A/N: Have some mother-angst. *hands out tissues* *takes one for myself*

You count the days, first. Then the weeks, then the months.

You count moments, moments that you spend in waiting—for Kili's eager voice, for Fili's laugh.

You count hours.

Since.

Since they left you.

You knead your bread and plant your garden. Everything is smaller, since—

Their letters come, and you kiss them behind doors closed to wondering eyes, you fold them in your hands as though it is their touch, not fragments of weathered parchment.

No more letters come, and you remind yourself that this is a quest, over ranges and rivers. They have no time.

But you. You have time—hours, days, weeks, all silent, all empty, even though you do your best to fill them. You have so much time, since—

You weave fine strands of wool, pluck weeds from your garden, bind your herbs to the low rafters of your kitchen. You tell yourself that others' claims are stronger, that they are princes—but even your loyalty to such demands has grown thin, since—

It is many days, and weeks, and months, and you have heard no word. It is past Durin's Day, and if Mahal has heard your prayers, they have reached the Mountain.

(If Mahal has heard the secret prayers of your heart, they never reach the Mountain. They are on their way home, and your brother has set aside his desire for kingship, and for gold.)

It is past Durin's day, and you begin to wonder. If the dragon lives—you press your hands over your mouth and cough something that you will not call a sob.

Please, Maker, you pray, though you are no longer certain what you ask for.

No word comes, but one night, you wake with tears upon your face and dread heavy on your heart. There is no one in the darkness to tell you why you are weeping.

(Afterwards they will tell you that across the land, it was the day the battle was fought, and your sons fell while you slept.)

You count the days, and then the weeks, and then the months.

It is ever longer, since—

You travel to Erebor, where you do not plant a garden, or hang your herbs, or strain to hear their voices or their laughter.

They are dead. Your children have fallen and you counted moments without knowing which were their last.

(It is years, since, and you have not stopped counting.)