Chapter Text
The day Kíli realized he was taller than Fíli was a red-letter day. If he had a journal like that new student of Balin’s, he would have written all about it.
Taller than Fíli. Gonna make him pay for a lifetime of headlocks.
In fact, he might have to go buy a journal, just to record the moment. Especially since he was pretty sure it was going to last.
Fíli was 34, after all, and hadn’t grown a bit in the last couple of years. The line of Durin was generally known for height, but Fíli had never been among the largest of their age-mates. Dwarves told him that he would hit a “growth spurt” soon, if he’d just be patient – but, much to his supposedly-secret chagrin, the spurt had never come. He still stood a couple of inches shorter than their mother as, Kíli had been told, their father had.
But it wasn’t so much the fact that Fíli wasn’t especially tall that was important. There were plenty of shortish dwarves around Erid Luin.
What was important was that Kíli was clearly taller.
----
He discovered this by accident. Their mother was away for a few days, travelling with Thorin, so they were left in charge of each other (that’s how it was always said, each other, but Kíli wasn’t an idiot; he saw the looks his mother and brother exchanged that clearly said you’re in charge of Kíli, make sure he doesn’t break anything this time; subtle they were not). Balin poked his head in a couple of times a day to make sure they hadn’t burned the house down (which they would not do, they lived here, the adults in their lives needed to relax), but beyond that they were on their own.
They were making dinner when it happened. Such an innocent, innocuous thing to be doing when one has an earth-shattering revelation. Fíli was messing around with the soup they were making (they were both too impatient for anything that took more attention than soup to make) when he tasted it and said, “It needs…something.” He waves a hand at the small containers of herbs their mother kept hanging in the little kitchen’s window. “Grab the stool and…maybe…sage?”
Fíli obviously had no idea what the soup needed, but then, neither did Kíli. They were not particularly adept cooks. They didn’t usually discuss herbs because they figured if the food didn’t kill them, it was fine. Amad sometimes experienced moments of dramatic despair over this fact. She blamed their lack of cooking prowess on hunting excursions with their uncle. They blamed it on being raised by a mother who wasn’t a very good cook, either. (They did not say the last to Amad’s face because, despite rumors, they did not, in fact, have rocks instead of brains in their heads. It was no fault of hers that learning fine cooking skills hadn’t been a major concern for a princess of Erebor or a princess on the road.)
Their cooking session was overseen by Fowl, who was not under any circumstances allowed in the house. This meant, of course, that she was in the house whenever Kíli was. At the moment of Kíli’s epiphany, she was perched on Kíli’s left shoulder, overseeing the cooking with the eye of a wise elder cousin. When Kíli had the nerve to raise that arm in search of sage, she nipped his ear in punishment before flapping over to the back of one of the kitchen chairs and presenting him with her feathery hindquarters in protest.
Kíli, well versed in ignoring Fowl’s more dramatic tendencies after four years of her company, pulled a knife from his belt and had the sage in his hand before the full import of what his brother said hit him.
Grab the stool.
He glanced at Fíli, startled.
“What?” Fíli asked as he held out an impatient hand. He curled his fingers. “Hand it over.”
Kíli did hand the sage over before looking carefully up at the herbs. Mother hung them from the rafter, high enough that only she could get them without dragging over the stool. It never bothered him or Fíli, since they figured this was an excellent excuse not to help with the cooking. But now-
Had she moved them lower?
He pushed up on his toes and tested.
No. He had to stretch to reach the dangling greenery. But he could reach it.
He lowered himself to the flats of his feet and looked across at Fíli.
Yes.
YES!
Just. Just slightly. No, a little more than slightly, he definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt – his gaze was more in line with Fíli’s forehead than his eyes.
He. Was taller. Than Fíli.
And he had not noticed.
Really, what kind of brother was he, to have ignored such a clear and wonderful advantage for so long?!
He kept cool. He kept calm. He did not start grinning or giggling. He’d just hide this little tidbit of information until it was an appropriate time to bring it up.
