Archive of Our Own ^beta

A shaft of fuzzy sunlight cuts through the open curtains, pinning the shadows of embroidered flowers against the tablecloth. Half the room is crowded with flowery patterns and doilies; Kili suspects Bilbo had a hand or two in this. There’s even a set of teacups, sitting nicely and clearly mismatched before him, chubby mama kettle with her diverse cup babies. It’s ridiculous, and yet it feels like a luxury next to the plate of sweetmeats.

“Nay, I don’t think this one will do for you, lad.”

Kili looks up, biting happily into his sugar-sprinkled shortbread as he watches Mirian fuss over his brother, viciously tugging a bright green tunic up over Fili’s head as if the poor thing were guilty of some great offense. He grins.

The tailor’s workshop is a bit of a handful to take in when one first enters it, perhaps even more so than the awe-inspiring tailor herself – mighty beard and glorious girth and all. 

It started out as nothing more than a shabby, overcrowded room at the heart of the city proper; the first attempts at exploration had uncovered a few undamaged chambers, complete with assorted tools and clothes – these mostly immaculate in their chests, save for the musty smell and the occasional layer of dust.

Erebor has never been known for letting goods go to waste; which was how most Lake-people found themselves with terrific ensembles of oddly-cut trousers and multicoloured sleeves, sometimes in clashing patterns  – if you were an average citizen, that is; the luckiest ones even got their tunics in two different types of cloth at once.

Kili isn’t sure how the future generations will cope with the Early Ereborean Fashion in the Post-Smaug Era section of Balin’s chronicles, but he trusts that they will find a way.

Things changed with the dawning of spring. As soon as snow melted and the roads were safe again, a bit of decent trading could finally be arranged, and even the workshop itself has been moved to accommodate the new range of cloths and clients – and to allow Mirian and her apprentice to work with more than just lamps and candles.

Not that the room isn’t crammed anyway. There’s folded cloth stacked in every corner, ranging from warm wool in fashionable Brown, Darker Brown and Wet Rat Brown, to breezy cotton for underclothes, and even a sample of glossy pink silk, Mahal knows how they got their hands on that. Every drawer is full of spools of thread and ribbons, and Kili’s counted at least three different pincushions scattered around the shop, like friendly little hedgehogs looking for a treat.

It’s a far cry from what they used to have, and it feels like a good omen. Things are finally looking up, and Kili knows that this is the least they all deserve.

“No no no, off, off! Mahal forbid you should walk out of my shop looking like a rotten lemon! Off, off with this, boy.”

Besides, Kili gets to have fun here.

There is something purer than delight in sitting back while Fili is standing on a stepstool, struggling to stay still as a dwarrowdam and her Tall apprentice dance about him in a whirlwind of measuring tapes and varying cloths. Oh, it’s quite lovely when they stand there, in between armufls of linen and velvet, and exchange opinions regarding Fili’s complexion as if he weren’t even there.

But the funniest part is the crease between Fili’s eyebrows, a clear sign that he’s fighting his own impatience with every last droplet of willpower he’s got in him.

“There now, that’s better.”

When their eyes meet over Mirian’s plump, fussying arms, Kili waves his brother hello and grins with his mouth still full of biscuit, and Fili’s eyes glimmer with murder.

“All right, boy, let’s try with this one.”

A wall of fabric arises between them, and the next cookie crumbles with a muffled crush against Kili’s lips.

It’s purple, a rich plum-like hue, stark against the gleam of golden embroidery that trails down over the front. Kili knows it’s the right one before the seamstress ever lets it fall over Fili’s head.

The sleeves slip over Fili’s arms easily, all but kissing the circle of his wrists; the fabric stretches perfectly around Fili’s shoulders, smooth, velvety, and the way it enfolds his hips–
It’s not a tunic. It’s pure flattery.

And Mirian and the Tall girl must see it, too, if their faces are anything to go by.

“Oh, this might just be the one, laddie – this might just be the one for you,” croons the dwarrowdam.

“Master Fili, it suits you so,” echoes the girl, all twined fingers and glee. “You look so very charming!”

