#- anything. maybe it's neo-khuzdul? so yea take that translation w a grain of salt!

[thorin]

i wrote a little something that i have no idea if i'll continue, but i just really wanted to write a bagginshield fic through kíli's point of view, i thought it'd be fun. so enjoy!

tw: a bit of angst, mention of blood, but nothing too graphic, or excessive.

Contrary to popular belief, Kíli was not stupid.

He knew there'd been something going on between his uncle and Mr. Baggins the second he saw him break a smile —which was already suspicious— at Bilbo at the Carrock before hugging him —even more suspicious— after he'd defended his uncle from what was certain death.

Now don't get him wrong, he was more grateful to Bilbo than he could ever say. He saved Thorin's, and Fíli's, and his life too many times to count. He'd stayed after the battle had died down, and helped the healers, elven and dwarven alike, tend to the wounded and bury the fallen. He'd spent his entire days helping Bombur cook food at the makeshift camp they'd set at the base of the mountain, and when he wasn't cooking, he was stealing peaches and apples from the elves' food carts just for him and Fíli when they were bedridden. And he'd sit beside Thorin and wait for him to wake up when his nephews couldn't be there for him.

Kíli really liked Bilbo. He'd grown on him, all of them, truly. He just couldn't believe someone so small could be so brave, and feisty!

Which is why he was extremely confused when he'd heard Bilbo would be going home after Thorin had woken up.

His first reaction was that he felt abandoned. How could a member of their company simply choose to leave after all they'd been through together? He almost shouted his disagreement, before Fíli took his arm, shaking his head, and looked right at Bilbo: tear tracks on his dirty face. Maybe he wasn't leaving by choice.

He looked to his uncle, sat up against the wooden bedpost. His jaw was set and his adam's apple bobbed, as if it were physically hurting him to not speak up. His eyes were transfixed by Bilbo's back, like if he tried hard enough, his eyes could tell Bilbo all he wouldn't say.

Understanding flashed through Kíli's mind in a second. But it was too late. He tried speaking up again, aware of this new piece of information that he'd uncovered, but Thorin wouldn't have it. And it was frustrating Kíli greatly, because he'd never heard his uncle, his brave, tenacious uncle, speak with such a small, hoarse voice before, and say that if Bilbo wishes to leave, then he is free to go, with his blessing.

None of it rang true. How did no one notice? Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

By the time he'd looked at Bilbo again, he was already out of the tent, backpack on his shoulders.

Kíli was not proud of how he acted. He'd shouted at Thorin, painfully aware of his uncle's feeble health, but unable to contain his grief: he'd killed hundreds and seen another hundred killed, he'd almost lost his brother and uncle, and almost left his mother all alone in this world, and now his friend was leaving him, leaving them all. He'd fought relentlessly for months, why couldn't his uncle fight just a little longer, a little more? Why wouldn't he fight for his family like he said he always would?

Oin kicked Kíli out of the tent the second he saw Thorin's bandages become red. He was horrified. He'd never dream of hurting Thorin, but everything felt wrong. He'd never once cried on this journey. Not when his uncle was knocked unconscious by that foul orc, nor when he'd lost the rune stone given to him by his mother. But now he couldn't hold it in. It all came pouring out as someone —his brother, surely— held him, kneeled down on the ground. He wept until the stars came out.

────────

Months had passed ever since Azsâlul'abad was reclaimed. The harsh Eastern winter had finally given way to spring's sunshine rays, and although the mountain's citizens couldn't say they lived an easy life, they had food and a roof over their heads, which was more than they'd had for years. More and more dwarves were coming home from all over Middle-Earth, as word of Smaug's death was starting to spread. Reconstruction was slow, but steady, and life had shaped itself into a vibrant routine under the Lonely Mountain.

Kíli and Fíli had been crowned princes, and Thorin had been crowned king. His mother had finally come to join them on a caravan she lead from Shahrulbizad, and each member of the company was appointed to some sort of important position in the king's court. It was difficult for Kíli and his brother to get used to their new lives as royalty and the responsibilities that came along with it, and Kíli was grateful for any moment of respite he could have away from the eccentric Iron Hills nobles and Balin's royal classes. His days all looked the same, and yet he found he just couldn't get used to this new life.

Thorin, Kíli had noticed, clearly felt the same, though there was no running away for him. For any person that didn't know his uncle, they'd think he looked perfectly normal, if only a little stern. But Kíli knew that look. It was the same one he'd wear on his face when he attended feasts, sat at his throne, silent, while everybody around him drank and laughed. Or when he attended meetings with the court. Or when he watched Bilbo leave, a winter ago.

Kíli was not stupid. He saw how much his uncle suffered, and how much every single member of the company missed their friend. He missed Bilbo, too.

Which is why he sent a letter adressed to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End in the Shire, pretending to be Thorin II, King Under the Mountain, begging him to come back.

Surely that would solve everybody's problem. Right?