Chapter Text
Fíli found himself standing in front of Thorin, sitting on the throne of Erebor, and felt a shiver go all the way down his spine, one that said something went wrong.
Of course, something went wrong had been the way he had felt ever since he ran inside the mountain, Kíli behind him, Bofur and Oin still on their heels. But now, as Thorin sat on the throne in his heavy robes and heavier crown, Fíli wondered how everyone else did not feel it too.
Dáin stood beside him, Kíli on his other side, but when Thorin turned his head, it was clear his gaze went to Fíli, not either of them.
And Fíli realized he was shaking.
-
It had started with the ruby, with Thorin welcoming them to Erebor, hands spread out while Fíli held the massive gem in his hands. Bofur had looked at it, eyes caught on its glitter, but Fíli had barely spared it a glance before he snapped his eyes back up to Thorin.
Because he could already see, underneath the madness in Thorin's eyes, there was also a deep abiding rage.
He barely even spared a word for the fact Kíli was alive and whole in front of him, as if he had never expected anything different. As if the nephew he had once doted on, who he left for dead, was an afterthought.
But he clearly remembered Fíli disobeying him, caught him later when the others were asleep and curled his hand tight and cruel on Fíli's wrist, whispered to him that things would be different, now, and he expected Fíli to be better .
Fíli nodded, tight, watched his uncle leave to wander the hallways all night, and when he turned, he found Bilbo watching. For a long time they stared at each other in the light of the torches, before Bilbo jerked his gaze away.
It would barely even be days before Fíli disobeyed his uncle and king a second time, telling him no right to his face before throwing himself physically between him and Bilbo, letting Bofur help the hobbit over the parapet, down to the armies below.
He almost thought, with said armies waiting for them, it wouldn't matter.
But not even Gandalf had managed to stop the fighting, the skirmish going back and forth in front of the gate with Dáin's arrival, until all of the sudden the elf-king seemed to change his mind. He shot one long look up at the gate, the human beside him as surprised as anyone, and Fíli dug his fingers into the stone of Erebor as hard as he could as they left.
The elf-king seemed to drag the humans with him, and for a while it seemed they were all gone to Mirkwood with him. It would be a relief, Fíli thought, because the elf-king at least treated them better than he had dwarves. But the scouts had already spotted humans seeming to move around the ruins of Dale, despite the winter snows.
And Thorin, through all of it, had kept the same heavy gaze, the same sickness in his bones. Not the hobbit, not Kíli's pleading, not even the battle down below him, had shaken him out of it.
Now Fíli walked Erebor, waiting for Thorin to find him, waiting for Thorin to decide what to do with him for not just disobeying him once, but twice , in front of every other dwarrow of the company.
Every day more dwarrow arrived, despite the winter weather blanketing the passes in snow, and every day Fíli waited.
-
When Fíli entered his chambers and found Thorin sitting in front of the fire, it hardly even felt like a surprise, just an inevitable certainty.
He still hesitated, on the doorstep of his own rooms, before he took the plunge into the darkness, lit only by the hearth-fire. Closing the door behind him, he took another few steps, until he stood in front of Thorin, who for a long time just stared back at him. He still wore his heavy robes, his heavier crown, and Fíli wavered in the length of his gaze.
“Unc—my king. What can I—”
“You sound concerned, nephew,” Thorin rumbled, and Fíli felt himself swallow, his throat jumping.
“It has been,” he started, swallowed again. “Quite a number of days since we last spoke.”
“Indeed it has,” Thorin agreed. “Matters of the kingdom has kept us both quite busy,” and Fíli gave a tiny, tight nod. He had not been running, but he had made sure every moment he could spare was taken up by some task or another, as far away from the heart of Erebor as he could get. The winter was long, and cold, and there were not enough dwarrow in the mountain to keep it warm.
“I hope my service has been satisfactory,” Fíli said. If he made certain to eat dinner late at night, after even Bombur had gone to sleep, he hoped no one questioned that either.
“Exemplary,” Thorin said, and then pushed himself to his feet. Fíli shifted back, keeping his gaze on Thorin's eyes, and knew it showed weakness that he moved at all. But never before had his uncle's height felt like a threat, those few inches he had on Fíli making him loom over him as he looked down at Fíli's eyes.
“But that is only half of things,” Thorin continued.
“Half?” Fíli found himself asking, voice going tight.
