Chapter 5 : Weakness

Author's note - forewarning: This chapter deals with some things that may make some people uncomfortable, but I felt that it is ignored by writers too often and is an important part of showing just how vulnerable the sick really are. I've tried to deal with the situation as delicately as I possibly can.

Also, before you ask: the answer is yes, Óin's father is really named Gróin. I don't know, dude. I just don't even know. But it is basically my favorite random Tolkien fact to throw at people just for the fact that it is hilarious, so of course I had to incorporate it somehow.

He cannot die. He cannot die. He cannot die.

Óin's mouth was moving, giving him instructions, to be sure, but his voice was dim in the rush of blood that moved through Fíli's ears.

He cannot die. He cannot die. He cannot die.

"Fíli, you're not listening," he heard faintly. He looked up at the source of the rebuke – Thorin – but the rushing noise would not stop.

He cannot die. He cannot die. He cannot die.

"Fíli!" Thorin said sharply, and Fíli blinked. The rushing faded, and his eyes met the matching blue of his uncle's.

"Listen," Thorin growled.

"I'm sorry," Fíli said quietly. He turned his still-detached gaze to Óin, who took his cue to continue.

"The wound must be cleaned three times a day," Óin repeated. "Change the bandages every time you clean it, and use the potion I gave you. Try to get some in the wound. It will clear out the pus."

Fíli looked down at the jar in his hands, which he had been absentmindedly sliding back and forth. The mixture inside was clear. Fíli wondered what was in it.

"How long until the infection clears?" Thorin asked.

"That depends on the depth of the infection," Óin replied. "I cannot guarantee the efficacy of my potions on so deep a wound. We will have to see."

"But it will work?" Fíli said.

Óin sighed. "We must hope so," he said.

This was not the answer Fíli wanted to hear. Yes would have been good. Without a doubt would have been perfect. But not we must hope so. Fíli swallowed and stared down at the jar in silence.

Thorin stood, and Óin followed suit. The two shook hands, and Thorin clapped a hand on Óin's shoulder.

"Thank you for all that you have done," he said. "We will never forget this kindness. May your beard grow ever longer, Óin son of Gróin."

"And yours, Thorin Oakenshield," said Óin courteously. He bowed politely and saw himself out. Thorin turned to Fíli as the door closed; the younger dwarf remained staring at the jar sliding back and forth between his hands, his stomach gnawing away at him in deep guilt. If Thorin had anything to say, he decided against it; after a minute or two of silence, he retrieved his pipe from the mantelpiece and stepped outside.

Fíli looked up as the door clicked shut and twirled the bottle around with his finger, lost in thought. Kíli was sick. Kíli was dying. He was responsible. He had caused this.

It looked like he wouldn't be able to keep his promise, after all. He wasn't even trying to push away the guilt. He welcomed it now, letting the pain of regret wash through him and feeling it prickle in his skin. The hair on his arms stood on end, and he blinked several times in rapid succession.

All your fault. All your fault. He's going to die. Look what you've done.

The door to his and Kíli's room creaked open, and Fíli looked up in surprise. In the doorway stood Kíli, pale, sweaty, and shaking.

"Kíli, what in Durin's name are you doing?" Fíli shouted, on his feet in an instant. Kíli attempted a step forward, clutching the doorframe. His weak grip failed to support him, and he dropped to the floor with a thud. Fíli rushed to his side and knelt, reaching an arm under his quaking body and pulling him into his chest. Kíli groaned at the movement and grasped at Fíli's arm, his face hidden in a curtain of damp, unkempt hair. He shuffled his feet against the floorboards, feebly attempting to regain his footing, but he could not pull himself up.

"Let me walk," he rasped.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," Fíli said, but Kíli still attempted to stand unsuccessfully.

"I have to," Kíli pleaded.

"No, you don't have to go anywhere. Come on, let's go back."

Kíli rested his head against his older brother. "Help," he whispered into Fíli's tunic.

"Where were you trying to go?" said Fíli, perplexed.

"I have to go," Kíli whispered fervently.

"Go where? You're not going anywhere but back to bed," Fíli said, lifting Kíli to his feet. Trembling, Kíli leaned into his brother, unable to support his own weight.

"No, I have to go," Kíli said urgently.