Fili is hardly listening at all. His gaze seeks Kili’s again, and he looks so out of his depth, with his questioning eyes and his arms held awkwardly as if to ask, “Well?”. All Kili can do is give him a reassuring nod, and watch him nod curtly back, as if they’d just agreed on a war maneuver, rather than the fitting of a shirt.

A wave of sheer tenderness tugs at Kili’s heartstrings. Oh, the ladies are right – his brother is charming. And they don’t know the half of it. They should see Fili in the glory of his lazy mornings, when he’s crowned with sunlight in their bed, his limbs in a sated sprawl and his skin tender. When he holds out soft arms and pulls Kili on top of him, and holds him captive there, against his chest, grinning in a frame of golden hair. The very thought makes Kili’s heart swell with warmth and pride.

“This one will do, Mirian, thank you,” Fili concedes, trying to make himself as inconsequential as possible on his stool.

“Aye, that’s good, that’s good,” the lady approves, pushing her ginger beard out of the way to reach into her apron’s pockets. “It only needs some little tweaking, then it shall be perfect. Gitte, dear, if you would take his measurements, please?”

The girl jumps to the task with a chirping “Yes, Ma’m”, smoothing her long, calloused fingers over Fili’s shoulders before she unravels the tape from one end to the other; her hazel eyes glancing bashfully back and forth between her tools and what little she can see of Fili’s profile.

Something stirs unpleasantly in Kili’s chest.

She’s young, he knows – she can be no older than Sigrid, and she’s most likely unaware of the way she’s looking at Fili, so clearly enamoured.

Surely, her hands don’t linger on purpose around Fili’s waist, and if she stares one second too long, it is only because Fili is handsome – because you could dress him in rags and he would still look more magnificent than the first star-crowned Durin, and anyone would stare.

If she’s blushing, it’s only due to her own modesty, and not because of any inappropriate thoughts; and her long, dark eyelashes don’t matter unless Fili notices them.

Kili pours himself some more tea, teeth worrying his lower lip. It’s all so unreasonable, he tells himself, watching steam curl prettily around his fingers.

“Oh, you’re bound to turn everyone’s heads in this, you’ll see!”

But uneasiness tosses and wriggles like a worm in his belly, and soon the tea sours on his tongue. He almost upsets the entire table when he gets up, chair scraping loudly across the stone floor.

“Forgive me, Mirian, I just recalled I was meant to meet uncle Thorin this afternoon– you don’t mind if I come back tomorrow, do you?”

“Of course not, laddie, but–”

Fili casts him a puzzled glance, but Kili just rushes to the door, stealing one last biscuit for show.

“Kili?”

“I’ll see you later, Fee!”

Later, as it happens, Kili finds a few, quite creative ways to make Fili forget about the whole mishap. And luckily enough, too, because he isn’t sure himself what he should even say.

*

With the warm seasons, work for the rebuilding of Erebor and Dale can finally start in earnest. New caravans arrive nearly every week – dwarves from the Iron Hills and men from nearby settlements, all ready to join in. Elves as a whole seem more reticent, but Kili can still spot a few familiar faces in the crowd.

By early summer, the Mountain looks more like a small, bustling town than an impoverished village; the lucky string of sunny days they get after that helps keeping up the general good modd, and even Thorin is back on his feet.

He grumbles a lot, now that official meetings with allies are more frequent. He doesn’t so much mind Bard as he loathes sharing a room with the likes of Thranduil, that is. Yet, underneath all that sulking and grouching, Kili can see that he’s happy.

There’s this glint in Thorin’s eyes when he walks around the camp, when he watches the tunnels and houses come back to life all around him, and the glow from the rekindled forges strikes his features, and it’s entirely new and… strangely endearing.

It’s the quiet, watery look of somebody whose dream came true, against all odds, after years and years of hopeless yearning, and Kili can’t help but be happy for him, too.

Of course, he’d be happier if he could spend more time with Fili, but with all the work that needs doing, that just doesn’t happen. Fili has to be where Thorin cannot; take on his share of responsibilities, organizing, directing, consulting, finding solutions to every new problem, and all the while, making sure that everyone has everything they need.

