that, Kíli wants to gripe, but he knows it's probably unwise to antagonize the one who's taking care of his wounds. So he only nods his thanks to the elf, who gives him a small smile before taking his leave.

He and Ori sit alone in companionable silence for several minutes; Kíli stares up at the tent roof, engulfed wholly by the wish that his vision would clear, that the stabbing pain in his gut would cease. Eventually, the draught starts to kick in; only then does Kíli's mind start to wander, and only then does he think to wonder about his friend's condition. After all, if this is a healing tent... "O—Ori? Are you all right?"

It comes out as a miserable croak despite his best efforts, and he's not sure the other can understand; he tilts his head toward his friend, and he's pleased to notice that his vision has started to improve. He can see that Ori is sitting up in his bed, his journal held carefully on the left side of his lap as he busily scrawls down something or other. Kíli doesn't really know what he keeps in there; he's never been one for scribing, after all...always hated his lessons with Balin as a dwarfling. But Ori seems to genuinely enjoy it, so he's never made (too much) fun of him for it.

"Hmm?" Ori looks up from his book, glancing over to Kíli with a reassuring smile. "Yes, I'm—I'm all right. Just broke my leg, so I'm confined here for a while." He laughs hollowly. "Can't help with the clean up, or..."

This jars something in Kíli, and he attempts to sit up despite himself, panic flooding his mind as he realizes just what this means. How could he not have realized it before? "It's—it's over, then? Did we win? Did everyone survive?"

His outburst leaves him winded, and the pain spiking in his gut forces him back down onto the cot; even as Ori looks at him with worry in his eyes, he can only stare back blindly, terrified to hear the answer. If the battle was lost—but surely, they wouldn't be in an elven healing tent if it were? Surely, everyone is—

"Bofur and Bombur were the ones who found you," Ori says slowly...and yes, now that he thinks about it, Kíli can remember Bofur's ridiculous hat, can remember how it flopped about as he thrashed against the elder dwarf's grip and his own agony. "Óin is helping the elves with healing...Glóin, Bifur, and Balin are all right, I think..."

He's ticking off the members of the Company on his fingers (they're shaking but Kíli won't admit he notices—he doesn't think he wants to know what it means), and even if he includes the two of them in the tally, Kíli knows they're coming up five short. Six, if they count Bilbo, though he doubts the hobbit stayed long enough to see the battle...not after Thorin so harshly cast him away. "What about the others?"

"Dwalin and Thorin—they are injured, Thorin rather badly, but King Thranduil says they will survive," Ori says slowly, his gaze flickering away toward the tent entrance. "He—"

"Thranduil?" Kíli hears his voice rising even as the panic sets in, louder and more desperate in his ears than before. Thorin—his uncle—his king—was injured on the battlefield, sometime after he and Kíli were separated. It had been impossible to keep track of people, to keep track of his uncle—and even his brother—as they fought their way through masses of orcs. After all, if he had attempted to focus on anything but the sword in his grip and the enemies he was trying to sink it into, he would have found himself dead quickly.

But the hysterical guilt is rising—he should have been there. He should have been there to protect Thorin, should have been able to fight at his back and ward off any who dared attack him. If only he had not been separated from his king, had been stronger and more capable in battle, maybe the only father figure he's ever known wouldn't be fighting for his life at this very moment—

But right now, he must focus on being outraged that the elven king is the one who has healed Thorin. He must focus on this because Thorin is not well enough to do it himself; he must focus on this because it is what is expected of him, as a dwarf and an heir of Thorin Oakenshield; but most importantly, he must focus on this because it is less dangerous than thinking of the alternative. He cannot think of Thorin lying—maybe dead—in another tent, bleeding out from wounds he never should have sustained, where Kíli cannot hope to reach him—

"Yes," Ori says in reply, his eyes catching Kíli's for only a moment before turning away again. "He's...he has been a great help, healing. Gandalf says he is second only to Lord Elrond. He's the one who stabilized you enough to bring you back here...he said if Bombur had not found him when he did, you might not have..."

He thinks he should be frightened by this, by the fact that were it not for someone he has been taught to hate, he would be lying dead on the battlefield like so many others... But he cannot allow himself to worry for his own well-being, not when his uncle (his mother's eldest brother) is so badly injured. "Is he—he's going to be all right?"

It's the only thing he can think of to say, and though he knows he sounds like a child he can't help the desperate note that enters his voice. Ori picks up on it (of course he does; he's always been sensitive like that, and even if Kíli's poked fun at him in the past, he's grateful for it now) and smiles reassuringly over at him. "You know your uncle better than any of us. He is strong; you know he'll be fine."

