When Kíli returns to awareness, he finds himself sitting in a chair - not slumped over as if he had fallen asleep while drowsing by the hearth, but sitting upright and dignified, as if he had closed his eyes for a moment while sitting in the council chamber. The oddity of this does not really register until later, though, because as soon as the dark fog has cleared from his consciousness, images from the battle he left behind are flashing through his mind.

Thorin crumples, felled by a sweeping blow that, while not piercing his armour, must have broken several ribs at least. Fíli screams in despair, and then the brothers are pushing their way through the melee to place themselves between their king and a group of orcs that are closing in, the leers on their faces visible even under their helmets. Azog barks an order at his subordinates, who move out of the way and leave this battle to him, as if he wants to relish this triumph over Dúrin's heirs alone. Fíli and Kíli barely have time to exchange a look before the heavy blows of the mace start raining on them. Their foe taunts them, trying to draw them away from Thorin, who is still unconscious - will the remaining orcs move in to kill the King as soon as his last protectors have moved away, or will their leader save this last victory until he has killed them? No matter, no time for thought; the brothers refuse to move away from their uncle and lord, even if this means they have to take blows they could otherwise have evaded. Together, they are able to hold their foe at bay, but only barely. And so far has the dwarves' attack pushed into the enemy ranks that no help will can reach them in time.

The fight seems to go on for ages, even though in reality it can only have been minutes. Arms grow weary, breath comes in short gasps, and then it happens - Fíli's shield is knocked down and to the side, he loses his balance, the iron claw pierces his chest, and he falls, only a few feet away from Thorin. Kíli wants to drop his weapon and shield and see to his brother's injury, but he cannot do so. Now he has to protect the two lying helplessly on the ground. He spins, dodges, feints, disregards his own safety entirely. It is the best duel he has ever fought, yet he knows it is not enough. This foe cannot be defeated by one who is barely full-grown, whose battle experience has been won almost exclusively on the journey to the Mountain. A victory would require experience, guile, and a strength Kíli no longer has after fighting for so long. Kíli accepts this, but he does not despair. He feels a calm surety spreading through him, knowing that he is doing what must be done, what is honourable, what he owes to those he loves most in this world except his mother... but he cannot think of her, not here, not now, cannot imagine her reaction when she hears the news, so he turns his mind away with an effort.

He shouts and directs all his resolve against his enemy, finally managing to score a deep gash across Azog's chest. Something flickers in the orc's face. Is it weariness, is it fear? The orc jumps back, snaps an order, and one of his followers hurls a spear; it is a crude thing, yet sufficient for its purpose. Kíli reflexively raises his shield, bats the spear aside, and the mace impacts with his lower body. He feels that something inside has broken even while he flies through the air, and his suddenly weakened arms release weapon and shield. The time for weapons is over. He looks to the side, trying to make out Fíli, but Azog moves into his field of vision. Yet before he can lift his weapon anew to finish Kíli off, there is a snarl, and both Kíli and his foe turn towards the sound. Thorin, who had lain on the ground unconscious whenever Kíli had been able to glance in his direction, is struggling to his feet. His teeth are clenched, and the effort is almost too much for him, but he manages to stand and lift his sword. And when he speaks, it is the King under the Mountain, whom Kíli had feared lost when Thorin had cursed Bilbo and had been willing to start a war with Elves and Men over treasure, when he had ceased to listen to the few who advised negotiation and sharing of the treasure over war. The brothers had obeyed him, and willingly, but both had feared that the dragon sickness had found its way into the heart of Erebor even after the dragon's death.

Now, the king speaks with absolute authority. "You shall never touch my kinfolk again!" Thorin hurls at his foe, and although Kíli is sure that his uncle must be grievously hurt, he somehow knows that he has heard the truth, as if Thorin had been given the power to foretell the future, here at the end. Their greatest enemy is no longer Kíli's concern, and even the other orcs have moved back, perhaps feeling the power Thorin wields even though they can never understand it. Kíli does not even look towards the fight; rather, he drags himself to his brother's side as best he can. But Fíli is already gone. If Kíli does not look at the wound, his brother could be sleeping, so peaceful is his face. His eyes are closed, and there is no trace of pain or despair on his face. Kíli clasps Fíli's hand, which is still warm, and just holds on, feeling a growing heaviness in his own body.