Kili helps as much as he can, but everything still hangs in delicate balance, one he’s not sure yet how to pull his weight onto without making it all collapse somehow. So he walks, one careful step after another, trying to follow the trail Fili left behind; so that he, too, might be where Fili cannot.

*

They find flowers where they thought nothing would ever grow again.

There’s this spot a little ways from the Mountain, a small clearing contained within the undergrowth, still miles away from the woods. The grass is sparse and somewhat pale, nowhere near the luscious meadows they grew up with, but it’s still warm under the summer sun, shivering between Kili’s fingers when the breeze arises.

Fili’s lying beside him, his hair spread across the bed of green, all curls and gentle wisps like the fancy letters in Bilbo’s book. It’s a rare moment of peace, and Kili leans in to take advantage of it, one hand resting leisurely on the planes beneath Fili’s breastbone.

Fili looks up at him, a soft, intimate gleam in his eyes. His moustache beads look all sprawled and askew from up here, Kili notices; they fall right over the half-moons of Fili’s dimples, and he wants to kiss them, nuzzle them, rub his bristly chin into Fili’s beard and watch Fili squirm and laugh until his voice is breaking in those precious, high-pitched squealing sounds he’s been trying so hard to hide.

“Hello,” Kili whispers instead, watching his own hair slip off his shoulder and woo the sweet crease of Fili’s neck.

“Hello,” Fili whispers back. He runs the tip of his nose along Kili’s, a gentle back-and-forth motion that brings their lips close together; but when Kili leans into him to collect his prize, he finds himself kissing the pads of Fili’s fingers, rather than his mouth.

“Why–” he whines, but Fili shushes him again, with this look on his face that is half apology, half resignation.

“We have company,” he says, and as soon as Kili starts paying attention, he hears it, too. The hurried steps and giggles of children and the pleas not to stray too far from their parents, all approaching at remarkable speed.

Kili lets his weight drop on top of Fili’s body with a long, helpless groan.

“We should have stayed indoors,” he mutters, face squished against his brother’s chest, “I told you! Remember how I told you? I definitely did.”

Fili just chuckles, his whole frame jiggling underneath Kili.

“Come on, Kee,” he cajoles, patting Kili’s flank like he would with a fussy pony, “off of me, brother.”

Soon a small crowd reaches them, the younglings swarming the clearing to pick up flowers and look for lizards, the grown-ups following close behind. It’s a happy mix of men and dwarves – each bearing at least an axe or a sword, just in case – some of them carrying baskets for an outdoors snack. They all greet the princes warmly, and the realization that he remembers almost all of their names startles Kili, and kindles something akin to pride in his chest.

Erebor may or may not become home to them in the future, although Kili doubts that it shall come to Fili and him as easily as it did Thorin; but whether or not that comes to pass, they will have friends here. When years have passed and they’ve grown roots in this sturdy soil, whatever else they will have built, they will have friends here. And that’s more comforting than the prospect of a crown.

“Fili?”

They both turn their heads towards the shy little voice, a motion in perfect sync.

There, standing in worn boots and fluffed up skirts before them, is Tilda, her rosy cheeks warmed by the sun.

“You said you could teach me,” she mumbles, revealing a bunch of flowers from the loose folds of her apron. She looks so hopeful, it would feel like a crime to say no.

“Of course, my lady,” Fili says, smiling his most charming smile. “Please, take a seat. It shall be an honour,” he winks, and her face lights up like the sky at dawn.

And then she’s sitting down, nestled within the vee of Fili’s sprawled legs, a pile of  colourful flowers between them. Kili can do nothing but draw his knees up and watch, grinning, as Fili twists and twines the long stems together, showing Tilda how to weave them into a chain. She’s utterly enraptured, and he’s so handsome, in his leather jerkin and rolled-up sleeves, braiding flowers the way Ma taught them all those years ago. If butterflies start dancing and fluttering about in Kili’s stomach, he’s not surprised at all.

Somehow, before either of them realizes it, children start gathering ‘round, each holding a scrawny bouquet of daisies and wildflowers and trying to sneak a peek at the chain unraveling from Fili’s busy hands.

When Fili notices, and looks up at last, they stand there awkwardly for a moment, a row of puppy eyes staring down at him expectantly; until Fili smiles and jerks his chin up, his moustache swinging merrily about.