(Well, he did tell Fowl that evening, hopping out his window and waiting until she perched on his shoulder to sneak into the forest and whisper the news to her. She, of course, could always be trusted to keep appropriate secrets.)
-----
Fíli always strutted around the training ground with completely inappropriate confidence. (Okay, maybe not completely inappropriate, since he was plenty strong and picked up swordplay fairly easily while Dwalin openly despaired of Kíli’s future prospects – stop dancing, Kíli, what are you even doing?! – but there was no need to look like you owned the whole training ground when there were full-grown dwarves around who could take your head off in three seconds flat).
Kíli, on the other hand, was more of a skulker, thanks to the fact that he couldn’t always get all his limbs going in the right direction (he'd been able to several years earlier, but now they just didn't want to behave). When Fíli was feeling like a loving and supportive big brother, he assured Kíli that this would pass, that Kíli just needed to slow down a bit and focus, that Fíli had gone through a similar time period in his youth (he said this like he was fifty years older than Kíli, rather than five). When he was feeling like a pony’s less savory hindquarters, he tripped Kíli and kicked him in the bum with his boot, then laughed at him (the latter he never did in front of other dwarves, which was why Kíli never followed through on his threat to take Fíli to the market and trade him in for a better model).
This morning, Kíli was not skulking. He walked onto the small field with confidence, chin up and head back. He twirled his practice sword with show and elegance, not catching the damn thing on his arm even once (not always a guarantee). He was one of the first to arrive (Fowl on his shoulder, though she took off to do some hunting as soon as he reached the training area), and he sauntered his way over to Dwalin with a welcoming grin.
“Mr. Dwalin!”
“Kíli,” Dwalin answered, looking suspicious already. What did it say about a dwarf that another dwarf’s good mood made him stiff and suspicious? They really would have to work on Dwalin’s attitude about life one day. “You’re looking . . . awake this morning.”
Kíli nodded agreeably. “I am that. Listen, I have a request.”
“I am shocked.” Dwalin could sound flat and sarcastic in a way no one else could. It was a beautiful thing that Kíli envied and had, as a boy, attempted to emulate. He knew now that it was tragically beyond his talents. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he had a fierce glare when called on, a talent Fíli lacked (it was the eyebrows). “What do you want?”
“I want to spar with Fíli today.”
Dwalin shook his head. “We’ve discussed that. He hands you your ass every time and you don’t learn anything from it. You’re scheduled with Vaen.”
“Give me a chance with Fíli. Just today.” Kíli suspected he was pulling a face his brother and mother accused him of doing on purpose – alternately called “the kitten” or “the puppy” – but he’d never seen the stupid thing, so how was he supposed to do it on purpose? He hoped he just looked both earnest and confident. “It’s been months. Almost a year.” This was a blatant exaggeration unless a dwarf was extraordinarily bad at math. It was closer to six months since Dwalin had put the two princes in the ring together. “Maybe I’ve gotten better.”
Dwalin took a step back and looked him over. After a long, thoughtful moment, the massive shoulders shrugged. “It’s your funeral, little prince,” he said. “Just remember to come back from the Halls long enough to tell your mother this was all your idea.”
“Will do!” Kíli answered with a cheerful sort of salute. Then he went to go through warm-ups.
Kíli was the tallest of his age-mates. As a result, Dwalin had been teaching him techniques for fighting from above. He preferred the bow, of course, but every dwarf had to have close-combat training. Thorin, too, had told him to take advantage of his greater reach and gifted him with a broadsword to extend it just a bit more. He could hold his own or even defeat all the sparring partners Dwalin or Thorin partnered him with, all of whom were smaller and a bit slower than him.
And now.
Now his time had come.
Now he would use his greater height and speed to his advantage.
And beat Fíli into the dirt.
Finally.
Dwalin went over to talk to Fíli while Kíli stretched a bit, swinging the heavy practice sword. It was weighted to match his proper broadsword, just as Fíli’s twin practice swords were. Training with twin swords was unusual. Most dwarves chose axes, followed by hammers and broadswords. Fíli’s decision to wield twin swords had been met with some derision; despite his stature, Fíli was plenty strong and could have used an axe or mace.