There is another snarl behind him, and a battle-cry in the secret language, proclaiming the King's triumph. The lesser orcs are gibbering and screaming, and a few of them move in, jabbing with spears. Thorin is among them like a whirlwind, and even though Kíli sees spears impacting, Thorin seems to feel none of the blows. The fight is over in moments; some of the orcs lay slain, the others run screaming into the battle, too fearful to face the King in his wrath.

Thorin staggers, as if a Power that had held his body upright despite his weakness had suddenly been drained away. He turns and, almost dragging his sword, comes to his nephews' resting place. He sinks down next to Kíli and looks into Fíli's face, closes his eyes for a moment and draws a shuddering breath. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at Kíli, takes in the wounds the younger dwarf himself so far had not even dared to look at, and closes his eyes again. When he speaks, his voice is low and almost broken.

"I never wanted this to happen - I should have protected you from harm."

He makes no assurances that Kíli will be well, that his wounds are not as bad as they appear. Kíli is grateful, although he would have expected nothing less. His uncle had always been honest with them, whether he was commenting on their fighting skills after a truly embarrassing training bout, scolding them for causing their mother grief, or telling them that while they might accompany him on his quest for Erebor, they would be the youngest in the company and be expected to do much of the work their elders would want to hand to someone else. Now, too, he does not waste time in untruths, and Kíli returns the honour.

"Uncle, I have no regrets, and I am sure that Fíli had none in the end. We could have done nothing else, and it was our greatest honour to stand and fight at your side in this battle."

Thorin draws Kíli into his arms and places a hand on Fíli's shoulder. As Kíli still clasps his brother's hand, the three of them are connected once more, as they were so often in the past, when Thorin came to see his sister and her sons, and when they spent evenings on the hearthrug telling stories and laughing, with Dís looking on and smiling.

"Tell Mother..." He falters as he sees his uncle's gaze.

"I do not think that I will linger long enough to see her. My wounds are beyond healing, I fear. But your mother knows already; she was always the wisest of us. She will go on until we see her again."

Now it is Kíli's turn to close his eyes and fight back tears. He had thought that they had saved their uncle, that he would reign as King under the Mountain in prosperity and happiness. Have they failed? What will become of their people?

"I, too, have no regrets, as far as my own end is concerned," his uncle assures him, as if he had read his thoughts, "except for my actions before this battle, and I think I have made amends for some of them and may yet make more before the end. Dáin will care for our people and make Erebor great again. I just wish I could have paid this price alone and you and Fíli could have seen Lonely Mountain filled with life and song. Yet I am very proud of both of you, of the men you have become."

Kíli smiles up at his uncle even as feels the heaviness spreading further in him. He can no longer feel his legs. Again Thorin seems to read his thoughts, and in the voice which Kíli knows from hearing the old legends of their people, and which is somehow also the voice of the King, he starts to tell of Mahal and of the Fathers of the Dwarves, and Kíli falls asleep.

All of this has passed through Kíli's mind in an instant, and through what he later realises is the strange power of this place, he knows. He knows that he is dead and in the Halls of Waiting, that Fíli is here, too, and that Thorin will be coming - as will his mother, soon, as Time is not the same as in the mortal lands. But even though he vaguely thinks that he should feel sad, he knows that this is not a place for sadness. He looks around, and as he turns his head, the room around him seems to light up, and he sees that he is in a great Hall of stone, greater than any in Erebor, and greater even than any that could be in Khazad-dûm. There are many tables set with chairs as if for feasting or council, like the one where he finds himself. Later, in the timeless times that follow, he will discover that there are forges and workshops, places of learning and music, and he will feast and talk and craft and learn and sing; but for now he is looking around at the faces of those sitting at his own table with a growing sense of awe and wonder.