“Come join us, everyone.”

The minute he says it, the whole bunch rushes to pick a spot and sit down, as close to him as possible, most of them squished up together in a tangle of skirts and skinny legs and knocking knees. A few kids almost step on Kili in their hurry, and he ends up sitting in the back, a little bruised but still miracolously alive.

Fili waves at him from the middle of the pile – but then the class demands his attention again, and Kili spends the next twenty-odd minutes listening to his brother explain the how’s and why’s of flower-weaving, and making dashing promises of grand crowns, the very best in the world.

Ten more minutes and Kili’s ready to sneak away, maybe make himself useful where the others are spreading out their blankets for a picnic, but he’s barely standing up and dusting his knees when Fili catches sight of him.

“And where, praytell, do you think you’re going?” He asks, and suddenly Kili’s got a dozen pairs of eyes set on him.

“I,” Kili declares, quite eloquently.

“We need a model to test out our crowns,” Fili informs him, and then the traitor goes and points an accusing finger at him. “Seize him!”

An army of squeeing children rises against Kili, crashing into him with the momentum of a mountain troll. The battle is tragic. The hero is outnumbered, the enemy force overwhelming. There are casualties.

And Kili finds himself on his back, buried under a pile of giggling kids, all stacked on top of him like pancakes on a breakfast plate. In the background, Fili’s laughing so hard he’s doubling over, a couple of daisies dangling off his ear. Kili snorts, or he’s coughing up flowers, he’s not entirely sure himself.

“I hate you,” he grumbles as soon as he’s able to breathe.

“No, you don’t,” says his brother, victory written all over his face, and Fili’s a lucky bastard, he is – because he’s right. Kili doesn’t. Kili never could.

*

They plow the fields surrounding Dale, where barren rock becomes rich soil. They plant beans and tomatoes and apple trees, saving a spot for the potatoes they’ll lay in the ground in September, to nurse all through the winter. They buy goats and more chickens, and a few donkeys to help carry fruit and firewood back and forth.

In the evenings, they still dine together, all gathered in the Great Hall, where they first made camp after the Battle; the torches always cast a bright light over the vast room, reaching up to the high ceiling, where thin veins of mithril glint faintly like the ghost of stars in the night. It’s the stuff you could spin tales about, Kili can see it now – tales to charm younglings and soothe an old dwarf’s heart – and the quiet glint in his brother’s eyes, when they share a look between them, tells him that he’s right.

They even hold a feast on Midsummer Day, a modest thing to celebrate the ripening wheat; and Kili manages to talk nearly half the dwarves present into playing their favourite songs with him and Fili. Even Thorin indulges him, his fair eyes twinkling all silver-like as he’s handed a harp, and his notes are the sweetest they hear that night. Kili leans into Fili’s side to listen, heart wrapped up in warmth, their fingers laced under the long table.

They make do, Kili supposes he can say. But it’s still a busy life, the one they’re falling into.

Every night, he and Fili slip beneath the sheets together; in the mornings, they rise together; but the days they do get to spend together are still few and far between. There’s hardly enough time for the little things anymore; for the leisure of pipesmoke and shared baths, for all those small habits they had built their old life around. Privacy only exists within their chambers now, and even then, they’re often too tired to go beyond cuddling and snuggling up to one another.

And Kili is glad to help, glad to be able to share his endless pride and faith in Fili with the people of Erebor – their people. But something grows in the hollows between his ribs, like a plant taking roots in the deepest folds of him.

Every day, surrounded by his new friends and the deep green glow of Erebor’s stone, Kili feels homesick – an ache beyond words that makes his chest feel tight and his heart sore – until night falls and he can crawl into bed, and lie with his head pillowed on Fili’s shoulder, his brother’s arms wrapped securely around him. When Fili hums quietly and combs gentle fingers through his hair, the sheer relief is so strong, it tangles knots in Kili’s throat.

*

It’s in late August, after the shooting stars surprised them and caught the delighted oohs and aahs of the people huddled on the battlements. After the full moon turned the tides and swept her milk-white gowns over the Lake, glittering in the distance like a thousand candles lit in the valley.