He knows this but he still needs to be reassured, and he thinks that this is one moment in which he is allowed to be as young as he really is. Ori may look young, but he's at least two decades older; here, now, Kíli is intensely grateful for his friend's company.

But there are still..."What about Fíli? And your brothers?" He must know, he must, because Fíli is his older brother, his best friend, the one person he can't imagine living without. And he knows that Ori feels the same way about his own brothers, even if Dori is overbearing and Nori is constantly getting into trouble. They're family, after all. Ori hasn't mentioned any of them, but surely—

But the other's harsh flinch sends his heart crashing to the ground. "They're—they're not—"

"No," Ori says quickly, though his eyes only meet Kíli's briefly before flickering away again. "At least, I don't think so. But nobody has seen them...on the battlefield, or in the camps..."

But if they haven't reported back—

Then that means they're injured, or worse, and Kíli can't stand the thought of his brother lying on the battlefield, waiting for help that may never come. (Or else, the thought of his eyes, usually so full of life, glazed over forever.)

He can't stand the thought, and he doesn't dare to entertain it for long.

He's sitting up as quickly as his wound will allow, ignoring Ori's cries of protest as he forces himself to his feet. Agony shoots through him despite the elves' healing abilities and the draught he was given, but he ignores it, slowly making his way toward the door. He has to find Fíli—he has to—

"Kíli, stop! You'll only hurt yourself more, the others are out looking for them—they are fine—"

He ignores Ori completely, grabbing hold of the tent flap for support as he finally makes it to the entrance. Before he can take even two steps outside, though, he feels his legs crumple beneath him; he braces himself for a collision with the ground, determined not to scream. But strong arms are suddenly pulling him back up, and the pain never arrives, and he looks up through blurry vision to see Balin staring at him in alarm.

"Laddie, you weren't even conscious last I checked on you! What do you think you're doing out of bed?"

"Fíli," he gasps, because it's the only thing his mind can come up with as the world begins to spin dangerously around him. "Fíli—"

He sees Balin's gaze soften, but despite his protests, Kíli feels himself being pulled gently back into the tent. "The others are looking for him—Dori and Nori, as well," he adds, nodding to Ori as he leads Kíli back toward his bed. "They are hardy; you know they will be fine."

"But—"

"We weren't even sure you were going to wake up. Especially this soon," Balin continues over his protests, glaring down at him sternly once he gets him situated on his cot again. "That is a grievous wound you have there. What do you think your brother would say if he saw you ripping it open again?"

This, and only this, gives Kíli pause, keeps him from attempting to overpower Balin and trying to find his brother. He can imagine Fíli's scandalized face, can imagine Thorin's rage that he is endangering himself unnecessarily. Neither would be pleased with him. (But Fíli isn't here, and Thorin isn't here, and he has a hard time thinking of such things when both of them might now be lying cold and dead and alone.)

(He can't stand it, but he knows Balin is right, and he's too damn weak to do anything right now.)

"We are searching," Balin assures him, patting him gently on the shoulder as Kíli slouches back against his pillow. "We will bring them straight here once we find them, I promise you."

(And he should be reassured by this, he thinks, but he is not.)

.

.

.

Balin is gone, now, and this leaves Ori and Kíli alone in the tent again. It is not awkward, but it isn't comfortable, either; after Kíli's outburst, Ori laid down as well, facing the other way, toward the tent wall. Kíli can only stare at the ceiling, his side throbbing, waiting and waiting and waiting for something, anything, to happen.

It's only after several minutes that he glances over to see Ori's shoulders shaking. He shrugs it off as cold at first, thinks of tossing him his own blanket (for he feels a bit warm himself)... But after a few moments, he considers the sounds in the tent that certainly aren't coming from him, and he realizes too late that Ori is crying.

He flounders, because what is he supposed to do here? Even when he was younger, Kíli rarely cried; certainly, Fíli didn't either, because they were dwarves and heirs of Durin, and they simply didn't do such things. Thorin would have been disappointed with them if they did. But the sniffling coming from only a few feet away is unmistakable, and Ori is his friend, and he'll be damned if he just leaves him to his misery. (And if tears aren't excusable in this situation, he doesn't know when they would be.)

"Ori?" he tries, and his own voice cracks dangerously. "Ori, are you all right?"

He asked this question earlier, but now it's in an entirely different context, and he knows the answer he's likely going to receive isn't the truth. Sure enough, Ori's breath hitches, and there's a moment of tense silence before he answers—"I'm fine. You should try and get some sleep, that's what the elf said, remember?"

