13A/N: This, like all the other stuff I've posted lately, is the result of a prompt on tumblr. It was a pretty good prompt from a pretty cool anon, so whoever you are, anon, thanks!
"I'm bored."
"What a shame," says Fíli to his brother, staring out at the Men milling about the market, his chin resting in his hand. Truth be told, he is bored, as well—they have already sold most of their wares for the day, but they have a few pieces left that Fíli wants to try and get rid of before heading home. But it has been an hour since anyone had done more than throw a passing glance their way, and he would rather head back with some daylight ahead of them. Still, sunset is a long way off. They have time.
"Hungry, too," Kíli says, and Fíli turns his head and looks at him. Kíli is spinning a dagger tip-down into the table, his face resting in his palm and his eyes dull. Fíli hits the dagger so it falls onto the table.
"Hey!" Kíli says, casting a glare at his brother.
"Stop that," says Fíli. "You're putting a hole in the table."
"Who cares?" Kíli grumbles, but he doesn't pick the blade up again. Instead, he yawns and stretches, looking around the marketplace. He is trying to keep still, but Fíli knows his brother, and he can see that Kíli is nearly bursting out of his skin. They have been sitting in this stall for far too long. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a few coins.
"Here," he says, taking Kíli's hand and dropping the coins onto his palm. "Get us something to eat from that tavern you like."
"Excellent," says Kíli quickly, closing his fingers over the money and smiling brightly. "I'll be back shortly."
Before Fíli can say anything else, Kíli is running off, and Fíli chuckles and shakes his head. Kíli has always been full of energy, and though they are no longer children, that energy has yet to wear off. Fíli is not sure it ever will.
Yet when Kíli has been gone for half an hour, Fíli begins to worry.
He tries not to, though—Kíli is fifty-one, after all. He is an adult. Besides, they have been to this town many times before on market-days. It's not like he could have gotten lost. Knowing Kíli, he probably decided to get himself a pint before heading back with food for his brother. Fíli feels a twinge of annoyance as he considers this. That money had been his own, not earnings from their day of selling metalwork.
You don't know that he did that, he tells himself. There are plenty of reasons to be annoyed with Kíli on a regular basis without inventing new ones.
But what if it's something worse than that? Fíli looks around uneasily. He is not the only Dwarf in the market, but just because there are several of them there does not mean that the Men are pleased with their presence. People seem to have a natural distrust of Dwarves everywhere they go, and these Men have more reason to dislike them than most. Dwarves have only been in these parts for a few generations, and prejudice against them has carried down through the years; they recognize the superior handiwork of the Dwarves when it comes to weaponry, of course, which is why they let them into town to sell their wares, but they still don't like them very much.
After a few more minutes, Fíli decides he cannot wait any longer. He packs up the remaining wares—thankfully not very much, as he has to carry it himself—and heads towards the tavern, scanning the crowds for his brother.
Kíli is nowhere to be seen. He enters the tavern and looks around—no Kíli here, either, but something has happened recently. The people are quieter than usual, and when he enters, they watch him warily. He marches up to the bar.
"Excuse me," he calls, and a ruddy Man with sandy hair looks down at him. "I am looking for my brother. He would have come here for some food, maybe a pint…?"
"Oh, so that was your brother, was it?" says the Man, scowling. "Started a quite a ruckus just a bit ago. I expect he's on his way to see the Sheriff now."
Fíli furrows his brow. "What did he do?"
"Disturbin' the peace," says the Man. "Fightin'. Had him and the other fella dragged off. I don't tolerate such nonsense. Other places might, but we're civilized folk here."
Fíli feels his heart sinking down into his stomach. Why would Kíli fight with a Man? He is short-tempered, to be sure, but to be arrested…
"He didn't look too good," the Man continues. "Him or the other guy. Took a while for the deputy to get here."
Fíli's eyes widen, and he turns to leave immediately. If Kíli is hurt, he needs to find him. These people don't give medical attention before they throw somebody into jail. He has to find his brother.
He has seen the Sheriff's quarters before, and he knows the way there; he runs as fast as his legs will take him, and soon he is there, bursting in the door and looking around frantically. A Man is standing at a desk, writing something down.
"You must be the brother," he says without looking up. "Fíli, is it?"
"Aye," Fíli replies breathlessly. "Where—?"
"Third cell on the right," says the Man, pointing, but still looking down at his desk. Fíli dashes to the cell and looks in, taking hold of the bars. Sitting in the corner with one knee pulled up to his chest and his head bowed is Kíli.
"Kíli," Fíli says, and his brother lifts his head. Fíli's heart jumps, for he has never seen his brother in such a state. One eye is swollen shut, and blood trails down his face from his nostrils. His lip is split in two places, and a bloody gash slants down his left cheek. He smiles a bloody grin.
