Warnings / character death

Prompt for the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #1 Holidays / Birthday

Winner of the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #1 Holidays / Fic

This is un-beta'd.

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DAY OF DAYS
Marigold Faucet

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"No one ever told me grief felt so like fear."
—C S Lewis, A Grief Observed

—

Thorin comes, covered in blood, and tells them of their father's death.

Idly, Fíli wonders if there is any red beneath the black-blood stains or if by the time any reached Jóli, there was no blood left to bleed. An arrow, Thorin had said. An arrow dipped in poison, sharp and true had torn through Jóli's throat in the midst of battle. Thorin said it was quick, painless, and quiet.

He was gone before they realised, before the day was won.

And that felt wrong.

Fíli is unsure how to describe it, it is not grief or anger this feeling, but a perverse sort of wrongness at the thought that his father should ever be quiet. That he should have died alone and without a sound, when he was forever laughing and smiling and so incredibly loud. Kíli is a lot like him, bright and loud and always there, even in his absence his presence lingers like an empty silence waiting to be filled.

Fíli fears the silence his father's death will leave.

"Fíli," Dís says gently, like he might break or startle. Her own voice is thick and wet, tears slipping down her cheeks as she wipes away his own. "I have to take care of your father, so I need you and your brother to be strong for me. Just for tonight, okay?"

Fíli nods, taking a deep stuttering breath to steady himself. He's always prided himself on his strength, but he thinks it will fail him here. He has never experienced grief like this before, it has always been glancing and felt by others, told to him like a bedtime story he is too young to understand. It has never felt as painful as this and despite his strength, he does not think he can bear to stand beneath the weight of it.

He wonders if this is how Thorin feels.

Dís leaves them to a silent dinner, though none can find the will to eat. Fíli watches Kíli from across the table, too afraid of his own grief to offer his little brother any worded comfort. Still his heart clenches at the sight of Kíli, bent over the table on his elbows and his palms pressed tightly against his eyes in a desperate attempt to stopper the endless flow of quiet tears.

"Kíli," Thorin says softly, when Kíli fails to choke back a harsh sob. "Go to bed."

"You too Fíli," Thorin says when Kíli has disappeared into the shadowed hallway. Fíli does not want to sleep, doesn't feel as if he can but he does not argue, not tonight; and when Thorin stops him with firm hand on his shoulder and whispers I'm sorry, he does not cry.

"I know," Fíli says and he does, he truly does.

"Good night, Fíli," is all Thorin says in return.

Fíli is unsurprised when he finds Kíli curled in his bed, his face, still stained with tears, half buried in the pillow. They have not shared a bed in many years, both too old and too grown for it to hold the same comfort it once did, but Fíli is glad for the company (if only for tonight) and cannot bring himself to oust his brother from the bed. He does not want to face this night and the terrors it may bring, not alone and not without his brother.

Sleep comes in fitful bursts. Fíli is not usually a light sleeper, a trait shared with his father and teased by his mother, but every muted sound, every fretful movement and every half-remembered nightmare brings him back to waking.

It does not come as easily as it goes and Fíli finds himself slipping from bed, bare feet pressed against the cold stone floor, and wandering out into the hall. The main room is barely lit, the hearth burning low and unattended. Thorin must have gone to bed, Fíli thinks and turns back to his room, but a muffled curse and flickering candle light draws him to his parent's room. He does not think it is Dís, the duties of an amradshomak will keep her long into morning. She will guard Jóli to the dawn, keeping vigil through the night and caring for the body he has left behind.

Peeking through the open door, he spies Thorin standing before the open wardrobe, staring at the clothes within. There are several tunics and a few pairs of worn breeches strewn across the still-made bed. Thorin places another tunic, red and torn, upon the bed, cursing as fingers the frayed hem of the thin sleeve.

"Uncle," Fíli whispers, stepping into the room. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for clothes for your father," Thorin replies, not looking up from his search. Fíli understands, or he thinks he does. They do not yet have finery for Jóli, a commoner by birth and a miner by trade, but even poor Dwarves are buried in gold and silk and he should not be left in blood-dried clothes. The dead should not be tarnished in such a way.

"I do not know which would be…" Thorin continues with a sigh, gesturing to the clothes before him. "Best."

"Blue," Fíli says immediately, joining Thorin by the wardrobe. "Da likes—liked blue."

"Blue," Thorin nods and continues his search.

