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Gimli would always remember the day word came.
He had been three and sixty years, a young dwarf by most and still naive when it came to tales of glory and gold. His pride had still smarted from the refusal of his axe in Thorin Oakenshield's company, and he had longed for a chance to prove himself.
When word came home, it was not what he expected.
They had taken back Erebor, defeated Smaug and slain hundreds of goblins, but at a terrible price.
Their King-in-exile and his sister-sons had fallen. The line of Durin had failed.
Gimli could not stop thinking of his friends after he had heard those words. Of golden Fíli, with eyes green as grass and a smile as gentle as his sword was fierce. Of dark Kíli, with his mischievous streak the length of the Blue Mountains and his eyes sharp as knives. As different as day and night and just as inseparable, even now in death.
He remembered a thousand jokes, songs, tricks and laughs, thought of nails hidden in beards and long nights filled with the sound of their fiddles. He remembered how Fíli had calmed his nerves and lifted his spirits on the eve of his first day of training, and how Kíli had chased away shadows and lightened his heart after a poor day's black mood. He remembered how loud they had been when they were small, and how quiet they had become when their father died. He remembered how muted they had been at the funeral, still and grey as stone; he remembered watching them comfort each other, their foreheads touching, hushed as twilight. He remembered how they had cared for their mother, always aiming to tease a smile from her lips and to do honor by her name. He remembered how they had looked at their uncle with reverence and awe, wanting nothing more than to please him, devoted to him as if they were his own sons.
They had not been much older than he; fifteen years did not feel like so much. Gimli had argued against the consideration of age once, months before, but few had agreed. The brothers had been understanding, however: they had grasped his shoulders and reassured him that he would not be forgotten in their hearts, that they would each slay at least a thousand orcs in his name. They had told him they would come back with tales and songs and teach him all they had learned. They had told him they would watch over his father for him.
His father was waiting for him in Erebor. They would not be.
Fíli and Kíli, sons of Dís, sister-sons of Thorin Oakenshield. Dwarf princes, every inch of them, once destined to be great, now forever silenced, gone, with not even ninety winters to their names.
They had sworn to slay two thousand orcs in his memory. His heart now swore to do the same for them.
His mother held him to her breast upon being told, her grip as tight as his own throat. Her scent felt like home, and her warmth held him safe, and it brought tears to his eyes, for he knew she was thinking of Dís and how she would never be able to embrace her own boys again. He felt her hand in his hair, shaking ever so slightly from sorrow and relief, and Gimli knew that despite herself, despite the honor of having one's blood spilt in the name of their people, how glad she was that her husband still drew breath, and that her son had been too young to go with them.
Too young. Those words meant something different to Gimli, now.