“Do you obey me, nephew?” Thorin asked, and Fíli felt like if he held his body any tighter, he might snap his own spine in half.
“You are our king,” he said slowly, carefully, watching the firelight dance down the side of Thorin's heavy robes, reflecting off the metallic thread and tiny bits of sewn in metal. He only realized that meant he'd taken his gaze away from Thorin's eyes when Thorin moved and he abruptly jerked them back up, uncertain if he had missed an expression on his uncle's face.
“That's not mattered to you before,” Thorin said, and moved. Fíli turned his head when he realized Thorin was walking around him, but did not move the rest of his body. He wondered if Thorin could tell that he'd stopped breathing for a second, both of them all too aware that Fíli had disobeyed him not once, but twice.
One time in Erebor itself, Thorin's crown already a weight on his head.
He twitched and then froze when he felt Thorin's hand come up from behind him, fingers pressing to the front of his throat. He swallowed hard again, tried to keep breathing when he realized Thorin wasn't doing anything else, just resting his fingers there, as if to feel him breathing.
“You are my king,” he said, when Thorin didn't do anything else, didn't say anything or move. He felt strange, talking with someone else's hand on his throat. “But I am also your heir. What sort of future king would I be if I obeyed blindly?”
It was the type of thing he would have never been frightened to say before.
But he couldn't imagine a time when his uncle would have been standing behind him, hand on his throat like a threat, either.
“Do you ask for special treatment from your king?” Thorin asked and Fíli sucked in a breath, felt Thorin's fingers move, and then shoved forward, turning in a fury, barely catching Thorin's expression.
“I am your heir,” Fíli said, making a declaration and a demand, Thorin's eyes dark and unreadable. “I am not another subject for you to—” and he cut off before he said bully. “You treat me differently because of that.” But then he couldn't keep it up, looked away again. “But I am still loyal. You should never doubt—”
He went still again, when Thorin reached forward, twisting a strand of his hair around one finger and Fíli moved his eyes to follow the motion. In the low firelight, the gold of his hair almost looked molten and Fíli slowly dared to look back at Thorin's eyes, finding him only staring at his hair.
“Are you loyal?” Thorin whispered.
“Yes,” Fíli said.
Suddenly Thorin yanked, off balancing Fíli, and for a second he flailed, eyes watering. When he caught his balance he let out a huff of a breath, before Thorin had moved, their chests almost touching and his finger still tangled up in a curl of Fíli's hair.
“I told you not to disobey me again,” he said, Fíli looking up at him. “And what did you do?”
Fíli wanted to snarl, bare his teeth at his uncle. If he had been in his right mind, he would never have tried to order Fíli to throw Bilbo off the mountain. Didn't you love him ? he wanted to ask. Didn't you care about him ?
But Bilbo had left with Gandalf, trailing after Thranduil's armed elves, and Fíli thought he might have been the only one still standing there, watching, when he turned his head and looked back.
He'd lifted his hand, once, and Fíli hadn't moved a muscle, watched them trail into the ruins of Dale and presumably out the other side, toward the forests. Bilbo, who had somehow calmed Thorin in some of his darker moods on the quest, wasn't going to be able to help any of them now.
“Please, uncle,” he started. “My—my king. I had—”
“Do you really think there is an excuse you can come up with for this disobedience?” Thorin asked, like he wasn't still pulling Fíli's hair enough to make his eyes water.
“No,” Fíli settled on, despite wanting, desperately, to still protest.
If Thorin still felt this rage to Bilbo, even with the Arkenstone back in his hands, nothing Fíli said would make up for not killing him when demanded.
But then just as suddenly, Thorin's mood seemed to shift, and he turned his hand, letting Fíli's hair drop from it before he brought it up, running it down Fíli's hair, almost a gentle petting. “You are young,” he said. “You are unused to Erebor. The quest, the company, your brother. It must have been a lot,” and Fíli realized he was staring, wide eyed at Thorin, as Thorin kept petting his hair. “It's no wonder you let it go to your head.”
“Thorin,” Fíli said quietly, miserably. “Please, I do not plan to,” and then he had to abruptly bite back a cry, Thorin having dropped his hand that had been petting his hair to his wrist, all at once twisting hard enough Fíli could feel the bone grind together. He stood there, meeting Thorin's eyes, and Thorin seemed to consider for that moment, whether he would go through with his threat or not.
