They say, after the battle, that the dead were too many to count. White-blue corpses of the fallen warriors piled together, one on top of the other, and he had thought it strange to see dwarves and elves tangled amongst the carnage. So much hatred between them in life, so much suffering that stemmed from one betrayal – and yet it had gone from them now. In death, they were at peace, in themselves and with those they'd once called enemies.

Fili had walked the battlefield for what felt like ages, the warm trickle of blood staining the braids that framed his noble mouth. The withered grass, gold and shining beneath a pale winter sun, had turned to red at his feet. It left a numbness in him. He felt no pain, no weariness, no hunger or cold. Only the need to keep moving, to carry on, and to aid in the gathering of the dead that remained.

The healers had begged him to stay off his feet, to let sleep come and scour his wounds (time heals all of them, they said). It was easier said than done, though he would tell no one that. Not even Kili. It was his shame to bear, a shame that he was afraid his Uncle would see hiding behind his eyes. Even more afraid he was of Kili finding it – of seeing that his brother was not the invincible warrior, the unconquerable hero, but flesh and blood and bone that so easily could break. His survival of the great battle had been the will of a merciful Creator, not his own. And in the days passed, as the dead faces waned like pale moons and bloated beneath the sun, he began to imagine himself there, among them, one of them. So easily he could have been. Good fortune was his savior, the difference between death and glory.

Three days had gone. Three sunrises and three sunsets. Each of them more beautiful, more vivid than he could remember. He couldn't sleep, not since the day the foothills of the mountain overflowed with blood, and the sky was filled with the voice of steel - high and cruel and cold against the wind. Every time he closed his eyes, his head would fill with images of maggots squirming in his bed, of vacant white eyes and flesh peeling from bone. More often, he was tormented with dreams of Kili dying in his arms. From these he woke wet and screaming, thrashing in his cot as the healers fluttered around him with herbs and smelling salts and goblets of water. It was no use. He would be inconsolable for hours after. Even in dreams, the thought of being separated from what had always been the second half of his soul was unbearable, unimaginable – losing Kili would have torn him apart.

The only balm to soothe the pain these dreams caused was Kili himself. He was still bedridden, but alive and slowly on the mend. Each time his elder brother came in to see him, the shadows in his face would clear, lifting like mists in the dawn. "Brother," he whispered, taking the hand Fili offered him. His smile was weak but genuine. "You look terrible. Have you not slept?"

"I've slept plenty." Fili gave the knuckles in his grasp a light squeeze, and there was a calm in the young dwarf's face that had not been there before. It softened the harsh angles in his features, and suddenly he looked as he had when he was little. So often, Dis would have to chase after him, as Kili would dash madly after his brother on his way to the training arena. He had been determined to go, insisting he was big enough, though at the time he could hardly lift a bow in his small hands.

"Fili - "

He interrupted him, smiling gently. "Don't worry, really. I'm more than grand."

"And Uncle? How does he fare?"

"Well," Fili replies. "Ill-humored, but well. Soon he will be on his feet, and there will be a King living in the halls of Erebor again."

Kili searches his elder brother's eyes, flitting between each of them. "If something were wrong, you would tell me – wouldn't you?"

"When have I ever kept anything from you?"

This seemed to placate him enough, and he laid back down, a grey pall gathering beneath his surface skin. Fili urged him to lay still – you'll rip your stitches with your thrashing about like that - and offered the water at his bedside. As he drank, Fili smoothed the fine wandering hairs from his brother's temples, hearing the sound of his breath as it moved through his body.

"When did they last change your dressings?"

"A few hours, more or less."

Fili lifted the hem of his tunic and assessed the state of the cloth, a dark crust of dried blood already forming around the edges. He scowled disapprovingly and began to search the room for new coverings, ignoring Kili's weak protestations behind him.

"It needn't be changed! They have only just done it!"

"With a wound as deep as yours, it must be changed every other hour at least, if not more…" Fili replied, rifling through cabinets and cupboards and drawers. "It must be routinely cleaned, redressed, checked as often as possible. If infection is allowed to set in, you will be done for."

"It is only a little blood," Kili insisted. "Why do you worry so?"

Fili turned on him. "Because you could die!"

There was a long silence between them and Kili watched his brother's eyes fill with something dark that poisoned their sharp, bright clarity. It was for only a moment that he allowed his walls to crumble, to free his every doubt from chains of secrecy. But their effects were devastating. In surrendering he had sacrificed the careful pretense of his resolve, of his perceived strength, and for the first time in days he had allowed himself to fracture. Like stone he had been, hard and unyielding against the weakness in his heart that threatened to conquer him. Now it threaded through him like cracks in marble. There was no filling them. He was open and bare and Kili could see it, could see the insides of him turn out like mirrors. Fili only hoped he didn't see himself in his elder brother's failings – that his cowardice was his own, a shame he must bear, and that Kili had fought more bravely than the great heroes of legend they had revered as children. There was no weakness in him. It resided only in the heart of his kin.

But for three long days he had watched Kili lie in his cot, his bow that had seemed so permanent an attachment missing from him, and he was drained of strength and spirit. Those waiting days, those fear-filled hours, had at last taken their toll. There was still the chance - Kili could still so easily die, and the thought of such a fate being meant for his brother was almost as painful as the dreams. At least he could wake from them – if he lost Kili in life, there was nowhere he could go, nowhere he could turn where he could escape the cruelty of that separation.

"Forgive me I…I have not slept well since…"

Kili's voice was soft behind him. "Go and rest, Fili...it's all over now."

He nodded, his brother's words of comfort striking a note of dissonance within him instead. After making certain Kili was comfortable, he returned to his own cot, though he knew no sleep would come. For a long time he lay there, tracing the rough scabs of his knuckles that felt like scales beneath his fingertips. Darkness settled over the camp. Those who had not felt the ache of loss celebrated, and they danced and laughed and sang on the battlefield as ghosts of the dead looked on. Raising flags of beer and mead to their bearded lips, they drank to the health of their King (long may he live!) and offered up their praise to him. The grief-stricken listened from their cots, their faces pale and hearts heavy.

It was over. The battle had ended, leaving devastation in its wake, but there was life yet in the halls of Durin. Victory had been their's. His Uncle had reclaimed his crown. There would be peace and prosperity beneath the mountain once more.

They had found their way home again.

Why then did he feel so lost?

author's note: i think i might make this a full-length fic. because ptsd is a sad truth that many soldiers must face after experiencing combat, and i think dwarves would be no different, having hearts and souls just as we do. and fili being strong for his brother who is wounded and for his uncle that expects him to be heir to the throne gives me feels and i want to share them with you damn it.

so, maybe. idk. i might just leave it at this. enjoy! :)

disclaimer - the line of durin belongs to tolkien. i just like to take them out for a spin once in a while.