Memories

[longestnose]

His death

It was chaos.

The battle raged everywhere, had been for hours; it was difficult to tell how long he had been out here, it felt as if he was here forever, that the battle had become his life, seeped into his bones. If they survive (Fili prayed to every God he knew) he knew he would never be the same again.

But there was no time to think of the future now. Thorin was in trouble, and he needed them--needed Fili and Kili. Shooting a look to his brother, there was nothing but a grim nod, with both of them surging forward, fighting hard and fast towards their injured Uncle, the only father that either of them truly remembered, anymore.

It happened so fast so fast. Thorin hit the grown, felled by an order. This wasn't--this couldn't be happening.

Letting out a cry, Fili surged forward, for only a moment momentarily losing track of Kili as he fought forward to protect his Uncle, to make sure no other orc touched him. He was distracted, he was fighting from sheer adrenaline--

That is when mistakes are made.

Deadly mistakes.

Fili was distracted, Fili wasn't paying attention to his back. Thorin or Kili had always been there, always with him. Thorin needed protection from the front, and that is what Fili did, focusing only on that--only--

It's warm.

He hears the twang of the arrow, the shocked look in Kili's eyes as he let the arrow fly, to take the orc out that had come up behind him.

But it was too late
(too late).

A sword clattered down, hand raised to throat, a gash was there, and as he felt the hot blood running from his fingers, the rest of his body started to slide into something more cold. Eyes stay on Kili, an apology on his lips, as he falls, hand reaching out for his brother, needing to know that he will be fine, that somehow he might survive, that they can't all leave their mother.

Everything was wrong.

They should never have come.

Playing with his father

Fili is too young to really understand this game. Or at least, the meanings. To him, dragons are just the things in tales, both scary and enthralling, depending on who tells them (Thorin had told him one, once, and it had made him cry). But with his father--oh, they were always fun.

He always played the dragon, feet heavy as he moved about the small living room of wherever they were living at the time (for moving was always a possibility, but mother and father were always there, so what did it matter?). He would let out low growls, and blow smoke from his nose, pulled just before from his pipe. Fili would always have his trusty wooden sword. He always tried to be patient, to sneak forward, carefully, quietly, but it nearly always came down to him bursting out at the 'dragon', attempting to wrestle him to the ground. Often he won, vanquishing his father with gentle touches and hair pulls, but sometimes-- oh sometimes he lost! He lost and there would be tickles and cuddles and raspberries. The most torturous fate he had from the dragon!

But no matter who won, there would always be a cup of warm milk, and a story by the fire, surrounded by mother and father. They may have little, but he was loved. And it was enough.