Fíli inspects the clothes on the bed, they are mostly faded and worn, bright colours dulled through work and time. A blue shirt catches his eye, stained and frayed from Joli's work in the mines. It smells like him, Fíli thinks, pressing his face into the soft fabric and inhaling deeply. Where Thorin smells of metal and smoke and fire; and Dís of sun and heather and bread; Jóli smells of deep mountain air, cool and still and of the earth.

It smells of comfort.

"When will…?" Fíli asks, the rest of the question hanging unasked between them.

"The day after next," Thorin answers, pulling a rich blue tunic from the bottom of a drawer.

"Oh," Fíli says quietly, looking down at the shirt in his hands.

"You should return to bed," Thorin says, a clean pair of pants and the blue tunic held in his arms. "Dawn is still a while off."

"I can't sleep," Fíli mumbles.

"Take the shirt," Thorin says, gently carding his fingers through Fíli's hair. It feels warm, Thorin's hand, coming to rest on the back of his neck and, eyes soft, brings their foreheads together with a gentle hum. "It will help."

Thorin is right, Fíli finds. Sleep comes easier with Kíli pressed against him, their father's shirt between them like a barrier and a comfort. He does not cry, not as Kíli does, eyes and heart too dry to offer anymore tears.

And he is thankful, because it occurs to him later, on the edge of sleep, that he had forgotten something important and it is enough to break his heart anew.

There are only two days left until his birthday.

—

Morning does not lessen the pain.

Fíli wakes with a headache, sharp and burning along the right side of his face, settling in his jaw with a dull throb. It compares little to the hollow ache in his chest, the cold spread of grief chilling his core and there is something else, nameless and old that twists in him like a coiled serpent and bites at his heart.

"Fíli?" Kíli asks softly. Fíli groans as he sits up, head throbbing more acutely at the movement, spying Kíli sitting on his own bed, dressed and ready for the day. His eyes are red and raw, pleading in a way that doesn't make sense until Fíli sees what is held in Kíli's shaking hands.

There is little in life that Fíli can call his own; his bed, his swords and a small portrait of his father smiling at an eight year old Fíli held aloft in his arms. It had been a gift from one of Jóli's cousins, unknown and scarcely remembered, given on Durin's Day before the winter took his health and his life. Fíli had cherished it and now Kíli had destroyed it.

"What did you do?" Fíli shouts, looking at the splintered frame and the thin, yellowed paper torn through the centre, jagged and long, separating the inked figures like an empty chasm. He is angry, so angry that it hurts and suddenly, viciously, he wants to hurt Kíli too.

"Fee," Kíli says, eyes wide as Fíli crosses the small space between them. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You never do!" Fíli explodes, snatching the portrait from Kíli with such ferocity that it tears further. "You've ruined it."

"I'm sorry," Kíli cries, but there is no room in Fíli's heart for mercy.

"Get," Fíli hisses, low and dangerous and brimming with rage. "Out."

"Please," Kíli begs, standing now. He grasps the sleeves of Fíli's nightshirt, fingers twisting in the undyed cotton. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Get out, Kíli!" Fíli screams, wrenching himself his little brother's grip. "I hate you."

Kíli starts, mouth gaping like a fish fresh from water, a small choked sound pulling from his throat, before he turns and flees from the room. Fíli watches him go, equal parts satisfaction and regret warring within him, as the front door opens and closes with a resounding bang. For a moment he wants to follow, but he takes one look at the broken portrait and resolves, somewhere deep inside, to hold to his anger and his rage.

It doesn't seem to hurt as much as grief.

Kíli does not return for breakfast. It is a tense affair and Fíli has no illusions that Thorin may have missed his row with Kíli, but he says nothing about it nor asks where Kíli is or why he left. Fíli is glad, because he does not think he can justify his words to Thorin. Not when Thorin had a little brother too, now no more than ashes scattered on a battlefield long since lost.

Afternoon comes and Dís returns pulling Fíli into a tight and welcome hug. She does not ask about Kíli or where he might be, only hugs Fíli tighter and whispers: "He's sorry."

I know, Fíli thinks and holds tighter to his anger.

"You have training," Thorin says, impassive. Fíli nods, going to his room and retrieving his swords and their scabbards. He ignores the bow and the quiver of yellow-fletched arrows sitting in the corner, but Thorin follows after him and collects Kíli's forgotten weapons.

"Your brother will need his bow," Thorin says, thrusting them against Fíli's chest. Fíli is tempted to let them fall, but he raises his arms under the force of Thorin's gaze.