Kíli's meaning dawned on him, and a warm wash of horror and great discomfort rose from his chest to his temples. This problem had not occurred to him. The thought greatly disturbed him, but he shouldered his discomfort and shifted to more easily support his brother's weight. Any horror he felt, he was sure that Kíli's shame was worse.

"Well, we'd better get you there, then," he said, and led him down the hall. He helped him as needed, utterly mortified, and Kíli wept, ashamed to be so weak.

There was no strength in Kíli's legs as the two attempted to make it back down the hall; Kíli was still weeping, deeply ashamed, and his breaths came in gasps and hiccups. After several attempts to get Kíli to walk with no success, Fíli moved to pick him up completely, his heart breaking afresh.

"No," Kíli pleaded. "Let me walk."

"You can't," Fíli said.

"Please," said Kíli in a broken voice. "Let me have some dignity."

Fíli nodded and supported his weight as best he could, but Kíli's energy was spent. He couldn't even pick up his feet. At last he gave up, slumping into Fíli, tears dripping from his cheeks. Fíli put his free arm under Kíli's knees and lifted him off the ground. Kíli trembled in his arms and clutched at his tunic, hiding his face in the soft fabric.

Thorin stepped into the house, tapping his empty pipe on his palm as Fíli emerged from the hallway with Kíli in his arms. Fíli stopped and met Thorin's questioning eyes, his own shining with mortification and sorrow. Thorin peered down the hall and back at his nephews as he put two and two together; his stern visage softened, and he cleared his throat.

"Can you help me carry him?" Fíli said. "He's taller than me – hard to carry."

"Of course," Thorin said, crossing the room quickly. "Let me take him, Fíli." Thorin stood several inches above Kíli, and he had years that Fíli didn't in building muscle. They exchanged their burden awkwardly, and Fíli went ahead to prepare the bed for their invalid kin. Thorin laid him down gently, and Fíli pulled the covers over him. Kíli refused to look either of them in the eye; his cheeks burned with shame at his vulnerability.

(click to enlarge)

"Go away, please," Kíli said.

Fíli and Thorin stood in uneasy silence, unsure if he meant it.

"Go away!" Kíli sobbed, and he covered his face with one arm. Thorin took his leave, but Fíli remained. He reached out and touched the younger dwarf's shoulder hesitantly. Kíli drew away from his touch.

"Leave me," he hissed.

Fíli withdrew his hand and left the room. A pounding headache was forming behind his left eye; he rubbed the offending temple, but the ache remained. He slumped into a chair at the table, where Thorin sat, his face hidden in his large hands.

"I haven't held him like that since he was a little child," Thorin said, his voice thick with emotion. Fíli said nothing, and Thorin lifted his face. His eyes were red and rimmed with tears. Fíli looked down, uncomfortable with his uncle's uncharacteristic overflow of emotion. He wasn't as stoic with his family as he was around others, but Fíli had still never seen him cry.

"We can't lose him, Fíli," Thorin said. "I cannot lose another of my kin. I've only got you and Kíli and your mother, now."

"I've brought this upon us," Fíli said. The twisting sensation of guilt had been twisting tighter and tighter, and he felt now that he might snap in half. He looked into his uncle's red eyes, his own filling with tears. "I'm so sorry, Uncle," he choked, and he buried his face in his arms, no longer able to control his emotion. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed. Huge shuddering sighs overtook him as he cried, ashamed of his tears but too emotional to care.

"Fíli, I am not angry with you," said Thorin. "Your mother is not angry with you. Even Kíli does not blame you for what happened. The only person who blames you is yourself."

"It was my fault, my shot," Fíli cried. "I shot him. How can I not blame myself?"

"Now, stop this," said Thorin, his voice suddenly harsh. Fíli looked up through his tears, startled.

"Kíli will not heal by your guilt. We have told you that we do not blame you, and your self-pity is no longer welcome. You have had your time – now stop worrying about yourself. If Kíli is to survive, I need you ready to help, not crumbling in every spare moment."

The words cut through Fíli like a knife as he realized that Thorin was right.

"I'm sorry, Uncle – I've been selfish," he said, wiping his tears away and swallowing his pride.

Thorin nodded in silent acceptance and stood to his feet.

"Let's have some meat and an ale, then one of us can check on Kíli," he said. Fíli nodded silently and stood to assist him, but the same phrase turned over and over in Fíli's mind.

If Kíli is to survive.

If. If. If.