But then he seemed to remember telling Fíli not to disappoint him, and Fíli doing exactly that. A simple threat would not be enough, and Fíli barely had time to brace before Thorin broke the wrist, a strangled gasp escaping the tight hold he'd tried to keep on it.
“Do not disappoint me again,” Thorin murmured, pressing his nose to the top of Fíli's head, hand still around his wrist as Fíli bowed his head into the space between them, panting.
“I won't,” he managed. He'd had worse pain lately, he was sure of it. It wasn't even like the time he broke his leg, climbing a tree after Kíli.
But then Thorin touched his hair again, almost gentle, and Fíli wasn't sure what to do, so he just stood there.
Thorin sighed once, leaned away, walked to the door. Fíli stayed in front of the fire, looking down at his wrist, almost in surprise.
“Get that seen to,” Thorin said, before leaving, Fíli still just standing there. He felt his legs tremble, sat down in the chair Thorin had been in when he entered, and bent in half. Holding his wrist out, careful, he stayed there for a long time.
-
Óin apparently did not want to keep a secret, because the next morning Fíli opened the door to find Bofur and Kíli on the other side, Kili's face pale and Bofur's jaw set.
“Don't,” he said, before either of them could speak.
“It's not really,” Kíli said, reaching forward, catching Fíli's wrist in both his hands and Fíli leaned back.
“Lad,” Bofur said, and the next one down the hall was Dwalin, face a storm as he stalked the stone hallway.
“I said don't,” Fíli said, but his gaze was on Dwalin, who came to a stop behind Bofur, peering over the top of his head. “You all are being too obvious.”
“Then invite us inside,” Dwalin said, and Kíli shoved him until he went, the other two following. Fíli closed the door, turned to face all of them with their wide eyes. “There are no orcs in this mountain,” Dwalin said, almost conversational.
“Like you don't know what this was,” Fíli snapped, and he had barely slept the night before, uncertain if he was caught more on Thorin breaking his wrist so easily, or the way he'd been holding his hair. “Thorin told me not to disobey him.”
“Bit late, isn't it?” Bofur asked, and Fíli looked at him, almost confused. But then, Bofur had been sticking close to him, in the mountain. Ever since Thorin had thrown a ruby toward his head, Fíli catching it out of instinct, not desire. “Bilbo's been gone a while.”
Fíli shrugged, tried not to wince. “So? I still disobeyed him.”
Beside him, Kíli went very still, slowly turning his head toward Fíli, as if he was only catching on to a very important point that he had been ignoring. “Fee,” he hissed.
“Twice,” Fíli confirmed, turning his head to meet his gaze. “I disobeyed him twice.”
Kíli's eyes dropped down to his wrist, bandaged now, and then back to his face.
“Will you be fine?” Dwalin asked. “Can you still work?”
“Of course,” Fíli said, sounding annoyed, and they all exchanged a look with each other, leaving him out of it. “I am a dwarf,” Fíli said, more annoyed.
“Light duty,” Dwalin said.
“And if the king demands otherwise?” Fíli snapped, because he wanted to ask them all something else. Have you not noticed? Do you see Thorin, when you look at the king? How long will he be lost to dragon-sickness, and what happens if it's forever?
“The king does not want to fucking cripple you,” Dwalin snapped right back, and Fíli bit back the bitterness he wanted to let out, just gave him a tight nod. “Come on, Bofur,” Dwalin added, and Bofur stared at him, like he wanted to protest, like he wanted to say he hardly intended to be ordered around by him. But then he glanced at Fíli once more, as if confirming again he was alive, breathing, and then nodded, trailing after Dwalin for the door.
For a second Fíli and Kíli both just looked at the door, instead of each other.
“One of those times,” Kíli said, and they hadn't spoken of it, not in any of the long nights, or the endless watches, or the early mornings. “Was me, wasn't it?”
“Kíli,” Fíli sighed.
“This is my fault, isn't it?” Kíli asked, brows pinching. He reached down, took Fíli's unresistant hand.
“It's not your fault,” Fíli said, harsher than he meant. “It's Bilbo's fault. It's my fault. Maybe it's even Thorin's fault for being the one to actually do it.” And when Kíli looked at him, Fíli couldn't hold his gaze.
-
Fíli's wrist healed, Thorin's mind didn't.