It feels as if years have passed since he last left the mountain halls, Thorin's Halls, built upon the desolated remnants of ancient Belegost, but it has not been years or months and weeks. It has only been a day and like today, it had been too bright and too warm for the hurt that it brought. It doesn't take long to reach the training grounds, an enclosed area of grass and wind and sun, Dwalin and Kíli already waiting for him.

"Your bow," Fíli says after greeting Dwalin, who offers his condolences and nothing more, holding it out to Kíli with a rigid arm.

"I don't want it," Kíli whispers, turning away from the bow with a pained expression.

"Just take it," Fíli growls, too angry still and too heavy with his own hurts to question or care about Kíli's change of attitude.

"No," Kíli says more forcefully, taking a full step back from Fíli and the weapon.

"Stop being such a brat," Fíli yells, throwing the bow and its quiver at Kíli's feet. "Take the bow!"

"No!" Kíli shouts, stalking off towards the archery range, bow and quiver abandoned where it lay. It feels wrong to see a weapon left, especially Kíli's, for no Dwarf would part from their weapon willingly. In death it is buried with them, as great a treasure as any gold or mithril craft.

Fíli leaves the bow, he cannot deal with Kíli and his sudden petulance (fear), casting a final glance at where Kíli sits, staring intently at the arrow-shot targets, takes his swords in hand and joins Dwalin by the training dummies. Dwalin wastes no time in barking out orders for the day's lesson, sensing or understanding the need for distraction, Fíli doesn't know, but is thankful or the same.

It doesn't take long to forget about Kíli, or the silence in his heart that is Jóli, and to lose himself in the motions and his fury. He does not know when the world falls away, when Dwalin's voice fades to nothing and his reality consists entirely of him, his blades and the armoured straw dummy before him.

And suddenly is it not straw and leather, but mottled flesh and iron; an orc, not a dummy, vicious and sneering with a twisted bow in its bloody hands. Fíli realises something about Kíli then, but it is lost in the crushing swell of his own sorrow and it suddenly feels too much.

Someone is shouting, screaming, and he thinks that it is him, but it is hard to hear over the pounding roar in his ears.

The world returns violently, Dwalin's arms wrapping around his waist and tearing him up and away from the broken remains of the dummy. Enough, enough, enough, enough, Dwalin soothes as Fíli struggles against his hold, repeating the words over and over until Fíli falls boneless and exhausted to the ground. Fíli presses his cheek to the soft earth, knuckles aching and bleeding, swords abandoned in the grass, and gives a soul-deep sob.

Once he does, he cannot stop.

Dwalin sits with him, wide hand resting on his back like a solid weight anchoring him from falling too far in his anguish, and when it is over, when the tears no longer fall and he can bear to stand, Dwalin only asks: "Want to talk?"

"No," Fíli croaks, holding back another sob.

Dwalin nods, turning to his pack and pulling out small silk wrapped package. "I have a gift for you."

Fíli takes it, feeling its weight and trying to discern what it is. He thinks it's a dagger, he has enough stashed in his room and his clothes to know the feel of one. He suspects if he were blinded and no longer knew one sound or shape from another, he would always know a blade if placed in his hand. Fíli draws back the fabric, pocketing the swatch of blue silk as he lift the finely crafted blade and inspects it. He was right of course, it is a dagger, forged and crafted by Dwalin's own hand. It is beautiful, simplistic in its design and he thinks, for the briefest of moments, turning, that Kíli would appreciate it too.

But Kíli is not behind him, he is still at the archery range, though he is no longer alone. Thorin stands before him, bow in hand, too far away for whatever exchange of words to be heard. He does not know how long Thorin has stood there talking to Kíli and if Thorin saw his breakdown, but he does not dwell on it. Instead he watches Kíli nod is head, tentatively reaching out to grasp his bow and when his fingers curl around it, it seems to break what strength holds him upright, collapsing him into Thorin's arms like a felled tree.

"Happy birthday," Dwalin says, joining Fíli in his far off watch. Fíli cannot help the harsh bark of laughter that passes his lips and if it sounds too close to a sob, too hysterical to be an expression of joy, then Dwalin pretends not to notice, clapping Fíli on the back a little too hard. He'd forgotten how near his birthday is, looming over the horizon like an unwelcomed storm.

"Thank you," Fíli says quietly, twirling the dagger in his hands and looking back at Kíli and Thorin. "Though it doesn't feel very happy."