Fíli had dealt with that derision by systematically working his way through the trainees and smirkily beating all of them.
Tactics, Kíli reminded himself as his brother glanced over at him in surprise. Fíli uses tactics. Even though he doesn’t look like it, with all the growling and snarling and. Well.
Fíli was fierce when he fought.
“You sure about this, baby brother?” Fíli asked as he sauntered over, the longer of his two swords slung over one shoulder, his hip cocked at a rakish angle. “Last time to change your mind before I wipe the floor with you.” He smirked. “Again.”
Kíli grinned right back at him and stepped forward, right into Fíli’s space. Very deliberately, and with intent to be a pain in the ass, he tilted his chin downward. “Oh, I’m sure.”
For the briefest of moments, Fíli faltered. His brows drew together, his smirk fell into a scowl, and he rocked backward slightly on his heels. One hand rose as if to push him away, but didn’t.
Looked like he hadn’t noticed Kíli’s sudden height advantage either.
Kíli tried a smirk on for size.
(The expression felt a bit odd, and judging from Fíli’s return look it was more ridiculous and less Fíli-like than he’d hoped, so he let it go.)
Fíli’s eyes narrowed. He resettled on the balls of his feet and deliberately drew the second blade at his waist. “Don’t blame me when you’re spitting out dirt for the next three days, brother.”
“As long as you forgive me because you’re shaking it out of your hair for at least a week,” Kíli answered, rather pleased with the comeback (Not bad, Kíli, not bad, he congratulated himself).
Fíli snorted.
“Back up!” Dwalin ordered. “You don’t start a fight nose to nose! They’ll come at you from a distance!” The boys separated, Kíli shifting the single sword in his hands and missing the weight of his bow across his back. Usually he wore an older bow when he was sparring, since he couldn’t imagine going out without it; Dwalin insisted they practice as they would fight. He’d left it home today out of nothing more complicated than excitement. He felt strange without the familiar weight across his shoulders.
Fíli’s eyes narrowed, the blue managing somehow to go from sparkling-charming-big-brother to hard-gonna-kick-your-head-in son of Durin (Kíli knew this was his imagination, but he couldn’t fight the feeling; Fíli’s entire body changed when he was fighting and it was fairly terrifying in the right circumstances).
Kíli shifted lightly on his feet.
Use your reach, lad.
They circled each other.
Don’t let them in close.
Fíli’s eyes were assessing, barely flickering to check the movement of Kíli’s hands, of his feet.
Protect your middle.
“You forgot your bow, brother.”
Kíli smiled sunnily. “Oh, I won’t need it today.”
Use the full range of movement to attack over the entire torso.
Kíli gave in first, and lunged forward, sword striking downward so Fíli would have to shift back and raise his arms to block it.
Their swords clanged together, and Fíli gave a little grunt of surprise.
Kil grinned in triumph.
It was . . . his last grin.
Because Fíli gave a growl and suddenly-
Well.
This was a familiar feeling.
Kíli was scrambling in less than two minutes (two very long minutes, why wasn’t his height helping, why was Fíli still– that hurt!) and-
-on his back in three.
Fíli grinned, twisted the broadsword out of his hand, and sat on him, pinning him expertly in place while lazily (that was just showing off) drawing a knife from his coat and tapping Kíli’s shoulder with the flat of the blade, right next to his neck. “I win,” he said.
Unnecessarily.
Kíli glared at him.
Fíli smiled back. Winningly.
“Want to go again?”
Kíli huffed and kicked his legs (or tried to, who taught Fíli to do that?). “Yes!”
And.
Repeat.
Once more?
Again.
Kíli was seething (and in the dirt. Again. At least he wasn’t face-down and-)
Fíli pinned him again and leaned down this time, looking so thoroughly amused that Kíli had to fight the urge to punch him in the face.
When Fíli rested his elbows on Kíli’s shoulders, Kíli stopped fighting the urge (only to find he couldn’t really get around Fíli’s shoulders to his face and he just ended up punching him sort of in the upper arm, which wasn’t at all the effect he was going for.)