Sometimes, Fíli could catch him laughing, catch him out of the corner of his eye, and think his uncle was still there. But then, whenever Thorin looked at him, it became clear his eyes were still the eyes of a mad king, one tainted with dragon-sickness.
Fíli wondered, if anyone else didn't notice it too.
Even Dáin said nothing about it, jovial enough around Thorin, and Fíli wanted to shake him, to demand if he ever knew Thorin at all.
-
One night, Fíli found himself in the treasure room, torches lit on all the walls. Outside the wind howled, the freezing cold of midwinter. Inside, they could not feel the wind, but he felt a chill down his back nevertheless.
Other dwarrow told him Erebor had always been a warm kingdom, the forges and mines keeping the stone warm even in the dead of night. But he only remembered feeling cold since entering the mountain.
He turned a corner, walked down the tiny walkway between piles of gold and treasure and tipped his head back. Even now, standing in the midst of Erebor's scooped up treasure, he felt nothing toward it.
For weeks they had been shoving the treasure back into a single series of rooms, unbuilding Smaug's nest. But they had not had the time to sort it, to dole it out to those who earned it, or to even begin counting it. The company had all given up their shares, and in hindsight the whole contract seemed almost funny. As if one fourteenth of this would have ever belonged to him alone.
Erebor's gold belong to Erebor, and even with him its prince, he found himself standing in between the massive piles of it and wanted none of it.
Reaching a hand up, he ran it across one of the piles, gold coins shifting and dropping down into the walkway and he stared at them. Bending down, he picked one up, holding it up to the light, shifting it back and forth, as if that would make him understand it.
He remembered the way Bofur had stopped, several paces behind him and Kíli when they entered the mountain, like the sight of all that gold had left him winded. His eyes had only been for Thorin. In the strange days that followed, he saw the strange light now always in Thorin's gaze, randomly in the gaze of his fellows. Even Ori would sometimes look at the gold and just freeze, fingers twitching at his side, like he wanted more than anything to reach out and bury himself in the piles of it.
Fíli heard, his entire life, about dwarrow and the gold lust that could turn to their own form of dragon-sickness. But as he turned the coin over and over in his hands, he wasn't sure what about gold could ever cause such a reaction.
Dropping the coin he stepped forward, climbing up onto one of the piles, coins and cups and jewels falling around him as he went. On the top of the pile he knelt, sinking both his hands into the shifting top of it, burying himself up to his elbows in the treasure.
And with all the metal pressed against his hands, his knees, he suddenly longed for the softness and warmth of soil, turned in the afternoon of a sunny day. Other dwarrow had looked at him strangely in the Blue Mountains, jokingly called him a farmer as he planted rows of flowers around his mother's house. Dwarrow farmed, no race of Middle Earth would have been able to survive without the skill. But dwarrow did not enjoy farming, the way Fíli enjoyed planting flowers, turnips, cabbages.
Sometimes on the long nights of the Quest, he'd asked Bilbo about his garden, trying not to let on that he really wanted to hear how the Shire folk planted their crops. He would have stayed at Beorn's for a week, just figuring out his bee hives.
On top of a pile of gold, he felt none of that joy, even as he started pawing at the shifting pile, as if he would somehow upturn something that would make him covet it, anything that would make him feel the same longing he kept seeing in the other's eyes.
“Fíli,” and his eyes snapped up, realized he was panting on top of the treasure, searching for something he could not find.
And standing in the doorway, watching him, was Thorin. Part of Fíli wanted to straighten up, to flee, but instead he stayed frozen, hands sunk into the gold, and watched Thorin as he walked toward him, somehow keeping his footing easily as he came, treasure sliding down around his feet as he walked toward Fíli, the torchlight not enough to make out his expression all that clearly.
Fíli swallowed, throat dry, as it reminded him of the dim firelight in his own room. He'd started lighting torches, or putting out all the fires, just to sleep. Never again could he bear just the fire in the hearth, flickering and strange.
“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked, and Fíli still hadn't moved, even as he craned his neck back to look at Thorin.
“I don't know,” he admitted. “Trying, trying to understand.”
“Understand what?” Thorin asked, and he almost sounded like he used to, when he taught Fíli and Kíli history and music, his hands warm as he showed Fíli how to strum a harp.
“This,” and Fíli finally leaned back, holding up a single gold piece, catching the torchlight, and Thorin stared at it like he was hungry. “I'm trying to understand gold.”