Come with me, I said
And no one knew where
or how my pain throbbed.
No carnations or barcaroles
for me, only a wound that love
had opened. I said it again,
as if I were dying,
Come with me,
And no one saw the
moon that bled in my
mouth or the blood that
rose into the silence.
That is why when I heard
your voice repeat, Come with
me, it was as if you had let loose
the grief, the love, the fury.
Gently, Kíli pressed a kiss to Fíli's forehead.
He tasted blood and grime and his lips trembled as he breathed small, selfish words against pale skin that was cold and clammy with sweat, "Come with me," he said, and then he stole Fíli, his Fíli, his sun and his stars and his treasure. He gathered his precious, precious gold up in his arms and fled from carnage and war cries and kingdoms crumbling to ruins beneath his boots, stumbling and staggering as he neared the edge of the forest.
Weeping wounds and aching bones were forgotten as Kíli settled them against the trunk of an old tree, with branches that twisted up towards the skies on broken, contorted angles. With Fíli's back to his chest, Kíli hummed softly and carded his fingers through tresses of tarnished gold, his heart stuttered in his chest as Fíli fought to catch a breath.
In Kíli's arms, Fíli coughed and spluttered and seized. No songs were sung, no soft, soothing words were whispered. Stifling a sob, Kíli wound his arms around Fíli and cradled his brother's bloodied body against his own. And it was in that silence, as Fíli bled out in his arms, that Kíli knew of true heartache, the kind that turned a part of Thorin to stone, the kind that only love could cause.
"Kíli," Fíli choked. "Where are we?"
"Erebor." Kíli answered, too swiftly, too softly. "The Lonely Mountain."
Fíli smiled feebly. "Is it everything that we hoped for?" Behind him, Kíli stiffened.
Tears burnt his eyes and there was a terrible, terrible ache in his chest. "We're home, Fíli."
Death crept up slowly on Fíli, unfairly so. He knew not of a peaceful death, nor a swift one. Blood oozed and gushed, then it trickled, slow and languid. Kíli, with lies on his lips and a death wish in his heart, kept his hands firmly pressed to the wound. It slowed the flow, but it would not cease, it could not be stopped.
"You will make a fair king," Fíli rasped.
Kíli winced. He said nothing, only tightened his hold on Fíli.
"A king with no braids," he chuckled. It sounded as though he were choking. "But still a fair one."
"Stay," Kíli pleaded. He instinctively drew Fíli closer. "Stay, or I will follow you. I swear it."
Fíli sighed softly, contentedly. "I'm home." he said and blindly outstretched a bloodied hand for Kíli to take. He spoke with an air of inevitably, of resignation, as though he knew of his fate and was glad to have met it. "You are my home, Kee. Always."
Slowly, Kíli laced their fingers together. Blood against blood. In his arms, Fíli wheezed and shook and stuttered. Kíli buried his face into Fíli's matted hair to smother his sobs. "What have I done to you?"
"You brought me home." Fíli said. His chest felt painfully constricted.
"Home?" Kíli's voice broke miserably over the word. "This isn't our home."
"Kíli," Fíli sighed. His tone held a weariness that Kíli often heard from Thorin. "Let it be."
"You have to come with me, Fee." Kíli blubbered. "You have to come home."
Fíli's breaths grew sharper, shorter. "Hold my hand," he barely managed. "Take me home, Kíli."
"I am," Kíli said. He peered over Fíli's shoulder, mortified. "Fee, why can't you feel my hand? Fee?"
When Fíli died, Kíli felt it. His heart faltered in his chest. Fury and grief and fire flooded throughout Kíli, turning the blood in his veins colder and colder. He drew Fíli closer, he clung to his lifeless limbs and his heavy hands and chanted the words, You have to come home, over and over, like a prayer, a curse. Kíli was suffocating, drowning in sorrows and perpetual silence.
He buried his face into the crook of Fíli's neck and screamed.
Kíli woke with a scream caught in his throat.
He dreamt of Fíli, it was always the same. Fíli, on the field of death and promise with the poisoned blade of an orc buried deep in his chest, too deep that he could be salvaged, not deep enough that he should know a painless death, a peaceful passing. Fíli crumbled to his knees, collapsed on his side, choked on his own blood.
Kíli knew no greater agony than this. It was indescribable. It did not creep upon him slowly, it had swallowed him whole. Grief was bitter and spiteful and it spat cruel words, unforgivable things. It drove Kíli to hate, to despise, to flee. He staggered forward into the night, blindly, while Thorin rest soundly, utterly unaware of his absence.
Immersed in immense silence and darkness, Kíli sought out Fíli.
Come with me, he thought he heard the trees whisper. Kíli clutched at the bark of an old, twisted oak, and steadied himself against it as the memories flooded back, an endless onslaught of misery that brought Kíli to his knees. He retched and heaved and choked on the dry sobs that snared in his throat.
Blood and fire filled his mouth as he clawed at the earth, as he raked blunt nails through mud and leaves and blood and bones. Moonlight spilled through the treetops and bounced off of the metal of a blade. Kíli wiped roughly at his eyes and glanced up slowly, uncertainly
His heart stuttered to a harsh, abrupt stop.
All of the air left his lungs as Fíli emerged from the shadows. A wide, gaping hole marked the middle of his chest. Blood wept through the silken fabric of his tunic. His kind eyes were dulled, his too-pale lips upturned in the faintest of smiles. There was blood matted through his hair and smeared across his skin but he stood easily.
"Fee," Kíli breathed. "Is that you?" he asked, timidly.
There was a sharp, brief twinge in Kíli's side. But there was a greater aching in his chest, a longing to be reunited. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he rose slowly to his feet. Fíli uttered not a single word, he simply held out his hand for Kíli to take, and Kíli swore that he could hear those words in the breeze again, the ones whispered by the trees, carried by the wind, Come with me.
Kíli clasped Fíli's hand tightly. He let Fíli lead him away.
A/N: I apologise for the delay in updating, but everything that could potentially prevent this from happening has happened. I'm a little worried about this chapter because it is the first time I've written proper dialogue and I tend to stick with description.
Also, the poem for this chapter is 'Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew' by Pablo Neruda and it is absolutely beautiful. It inspired me. I didn't use the entire poem (I struggled not to), so I recommend that you all go and find it.