Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The shadow over Erebor was no longer the physical presence of a dragon, but the creeping, invisible ink of the East. For years, the Mountain had thrived under Fíli’s steady hand, but the air had changed. A Dark Rider, draped in stinking black robes and mounted on a horse that breathed like a dying forge, had come to the front gates three times. Each time, it asked for news of "Baggins." Each time, it offered rings of power in exchange for the location of a thief.
Fíli, King Under the Mountain, stood on the royal balcony overlooking the bustling markets of the Dale-lands, but his mind was in the dark. Beside him, Kíli leaned against the stone, his face drawn. The years had been kind to Kíli’s health but heavy on his spirit. Since the garden had been completed,since the oak tree had grown tall over the buried secrets of their uncle,Kíli had become a creature of silence.
"I am sending Glóin and his son, Gimli, to Rivendell," Fíli said, his voice ringing with the iron authority he had worn for decades. "The Elven-lord Elrond must be warned. Not just of the Rider, but of Balin. It has been too long since we had word from Moria. The silence from the Longbeard’s home is a scream I can no longer ignore."
Kíli nodded slowly. "Gimli is a good choice. He has his father’s fire."
"And you are going with them," Fíli added.
Kíli stiffened, his dark eyes snapping to his brother’s profile. "No. I belong here. I am the Captain of your guard, Fíli. I am your shadow. I won't leave you while the East is churning like a storm."
Fíli turned, grabbing his brother’s shoulders. The height difference was negligible now, but Fíli still looked at him with the protective gaze of the elder. "That is exactly why you must go. You have spent sixty years inside this mountain, Kíli. You have spent sixty years staring at a tree and a crystal casket. You are mourning men who have been gone for a lifetime as if they fell yesterday. You need to breathe air that doesn't taste of stone."
"Fíli-"
"It is a King’s command," Fíli said, though his eyes softened into those of a brother. "But more than that, it is a favor. Go to the Hidden Valley. See the world before the darkness swallows the paths. I cannot leave Erebor; the crown chains me to the throne. But you... you can still walk the wild."
Kíli looked ready to argue, but Fíli didn't give him the chance. He led Kíli deep into the mountain, past the Royal Tombs, to the garden level. They walked to the young oak tree, where the forget-me-nots were in their autumn slumber.
"We cannot let his things stay in the dirt if war is coming," Fíli whispered.
With the help of two trusted guards, they unearthed the lockbox. It had been sealed against the damp, and when the lid creaked open, the scent of cedar and old wool filled the air. Fíli pulled out the blue fur-lined coat. It was dusty but untarnished, the deep azure fabric still vibrant. He pulled out the sword, Orcrist, its Elven runes humming with a faint, silver light.
"Put it on," Fíli commanded.
Kíli hesitated, then shed his own practical leather mantle. He donned the heavy blue coat. It fit him perfectly,the same broad shoulders, the same regal drape. He buckled the ancient sword to his waist. As he stood there, the silver light from the garden’s crystals hitting the fur of his collar, Fíli caught his breath.
For a moment, it wasn't Kíli standing there. It was the Thorin they remembered from the Blue Mountains,the one before the gold, before the madness. The noble, fierce warrior who lived for his kin.
"You look like him," Fíli whispered, his voice thick. "Take his spirit with you, Kíli. Remind the world what an Oakenshield looks like."
The journey to Rivendell was a blur of cold winds and hushed conversations. Glóin was boisterous, trying to keep the mood light for his son, Gimli, who was seeing the world for the first time. But Kíli was a specter. He rode at the back of their small party, the blue fur of his coat tucked high around his chin, his hood shadows obscuring his face.
When they finally crossed the bridge into the Hidden Valley, the beauty of the place felt like an insult to Kíli’s grief. It was too bright, too musical.
As they were led to the guest quarters by a soft-spoken Elf, they passed a courtyard filled with light. Kíli froze. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of Orcrist.
There, sitting on a stone bench and laughing over a plate of fruit, were four small figures. They had curly hair, large bare feet, and waistcoats that looked suspiciously like the fashions of the Shire.
"Hobbits," Glóin hissed, his face turning pale. "By the beard... Halflings."
Gimli looked at his father and then to the hobbits. He had grown up on the stories of bilbo and seen his grave. He knew how much that one hobbit meant to his father and cousin.
Kíli didn't stay to listen. He turned his head away sharply, his jaw tight. The sight of them,the way one of them laughed with a tilt of his head that mimicked a ghost in Kíli’s memory,was like a knife to the ribs. He quickened his pace, his heavy boots thudding against the stone, his blue coat swirling behind him.
The Hobbits,Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin,stopped talking as the Dwarves marched past.
"Blimey," Pippin whispered, staring at Kíli’s retreating back. "That one looked a bit grim, didn't he? Didn't even say 'good morning'."
"Dwarves are often like that, Pip," Frodo said, though he watched the tall Dwarf in the blue coat with a strange sense of curiosity. "They have much on their minds. But that one... he looked as if he’d seen a ghost."
For the next few days, the tension only grew. Whenever the Hobbits tried to offer a greeting in the hallways or the dining hall, Kíli and Glóin would go stiff. Glóin would offer a curt, strained nod and hurry away, while Kíli simply ignored them entirely. He would look over their heads, his expression like carved granite, and walk past as if they were made of air.