"You best get going lad," Dwalin says after a beat of silence, Thorin and Kíli now walking down the small hill towards them. Fíli nods, picking up his swords and wrapping his new dagger back in the blue silk. He will find a place for it later, maybe in his hair or the back of his coat.

He meets Thorin and Kíli halfway, starting the silent trek back home. He knows he looks a mess, blood on his hands and grass in his hair, eyes wet and sore, but no one comments and Kíli will not meet his eyes. It feels longer somehow, the carved mountain halls darker and Fíli longs to be home, in the arms of his father.

Only that will never happen again.

"Kíli," Thorin says when they finally reach home. "Take care of your brother's hands."

Fíli starts to protest, saying that he's fine and that he doesn't need nor want Kíli's help, but Thorin gives him a sharp look that silences him completely.

"Come on then," Fíli huffs, going to their room and rooting out their small medicine bag from beneath his bed. Kíli follows in his wake, a small cloth and bowl of hot water held in his slightly shaking hands. Despite the tremors, he makes quick work of cleaning Fíli's hands before smoothing out several strips of clean linen bandages.

"I'm sorry, Fee," Kíli says softly as he wraps Fíli's hand. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I know," Fíli sighs, he is too exhausted to be angry and whilst there is still a small pang of hurt at his loss, it is not so great as the one they share. He should not hold so tightly to it. "I'm sorry too."

"I love you," Kíli says, forehead pressed again Fíli's freshly wrapped knuckles.

"I love you too, brother," Fíli replies, resting his head atop Kíli's own.

They stay like that for some time, Kíli moving to join him on the bed. It doesn't take long for Kíli to fall asleep, slumped on Fíli's shoulder. It would be funny, if it wasn't indicative of how exhausted both of them are, but tired as he is Fíli cannot sleep yet. There is someone he needs to talk to first.

"Uncle," Fíli says, joining him in front of the hearth. Thorin turns to him and offers him his pipe. Fíli accepts it gratefully, pulling in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaling it to steady his nerves.

"Do you want to tell me what happened this morning?" Thorin asks when Fíli hands him back the pipe.

"It doesn't matter now," Fíli says and it is not a lie. It does not matter, not in light of reconciliation and larger sorrow.

"It does," Thorin states bluntly. "It was about more than a torn portrait."

"I'm scared I'll forget him," Fíli confesses, because once he pushes past the anger and the sorrow and confusion, all he finds is churning fear. Thorin says nothing, offering him his pipe once more and urging him to continue. "I'm scared I will wake up one morning and I'll have forgotten his laugh or his smile or his voice. I'm scared I'll forget his face."

"I'm not—" Fíli continues and he feels hot tears gathering in his eyes. "I'm not ready to say goodbye. I don't want to say goodbye."

"When Frerin died," Thorin says. There is a deep sadness in his voice and it reminds Fíli of why Frerin is mentioned so rarely. He wonders if he will speak of Jóli this way in decades to come, sparingly; the memories guarded like a dragon's treasure hoard. "I felt as you do now, but I took comfort in the knowledge that we would meet again in the Halls of Mandos."

"I miss him," Fíli sobs. Thorin draws his arms around him, pulling him close. He smells of metal and smoke and fire, and though it is not the same as the deep mountain air, it is a comfort all the same.

"I cannot promise you that it will go away," Thorin murmurs, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across Fíli's back. "These things never do, but it gets easier to bear and you find yourself stronger for it."

"There is no shame in morning," Thorin continues. "But you mustn't let it crush you."

Later, Thorin will guide him to bed. He doesn't remember how exactly he made it from the couch to his bed, but he does remember Thorin, tucking him beneath the covers like he is a dwarfling again, barely old enough to lift a sword. Do not think we have forgotten, Thorin had whispered before he left and in the sleep-hazed fog of his own exhaustion he realises what he meant.

There is only one day left until his birthday and they will not forget him.

Part of him wishes they would.

—

The morning is easier to face this time, despite what looms before them.

He finds his funeral clothes laid carefully on the end of bed, Kíli already awake and gone from the room. Fíli finds the black velvet heavy and cumbersome, but does not voice his complaint. It is not for his comfort that these clothes are designed, they are sacred and special. There is mithril thread sewn into the fabric weaving ancient Dwarvish patterns and prayers. He has to admit that the design is beautiful, despite speaking of heartbreak and loss.

