“ — kíli, ” deep tone errs on exasperation as deathless struck to his sister-son’s distracted sword, edges met. his heavy boot slid forward upon the ground as he leant into the crossed metal with a grunt, heel stomped. this was supposed to be practice. the dwarf’s mouth pinched. if one can call such an effort that. (crown-less yet his head bears unseen its fate; can he teach as well as lead? he, father-less, in an unlit dark. he must be their silver spark.) with a clang and a swift swing upwards, deathless comes short of striking through kíli’s shoulder. one of thorin’s fine-haired brows lifted. the creased lines at the corners of his sight are unimpressed.
“ adrub. ... you are not paying close enough attention. ” the sword tapped once to the other’s shoulder as the older dwarf went on with a brusque exhale. always with his ears closed, i swear it, since he was a pebble ... “ you bring your arms too high — i told you this yesterday. should i trade your sword for dwalin’s training stick until you listen? ” the weapon withdraws, point brought downwards to the ground. stout fingers clenched uncertainly around its hilt. dís had spoken to him earlier, for this was not the first time. tunic-draped shoulders drew somewhat taut. how did he approach this? i must, somehow. he is so much like him. a throb kept within him, dimming his light for a moment. he sighs it out unheard, alike wind keeping back fog’s rolling murkiness. quiet capped the air ‘tween them briefly before, gaze gentling a tad, “ balin told your mother you did not remember his lessons, either. what is it, kíli? ”