"I'm not sleeping anytime soon," he retorts, though he does not crack a smile as he usually does. He hates this, being stuck in one place, unable to move, to help or search or comfort...he's utterly useless when those he cares for need him most. (Thorin. Fíli. And now, Ori...) "Really, just...you know they'll be fine, right? Dori's not going to pass up a chance to worry over your leg. And you know Nori—he probably doesn't even have a scratch on him, the way he can sneak around..."

Ori replies with something that could either be a sob or a laugh, though he doesn't turn toward Kíli and his shoulders have not relaxed any. "It...it's been more than a day, now. Since the end of the battle. It's been too long, especially if they're injured...I just keep thinking..."

An entire day. Kíli's blindsided by this news, but he supposes it only makes sense. After all, as much as he hates to admit it, Balin was right when he said his wound is severe; he would have been unconscious for quite a while, even with Thranduil's healing abilities. But for them not to return after so long, there has to be something wrong...

(This can't be happening. It can't. Fíli is fine and Dori is fine and Nori is fine and the battlefield is enormous; maybe they just got knocked out for a few hours and are trying to find their way back, disoriented and confused but alive—)

He wants to articulate these thoughts to Ori, for he seems no more consoled by Kíli's terrified silence; he opens his mouth to say something—anything... But before he can, the tent flap is opening again, and Kíli looks wildly toward the entrance. It's Fíli—surely it's him—or Dori or Nori or—

But instead it's Bilbo, splattered with blood, a bandage wrapped around his head, but otherwise, apparently, unharmed. Kíli doesn't even have time to register his astonishment that the hobbit isn't already on his way home; he only turns his head away with a miserable grunt.

Bilbo seems to hesitate by the entrance for a moment before slowly making his way into the tent. "Are...are you all right? I heard you both were injured, Dwalin was telling me you had everyone quite frightened for a while..." Here, his head has clearly turned toward Kíli, even if the dwarf doesn't make the effort to initiate eye contact. "It's good to see you awake, at least..." He coughs awkwardly.

"You saw Dwalin?" Ori asks, and Kíli turns his head to watch as the other finally rolls over, rubbing his eyes roughly on his sleeve before sitting up. "How is he? And Thorin?"

"They're both well. Or, as well as can be said for Thorin, at least," Bilbo says slowly, and Kíli sees the way he hesitates before continuing, "They'll be all right. Dwalin was sitting up when I left—was ready to punch the next elf that came in to check on him, I'd wager."

"And Thorin?" Kíli's voice comes out rough, rougher than it should, but he can't find it in him to care. He's only heard third-hand information from Ori, doesn't know anything about his uncle's condition other than the fact that it's approaching critical—

"He...Thorin is awake," Bilbo acknowledges, his gaze holding Kíli's for only a moment before flickering away. "We spoke briefly...the elves say he will be all right, eventually."

This does not soothe his worries in any way, and Kíli gets the distinct impression that he's sugarcoating the truth, but Bilbo doesn't seem keen on discussing the topic. Kíli can recall with painful clarity how the last conversation between his uncle and the hobbit went, and finds that he can't blame him. He—and most of the rest of the Company—have not been angry with Bilbo for the fiasco with the Arkenstone; there was sense in it, after all, even if it could have only ever ended in Thorin's rage. But it's clearly still a painful topic, and he doesn't have the heart to push it further. "Have you seen the others?"

"Óin's been in and out of tents, healing," Bilbo says slowly, his brows furrowing momentarily, "but I haven't seen anyone else. I expect they're going through the battlefield..."

Here, the hobbit shivers in something like disgust (or maybe terror or shock or some combination of the three. After all, he's never been a warrior, and the rest of them all but dragged him along on this suicidal quest) before shaking his head. "As far as I've heard, though, everyone is all right."

Kíli only grunts at this, because as far as he's heard only means that nobody's found their bodies. This is better than the alternative, surely, but it does nothing to assuage his terror.

"If you hear anything about my brothers, or Fíli...could you please come and tell us?" Ori asks quietly, twisting his sleeve in one hand, eyes averted. "We—we're not supposed to leave our beds, but there's nothing..."

Bilbo's eyes widen, filling with understanding as he realizes why they are so desperate for news. "Of course," he says immediately, giving them both a reassuring—if rather timid—smile. "I was actually—I was planning on going to help Balin and all the others. Should make myself useful somehow..." His laugh is nervous but nonetheless sincere. "I'll make sure you're the first to know if anything happens."