“I told you this would happen,” came Dwalin’s voice, but Kíli ignored it.
“I am curious why you insisted on fighting me today,” Fíli said in his best curious and supportive big brother voice, which was playing dirty and he knew it. “Just in the mood for some bruises?”
Kíli harrumphed and wiggled.
Fíli froze.
It was just for a moment. No one else would have noticed it. But Kíli, covered as he was by his brother’s body, did.
Fíli froze, and his eyes widened for a breath, his lips parting, and a strange expression flickered across his face.
Anger? No. Not anger. Surprise? A faint flush above his beard and-
Fíli leapt suddenly to his feet, holding a hand out but not-
Not quite looking Kíli in the face.
What was that about?
Kíli accepted the hand and Fíli pulled, taking his full weight and stepping back just so to lift Kíli to his feet. It was a bit like flying (Fowl would likely disagree). It wasn’t the first time Fíli had done that, but it was the first time that he held on to Kíli’s hand for a moment and it felt…
Awkward?
Why?
“Finally noticed you’re taller than your brother, did you?”
Both Kíli and Fíli jumped at Dwalin’s voice.
Fíli scowled (which was at least a comfortably familiar expression) and glared in Kíli’s direction. But then the scowl fell into a fairly confused twist of the mouth. “What?” He leaned back slightly, tilted his head, and-
Kíli slung his blade over his shoulder and tried on a smirk of his own.
Because he may have had his ass handed to him (thrice, ugh), but the narrow-eyed suspicion on Fíli’s face now made up for it (a little).
“You . . .” Fíli frowned, but didn’t finish the sentence. (How could he looks so suspicious, like this was some grand conspiracy?). He shifted his glare to Kíli’s boots (he was looking for lifts, how precious).
The moment was tragically interrupted by Jaret, a dwarf only a few months younger than Fíli who fought with a mace and had no sense of humor whatsoever.
“Fíli! If you’re done humiliating your brother, how about a real fight?”
Fíli turned at the (not at all amusing, thank you, Jaret) question, shot Kíli one more confused-suspicious-you-will-pay-for-this look, and took off at a jog.
As soon as his back was turned, Kíli lowered the sword and wrapped one arm awkwardly behind himself to press a fist hard against his lower back.
Because. Ow.
(Thank goodness Fíli had been successfully distracted, because all Kíli wanted right now was a hot bath and some salts for the bruises and – this had been a really bad idea, why didn’t Fowl tell him this was a bad idea.)
Dwalin looked thoroughly amused, in that thoroughly annoying way of his that made Thorin punch him in the shoulder on more than one occasion when he thought the boys weren’t looking. “I remember that day,” he said in a commiserating sort of tone, one giant hand landing a blow on Kíli’s shoulder that was meant to be fatherly (uncle-ry? Uncle’s-best-friend-ry?), but made Kíli feel like something important had just been dislocated. “Same thing happened to me.” Dwalin lifted the other hand to scratch at his beard. “You do realize, lad, that just because I’m teaching you to fight from above doesn’t mean your brother isn’t learning to fight from below.”
Oh.
…..Right.
That. Made sense.
“Don’t worry, you’ll catch up with him soon enough. I did, and you will, too. Well. Maybe.” Dwalin frowned. “Possibly. In. Distance fighting.”
Kíli sighed.
Dwalin shrugged. They both knew comforting was not the warrior’s greatest skill. “Come on then, let’s get you into a proper spar.”
“I thought maybe I’d just head home and-”
“Nurse your wounds? Oh no.” Dwalin smiled and it was so, so horrible when Dwalin smiled. It meant bad, painful things. Always. (Unless there were cookies in the vicinity, then it just meant “Dwalin gets all the cookies” which was bad, but not painful.) “No, I think that sort of stone-headed foolhardy behavior deserves an extra-long session. Besides, you’ll feel better if you keep all those muscles your brother bruised loose.”
Kíli heaved another sigh, shifting both shoulders in the process, but he trudged after Dwalin none-the-less.
At least he could still reach the high shelves and Fíli couldn’t.
That was something.
Right?