"Rude, if you ask me," Sam muttered one afternoon after Kíli had walked past them for the fifth time without a word. "We’re all in the same boat, aren't we? No need for the high-and-mighty act."
"He wears a sword that looks like it belongs in a museum," Merry added. "And that coat... he looks like a King, but he acts like he’s at a funeral."
The Council of Elrond was a gathering of the great and the wise, but to Kíli, it felt like a trial. He sat beside Glóin and Gimli, his hood down now, his dark hair braided in the intricate patterns of the Royal Line. He felt the eyes of Gandalf on him,the Wizard’s gaze was heavy with worry and a deep, unsettling knowing.
Then, the story of the Ring came out.
Kíli watched as the small Hobbit, Frodo, stood and placed the gold band on the plinth. The air seemed to darken. The gold did not scream like the hoard of Erebor, but it hummed,a low, rhythmic thrum that made Kíli’s skin crawl. It felt like the sickness. It felt like the madness that had killed his uncle.
"How did this come to you?" Elrond asked solemnly.
Frodo cleared his throat, his voice small but steady. "It was passed to me by my father, Drogo. He... he inherited it from the effects of his cousin. A gardener and a traveler who lived in the Shire for many years before leaving. He died on one of his adventures.”
Kíli felt the world tilt. Beside him, he heard Glóin’s breath hitch in a strangled gasp.
"The cousin’s name?" Gandalf asked softly, his eyes flicking toward the Dwarves.
"Bilbo," Frodo said. "Bilbo Baggins. He was a bit of an eccentric, according to the stories. He disappeared and apparently passed away while gone, his things were distributed."
Kíli’s hand gripped the arm of his wooden chair so hard the wood groaned. Passed away. They didn't know about the crystal casket. They didn't know about the Prince who had watched him breathe his last on a cold rampart.
And this... this thing had been with him the whole time. The source of the darkness, the thing the Rider sought, had been sitting in a waistcoat pocket in the Shire while they toasted to Bilbo’s health in Erebor.
The council devolved into arguments, voices rising in fear and anger. Kíli heard none of it. He only saw the ring. It was the Arkenstone all over again. It was the greed that broke families.
"I will take it," Frodo’s voice broke through the noise. "I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though... I do not know the way."
Kíli looked at the Hobbit. He looked at the small, trembling hands and the sheer, terrifying bravery in his eyes. He looked so much like the person who had once stood on a wall and told a King that he was wrong.
The Fellowship was formed. Boromir of Gondor, Aragorn the Ranger, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and the four Hobbits.
"And for the Dwarves," Elrond said, "Gimli, son of Glóin, shall represent his people."
"And I," Kíli stood. His voice was like a bell, deep and resonant. "I will go."
Glóin looked at him in alarm. "Kíli, you cannot. Fíli expects-"
"Fíli expects me to do what is right," Kíli said, his eyes locking onto Frodo’s. "I have seen what this kind of shadow does to a soul. I will not see it happen again."
The Fellowship prepared to depart. Legolas and Gimli were the only ones who truly knew Kíli’s rank,Legolas because his father had whispered of the Prince in the Blue Coat, and Gimli because he was kin. To the others, he was simply Kíli, a grim and silent warrior from the North who wore an ancient sword and refused to smile.
As they began their trek out of Rivendell, the Hobbits tried to bridge the gap.
"It's a long road, Mr. Kíli," Pippin said, trotting to keep up with the Dwarf’s long strides. "Good thing we’ve got someone who looks like they know how to use that sword."
Kíli’s jaw tightened. He didn't look down. He didn't acknowledge the Hobbit at all. He just stared straight ahead at the snowy peaks of the mountains, his eyes cold and distant.
"Still the silent treatment, then?" Pippin sighed, falling back toward Sam. "I'm telling you, Sam, he’s the rudest Dwarf I’ve ever met. Not a 'hello', not a 'thank you', not even a 'move out of the way, you clumsy Halfling'."
"Maybe he’s just shy," Sam offered, though he didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he just doesn't like us. Some people are like that, Pip. Especially the big, warrior types."
Gandalf, walking at the head of the line, glanced back. He saw Kíli’s hand resting on the hilt of Orcrist. He saw the way Kíli purposefully stepped around the Hobbits, avoiding even the brush of their cloaks as if they were made of fire.
The Wizard’s heart ached. He knew what Kíli saw when he looked at Frodo. He didn't see a new friend or a companion in arms. He saw a doomed soul. He saw the face of the man who had died in his arms, and the face of the uncle who had been driven mad by the very shadow they were now walking toward.
Kíli wasn't being rude. He was terrified. He was terrified that if he looked too closely, if he spoke to them, if he let them into his heart, he would have to watch them break. And Kíli Oakenshield didn't think he had enough of a soul left to survive another heartbreak.
As the sun set on their first day of travel, Kíli sat apart from the rest, his blue coat wrapped tightly around him. He watched the Hobbits huddle together for warmth, their quiet whispers and laughter drifting on the wind.
He closed his eyes and saw a patch of forget-me-nots under an oak tree.
"I am sorry, Bilbo," he whispered into the fur of his collar, so low that only the wind could hear. "I don't think I can be the friend they need. I can only be the blade that keeps them alive."
He didn't sleep that night. He just watched the darkness, waiting for the ghosts to come.