"Didn't take you long," he says hoarsely. His brow creases, and he presses a hand against his ribs.
"Stay put," Fíli says. "I'll get you out of here."
"I can't really go anywhere, can I?" says Kíli, but Fíli is already running back to the desk. The Man still does not look up.
"How much is bail for my brother?" Fíli says.
Finally, the Man lifts his gaze and looks at Fíli carefully. He grins.
"You're that prince, aren't you?" he says. "I've seen you before. With that other fellow."
"Yes, my brother," says Fíli impatiently. "We come here often to sell wares at the market."
"No, no, the other one," says the Man. "Thorin. The leader of you lot."
Fíli narrows his eyes. "What of it?"
"So you're a prince, aren't you?" the Man says, gesturing to him. "He said he's a king. So you're a prince. You and your brother. You're his boys."
"We are his nephews," Fíli corrects, casting a glance towards the cells. "I do not see how this is relevant. My brother is wounded and needs care. How much is his bail?"
The Man eyes him again. "Three gold coins."
Flames of anger rise in Fíli's head. "Three gol—why, you slimy, rotten—"
"Are you saying you can't afford it?" says the Man smugly.
Fíli wants to punch him square in the nose, but that won't solve anything, save to possibly make him feel a little better. He wrinkles his nose, glaring up at the Man, and then reaches into his satchel for the moneybox.
"Fine," he says. "I don't have time for this."
Without exposing how much money is inside, he pulls out three gold coins—far more than bail should ever be for something as common as disturbing the peace—and then, thinking twice, puts one back and takes out the equivalent in silver instead. He hands them to the deputy, who pockets them with a satisfied smile. It is a sore loss; altogether, he and Kíli have probably made the equivalent of nine or ten gold coins total today. He had worked hard on the weapons that had earned him that money, and he has a mind to make his brother pay him back after this was over.
"Follow me," the Man says. He walks slowly to the holding cell, and Fíli follows him impatiently. He taps his foot as the Man unlocks the door, and as soon as it is open, he dashes inside and kneels next to his brother.
"Kíli, are you all right?" he says, resting a hand on the brunet's shoulder. Kíli stirs, but he does not lift his head, and a jolt of fear shoots through Fíli's gut. He shakes Kíli's shoulder gently, and Kíli groans.
"I'm fine," he says quietly.
"You sure sound fine," Fíli retorts, rolling his eyes. "Let's get you to a healer—there's got to be one around here somewhere…"
"No, take me home," Kíli says. "I don't want to spend another second in this town."
"Kíli, you're hurt," Fíli says pointedly.
"Take me home," Kíli insists, glaring up at his brother.
"All right," Fíli says, raising his eyebrows. "Let's get you home." He pulls Kíli's arm around his neck, and Kíli cries out and bends. Fíli stops and looks at him.
"I'm fine," Kíli repeats, though he does not look his brother in the eye. "Let's just get out of here."
Though Fíli's concern is growing, he knows they should get out of here as quickly as possible. He wants to ask Kíli what went wrong, why he was fighting, but his brother seems to be fighting to even remain conscious, let alone have a conversation. It will be a long ride home already and an even longer walk from the stables to their home inside the mountain, and Fíli would rather not have to carry his brother if he can help it.
Kíli offers no words, either, which is what worries Fíli the most. Usually his brother sings and talks and laughs the whole way home, but now he is quiet, even brooding. But even when Fíli asks again what happened, Kíli says nothing, simply shaking his head and pressing on, his gaze fixed ahead with his one good eye. He is hunched over in his saddle, and his hand often strays to his torso. He is clearly in much more pain than he is letting on.
Finally they are home, Kíli supported by his brother almost completely by this point, his feet dragging with every step. Fíli's stomach is churning with disquiet, but still Kíli says nothing, and Fíli does not press him. They will have time to speak later.
Their mother sees them first, and she cries out when she sees the state of her youngest and runs to them.
"What happened?" she says, taking Kíli's face in her hands and forcing him to look up at her. He attempts a smile, but at this point, he is clearly too tired and in too much pain for pretenses any longer.
He collapses.
Fíli and Dís catch him before he hits the floor, both calling his name, and Kíli fights feebly against their hands, mumbling incoherently. Dís looks up at Fíli, concern shining in her deep blue eyes. He shrugs. He has no answers for her. Together they help Kíli to the couch in the living room, where they lay him down. Kíli closes his eyes and sighs as soon as he is lying down, and Dís runs to retrieve some supplies. Fíli sets down his burdens and kneels on the floor next to the couch.
"Blimey, I didn't realize you were feeling that badly," he says, resting a hand on Kíli's arm. "I would have stopped to rest if you had said something."
