The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


When Fíli died, he took the sun with him.

Kíli grieved with his entire body, he wept and wailed unabashedly, head thrown back in agony. He thrashed about madly, wildly, and with such fury that he was restrained by firm hands, broken hands, hands that were battered and calloused and careful.

Thorin held Kíli against his own wounded body and stilled his nephew, his heir, his only, by holding him closer, close enough that, as Kíli wept, as he cried and cursed and moaned about his miseries – loudly enough that their burglar burst inside, hand on the hilt of his sword, with Dwalin in tow – each sob tore through Thorin too.

Arms encircled Kíli carefully, as though he were delicate, as though the warrior, the heir, the bowman, might shatter into a thousand pieces. Kíli sobbed fiercely, uncontrollably, in a manner that was certainly not befitting, certainly not kingly, but he cared little for the ugly sounds that tore through him, he cared only for the arms that held him, the arms that failed and lied and betrayed.

Fists collided harshly with Thorin's broad, broken, bandaged chest. Kíli did not seek out solace, nor did he find it in the remarkably gentle hold of Thorin. His soul was corrupted, riddled with unease and discontentment. All he found was rage. He writhed and struggled and fought vainly against him, against his foul words and his unforgivable lies, and their brave burglar remained no longer.

Kíli hissed at Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and cursed his King Under the Mountain with such vehemence, such disdain that he ought to be punished, banished, disgraced for displaying such disrespect, but Thorin only held his nephew closer, only weakly whispered apologies against his hair, words so small that they were nearly inaudible. He continued to mouth these words until they turned soundless, until they etched their way into Kíli, into his hair, his skin, his heart.

Tears mingled with dirt and dried blood as Kíli wept, as he called for his brother, as he fisted his hands into the thin material of Thorin's tunic and held on as though this was all that kept the grief from consuming him. Thorin winced, but held Kíli tighter, held him out of grief and regret and fear that, if left alone, his nephew might drown himself in sorrows. Thorin held Kíli until all movements ceased, all except the almost imperceptible tremble to his shoulders as his grieving turned silent, private, intimate.

Once released, Kíli tore at his hair. Kíli wound his fingers through dark, wild, untamed locks of hair that were not braided nor were they gloriously golden, nothing was, for when Fíli died he took the sun and the stars and all that was light with him. Kíli tore at his hair fiercely as he cried and cried, howling as Thorin tried to soothe him, tried to ease his aching soul, tried to pry his fingers from where they curled into his hair, but Kíli refused to relent.

Kíli saw red when he needed to see gold, tasted blood when he longed for death, for unity and peace, and felt tears as they prickled his eyes when he wished to feel the arms of a brother wrapped warmly around his waist, and the tears continued to spill, continued to create tracks through dirt and blood and tear stains that would never truly fade. Kíli wept then wilted, crumbling and shattering as he soon turned sorrowful and begged and pleaded with Uncle Thorin to stop, please, stop telling lies.

Ire now diminished, grief consumed Kíli. He let his eyes fall shut as Thorin settled on the bedroll beside him, as Thorin held him closer and hummed against his hair, hair tangled with dirt and blood and beads, beads from Fíli, beads of Fíli, and as Thorin sung softly and brokenly against the brown hair matted with blood and beads and dirt and leaves, he grieved over not one lost nephew, but two.

When Fíli died, he took Kíli with him.

A/N: I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I thank you all for reading, and hope that you enjoyed this piece!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately I do not own the illustrious work that is The Hobbit.