It's blatantly obvious that the carnage on the battlefield is the last thing Bilbo wants to be sifting through, looking for allies who are (more than likely dead) injured or unconscious or waiting for rescue. But Kíli can see the honesty in the hobbit's gaze, and he knows that as much as he doesn't want to go, he will, because that's the kind of person Bilbo Baggins is. He's not the timid, soft creature they met back in the Shire; he's hardened, now, intelligent and brave, because who else could have gotten a company of thirteen dwarves across Middle Earth in one piece?

As Bilbo takes his leave with a wave and kind eyes, the smile Kíli gives their burglar is the closest to genuine he's been able to muster since he awoke.

.

.

.

Ori seems to have benefited from seeing Bilbo; he's stopped crying, for the most part, and though he is lying down again, he's facing Kíli rather than the tent wall. Kíli is still on his back, tracing the seams of the roof with impatient eyes. He thinks he might be thirsty, but he doesn't have the motivation to sit himself up to drink... He thinks he might be tired, but he doesn't dare fall asleep, for fear of missing his brother's return.

He hates the silence (because it allows his mind to wander, and all he can think of are gruesome images of his family lying broken and dead) but he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to start a conversation even when such things usually come so easily to him. Energetic, his mother has always laughed as she ruffles his hair; loud and brash, Thorin says, though there is fondness in his eyes as he watches him train; stupid little brother, Fíli says, though there is always a large smile on his face as he pulls him into a rough, one-armed hug.

But his mother is far away, now, and his uncle is injured (because Kíli wasn't there to protect him when he should have been), and his brother is still missing, and Kíli can't find it in him to remember any of these things without a stab of anxiety twisting in his wounded gut.

He can think of nothing to say to break the silence, so he allows it to stretch on, even as the terror grows ever-higher, ever-louder, until it's consuming his mind and his senses—and the world is starting to slip out of focus again. He's doing his best to stay conscious, but he doesn't think it's going to be enough; Ori is saying something, but despite his best efforts Kíli cannot understand.

All he can hear is the dread roaring through his ears, and all he can see is this thrice-damned tent that is keeping him from his brother, and all he can feel are his mangled insides as if the spearhead is embedded in them all over again...

If Ori is calling his name, he cannot hear, for sleep claims him again at last.

.

.

.

When he wakes, it is to an argument held outside the tent in hushed but venomous voices.

The light is dim, barely enough to see by; he realizes rather detachedly that he must have been sleeping for several hours, for it is clearly nighttime now, and he can hear Ori's light snores nearby. He cannot see any silhouettes of the people outside the tent, and the voices are too quiet for him to understand the words, but before he can attempt to listen more closely, the argument seems to come to an end. He watches with curious but cautious eyes (barely daring to hope) as the entrance to the tent is suddenly filled with half a dozen figures, hobbling in slowly, awkwardly, supporting each other as they make their way toward the beds.

No, Kíli cannot make out any faces from this distance, but he would recognize that ridiculous, pointed hairstyle anywhere (even if it's coming apart, and the head it's attached to is bobbing dangerously from side to side), and the dim light is catching golden braids in the way he's known since childhood, even if that same hair is now matted with blood—

He doesn't remember yelling, screaming incoherently and pushing himself up despite the agony tearing through his abdomen. He doesn't remember Ori waking to his cries, doesn't remember the way Bilbo yelps and almost loses his grip on Dori as he trips over his own feet—

All he remembers is the way his brother bolts from Bofur's grasp, collapsing over Kíli's bed and letting out a badly-stifled sob. Their hands find each other's quickly, and Kíli can see his brother's eyes covering him through the darkness, checking for injury, making sure he is all right.

"Fíli, lad, you're both injured. The elves have an open bed in the next tent—"

Balin's pleas fall on deaf ears as Fíli's gaze lands on the thick bandages encircling his abdomen, on the other, varied, cuts and bruises mottling his body; and his eyes widen in terror as he looks up at Kíli, silently demanding an explanation. "Spear," he says, grinning flippantly, though the pain still roaring through him likely turns it into more of a grimace. "The elves say I will be fine. Where were you all this time?"

He tries to keep his tone lighthearted, but he's sure his terror is obvious as he does his best to check his brother for injuries. He's covered in blood from head to toe—black and red mixing indistinguishably in the darkness—but his grip is strong and he doesn't seem to be in any pain.