"'S'why I didn't tell you," Kíli mutters. His brow is furrowed, his mouth pulled into a frown. "M'head hurts."
"What is going on?"
Fíli looks back towards the doorway, where Thorin stands, staring at Kíli and frowning. His questioning gaze turns to Fíli, but all the blond can do is shrug. He doesn't know. Not yet, anyway. Thorin enters the room and looks down at Kíli's bloodied face.
"It was a fight," he assesses. "Kíli, you are far too old to be getting in fights."
"Leave him alone for now, Thorin," says Dís, bustling back into the room with hot water, clean cloths, and several different salves. "You can scold him later. Let me patch him up first."
Thorin sighs and backs away, allowing his sister room, and she starts by cleaning away the dried blood that is caked on Kíli's lip and down his chin and neck. Kíli does not protest, and Fíli watches him carefully. Typically, Kíli would fight every step of this process, insisting that he is fine and that he can take care of himself.
"Thorin, get some ice from the icebox for this eye," Dís commands, and Thorin leaves the room. When the blood is gone from Kíli's face, she coaxes him to sit up, though he grimaces and groans.
"Take your shirt off," she says. Kíli simply frowns, and Dís turns to Fíli.
"Help your brother."
Fíli helps Kíli with his shirt and then gasps. On his left side is a giant, purpling bruise—the sure sign of at least one, perhaps several, cracked ribs. He looks at Kíli with wide eyes.
"You let me make you ride a pony and walk with that?" he cries. "Kíli…"
"I'm fine," Kíli grinds out, glaring at his brother. His gaze moves to the door, and Fíli's follows; Thorin is walking in with a cloth filled with ice. The old dwarf stops when he sees his youngest nephew's body.
"What on earth got into you, boy?" he says, handing the ice to Dís, who gently holds it against Kíli's eye. Kíli winces, though if it is at Thorin's words or Dís's touch is hard to say. "Fighting at your age—and at the market! They know who you are, Kíli, and word will spread. How will any of us show our faces there again?"
"It wasn't my fault," Kíli says. He grunts as Dís pokes at his bruised side. "I didn't start it."
That's not what the Man said at the tavern. Fíli keeps his mouth shut. Kíli is in enough trouble as it is.
"I don't care who started it, Kíli," says Thorin. "You cannot engage in fighting with the Men on whose gold we depend to live! Why would you do this?"
"They said you were a laughingstock," says Kíli roughly, glaring up at his guardian. "That you weren't a good leader—that we were all a laughingstock, that we should have burned when the dragon attacked. Was I supposed to let that pass? I was defending your honor, Uncle—would you rather that I had done nothing?"
Thorin's gaze softens, and for a few moments, there is silence. Fíli looks between his uncle and his brother warily, but Dís pays them no mind; she is busy rubbing a salve into Kíli's bruised side. Kíli winces, but he does not break his gaze.
"I was angry," he says. "That someone could speak so poorly of you. I… I admit that I punched him first. I just wanted to teach him a lesson. But he was a hulking brute of a Man, and sneaky, too… he pretended to apologize, and then caught me in the side of the head when I had turned my back. And then a crowd gathered, and I had no choice but to stand up for myself." Kíli bows his head. "I'm not sorry for what I did. I am only sorry that I did not win the fight."
Thorin sighs and shakes his head, but his anger is gone.
"Well, next time, make sure you win," he says.
Kíli's one working eye widens, and he grins; then the grin fades as the splits in his lips crack open. Thorin leaves the room without another word, and Kíli hisses as Dís prods at the back of his head.
"Next time, you don't fight at all," she mutters. "Cracked ribs and a black eye and probably a mild concussion, too—because you couldn't control your temper."
"I was defending our honor," Kíli retorts, then he hisses again as Dís touches a sensitive spot. She sighs wearily and releases him, and he leans back against the couch, looking both pleased and forlorn.
"I'll get you a blanket," she says, rising to her feet. "Lie down and rest. You'll need it."
"Thanks, Mum," Kíli mutters. He grunts as he tries to lower himself, and Fíli leans forward to help him.
"You could have told me," he says, pushing a pillow under Kíli's head. "I would have understood. I wouldn't have been angry."
"Doesn't matter now," Kíli says, his voice already distant, though he has only had his eyes closed for a few moments. "I'm not dead—be grateful."
"You're fortunate that they weren't lesser men," Fíli says. "That they didn't try to kill you."
"Indeed," Kíli says sleepily. He is already drifting off.
"Oh, and another thing," Fíli says. "Bloody deputy ripped me off. You owe me three gold for your bail."
Kíli twitches violently, and his eye opens.
"What?"