They are the clothes of a mourner, of those that grieve the dead.

"Good morning, ghivashel," Dís says gently, when Fíli is ready.

"You're up early," Kíli comments. He is already dressed and ready, hair neat and braided. Thorin is nowhere in sight, probably gone long before the dawn to make the final preparations.

"As are you," Fíli yawns, drawing his hand through his tangle of hair.

"Not so uncommon as the sight of you before dawn," Kíli teases with a small grin. It's the first smile he's seen from Kíli since they heard the news and it relieves him more than he thought to see it.

"Enough you two," Dís scolds, though her voice speaks of the smile she cannot give. "Let me braid your hair, Fíli."

"We should wear blue," Kíli says suddenly. Fíli nearly startles, lost in the feel of the gentle pull of fingers through his hair. Dís is almost finished, telling Kíli to start on Fíli's moustache, before stopping her work on the final braid.

"This was his courting gift to me," Dís smiles, hooking her fingers beneath the silver chain around her neck and pulling up until a bright sapphire dangles in the air right in front of his eyes. "He mined the silver and sapphires, though he could not craft the necklace himself."

"What did you make him?" Kíli asks, tying off Fíli's second moustache braid and slipping a bead onto it.

"I made him these," Dís says, leaning over Fíli's shoulder so that she may show them both the two delicate blue-stone beads in her palm. "I would have you both wear them."

"'Amad…" Fíli whispers, taking a bead in one hand and one of Kíli's braids in the other. As he threads the bead into Kíli's hair, he feels Dís do the same with him. It's enough to make him cry again, but he feels he ought to save them.

There will be much to cry for later.

If he is honest, Fíli will say that he does not remember much of the funeral. Not the words or the faces, only Kíli's hand in his own and the heavy air of sorrow that brings them all to weeping. He remembers seeing his father, two blue beads braided into golden hair, sword clasped between death-stiff fingers and though he fears it still, he sings his goodbyes through ancient prayer.

It is the last he sees of his father, still and silent, as they lower him into his tomb and then, when the tomb is sealed, it is over and it is painfully silent.

"Bless those who mourn, Mahal," someone sings, deep and rough. Other voices join, rising above the silence in a mournful threnody. Fíli turns to stare at those who came to honour his father and they in turn stare back at him, their voices rising ever higher until it is nearly deafening. "Shield them from the pain with your hammer and guide them to a new day."

It is his birthday tomorrow, Fíli thinks, taking one final look at his father's tomb. It does not feel as it should.

—

His birthday comes quietly with the dawn.

Kíli is already up and waiting, sitting patiently at the end of bed, bow and quiver in hand. Fíli doesn't take long getting ready, letting Kíli braid his hair whilst he straps on his boots. He had told Kíli the night before that he wished for them to go to the training yard, to have a few moments alone with Kíli not mired in grief or steeped in anger.

They say nothing to each other, not until they reach their open sanctuary, both sitting side by side on the stone-cropped fence watching the sun make its steady ascent into this new bright day.

"Here," Kíli says, handing Fíli a small package. Fíli lets out a stuttered breath when he pulls away the undyed cloth, tears welling in his eyes unbidden.

"Ori drew it," Kíli says, wringing his hands together. "And Bofur fixed the frame."

"Kee…" Fíli says, staring at the small object in his hands as he runs his fingers along the frame. His father stares back at him, or rather he is staring at an eight year old Fíli laughing in his arms. It is not the picture he lost, but it is more alive, more real than the original had ever been.

"If you don't like—" Kíli begins, but Fíli tackles him with a laugh knocking them both off the wall and onto the grass below.

"Get off," Kíli cries, arms and legs flailing in a futile effort to get free. "Fíli!"

"O, my brother," Fíli laughs and smiles and feels happy. Maybe it won't last and maybe it will fade, but in this moment and on this day, he is happy and whole and free. "Thank you."

"Happy birthday," Kíli says with a bright smile of his own. "Now get off!"

They stay on the grass a while longer, watching the sky slowly shift to a vibrant blue and eventually Thorin finds them, Dís too, joining them on the grass. Their family is not whole, not as Fíli has known it, and they will all grieve for a while yet, but this a day of celebration and he will see it to its end.

It is his birthday and it does not feel as it should, but it does not hurt.

Not like he feared it would.

—

Fin.

—

Khuzdul:

'amad / mother

amradshomak / guard of the dead

ghivashel / treasure of all treasures