"Hit my head," he says, and his voice is a bit breathless, as if he's run a marathon just before arriving. "And bruised some ribs, I think, but that's not important. Mahal, Kíli, I was so scared, when Balin said you were in a healing tent—and spears are—"

"Aye, but Bofur convinced Thranduil to heal me. Everything is all right," he says, and his grip on Fíli's trembling hands tightens reassuringly. "None of the Company was lost in the battle. We should have your head looked at, though—"

But Fíli will have none of it; he pulls his brother into an embrace (which surely would have been bone-crushing had he not been minding their wounds) and lets out a sob into Kíli's hair. He returns it without a second thought, barely glancing up to see Ori reuniting with his own brothers (Dori seems to be bleeding, but not seriously; Nori looks decidedly unsteady on his feet, as if he, too, was knocked out by a blow to the head) before returning his attention to Fíli. "Everything is all right," he murmurs into his blood-soaked hair, and the rest of the world seems to fall away as both of them find comfort in each other. "You're fine. We're all going to be fine..."

He thinks he hears Bilbo muttering something about getting proper healers for the three of them, but he doesn't pay much attention to the hobbit as he hurries out of the tent. That isn't important to him right now. Fíli is upset; his brother needs to be reassured of his presence, that Kíli isn't going anywhere...

He does not know how long they are there (he sees two elves over by Ori's bed, tending to Nori and Dori with bandages and gentle, prodding fingers, but he doesn't think Fíli will allow his own wounds to be attended just yet), but soon, he can tell that the light in the tent is growing brighter, that he can see much more clearly now. Balin is still there, standing with Bilbo a fair distance from the beds as the elves work. Bofur has left, probably to continue the gruesome work of cleaning the battlefield...

He does his best to inspect his brother for further injury, to make sure he left nothing out in his description earlier. He does seem to have a wound on the back of his head (though it is hard to tell when his blood has mixed freely with so many others'), but it is impossible to check the rest of him, for he's still wearing the beautiful armor Thorin presented to both of them soon after they entered the mountain. It's ruined, now, the chest buckled in to support Fíli's claim of injured ribs—bearing slashes and punctures and indentations where it had done its duty, saved his brother's life.

The elves seem finished with the others and hover nearby, clearly unsure of whether they are needed. Kíli gently disentangles himself from his brother, nodding to the healers as they step forward, and Fíli reluctantly begins to shuck the armor so they can tend to his wounds. He hisses as one elf touches the back of his head, as the other prods his ribs, but it seems that those are, indeed, the extent of his major injuries.

Kíli lies down again to relieve the pressure in his gut, shifting as best he can to give them more room. Despite himself, he gasps at the pain spiking through his abdomen, and Fíli stares at him worriedly as he attempts to get his breathing under control. "M'fine," he insists at length, waving a hand in his brother's general direction as he squeezes his eyes shut momentarily. "Worry about yourself for once, all right?"

Fíli laughs at that (an action quickly followed by a wince as he grasps at his ribs), and Kíli is fairly certain he can hear Balin and Bilbo snorting from the corner.

And this...this is all right, he thinks. It's certainly better than he dared to hope for only a few hours ago. He is injured, yes, and Fíli is injured, and Thorin even more so; but they are alive, and after the gruesome battle that should not have left them so unscathed, Kíli finds that he can only be grateful.

The elves seem finished with Fíli's wounds, are pouring both of them a small cup of the same pain reliever Kíli received earlier, talking in low tones in their own language as they work. He thinks he can hear Balin and Bilbo discussing getting Ori a crutch to free a bed, moving Dori and Nori to the next tent so Fíli can stay here...

It's important business, surely (at least for the moment...for Kíli still wants desperately to see his uncle, and even more important than that is the cleaning work, the beginning of the reconstruction), but right now, he does not want to think about such things. He trusts the older dwarf and the hobbit to get everything sorted out as he relaxes back into the pillow, closing his eyes momentarily and waiting for the pain draught to start working.

Fíli is humming quietly from where he is still seated on the edge of the bed, and their hands are intertwined in the most concrete form of comfort either can offer right now. The tune is some childhood lullaby, long forgotten, and Kíli feels himself calming, slowly slipping away into the comforts of sleep.

He does not fight it...not this time.

The world is fading away, pulling him into unconsciousness again even as Fíli's grip tightens on his hand and his fingers comb through Kíli's matted hair. He smiles up at his older brother, forcing his eyes open for a moment before allowing them to fall shut again.

He's exhausted. He realizes this, now, after everything has been resolved and he knows for sure that everyone has survived. After everything they've been through...after the hideous battle that nearly cost him more than he can possibly comprehend...everything has turned out all right.

It's finally over.

And with this comforting thought, the sound of his brother's low humming, and the sensation of their hands twined together, Kíli drifts off to sleep.