Archive of Our Own

The first of the winter snow has fallen on Ered Luin. During the night, the town is almost completely covered in a white blanket, and by morning, everything looks so strange.

The place where you would usually play is now covered in a thick blanket of snow. The entire mountain must be. You glance around at the rolling hills that surround and shelter the town from the harsh, biting winter winds. There’s white everywhere. The other dwarrows of the town are being shepherded back into their homes.

Mothers and a handful of elders eye you and the princes as you pass. The two Durin princes and the girl. It’s what you had been known as for years. Even before Kili had been born, you and Fili were often spotted playing together in gardens and nearby groves: always under the watchful eye of Dís or Thorin. The story of how you two became playmates varied between your families. Yours was in no way tied to the line of Durin. How you even found yourself playing in the same mud or leaf-pile as the crown prince was just beyond everyone in Ered Luin. But still, your friendship with Fili – and Kili, when he had been born a couple of moon turns later – kept sturdy during your dwarrow years.

Bundled in thick coats and furs – because neither your mother nor theirs would have let you outside without them – you all trudge through the snow. Fili has his younger brother caught firmly by the hand. As you continue with your wandering, the youngest of you three stays by his brother’s side. He’s probably never seen snow this thick before, you realise. All the past winters have had only a faint dusting of the stuff. But the farmers in the hills had been speaking about this winter being a harsh one for the past couple of weeks. You can understand why now.

Fili sighs by your side. “Where do you want to go now?” he asks. Your usual place to play – a sturdy tree and its under-shade, now laden with snow – is obviously a no-go. You glance around. The hills could be interesting. The snow would make walking there difficult – especially with Kili’s young, short legs – but it’s a thought. It’s also freezing outside. Your breath fogs in front of you and, even wrapped tightly and snugly in layers of coats and furs, a nipping winter wind still manages to chill your bones. Leaving the town could be a problem. A couple of sentries keep guard on the outskirts of the town, and they wouldn’t let three dwarrows out into the midst of a snowdrift. Especially when two of those dwarrows are the princes.

Kili tugs on his brother’s arm. “We could visit Uncle Thorin?” he asks. A handful of moon turns separate you and Fili from the younger prince. He pushes some of his lengthening hair from his face. “I’m sure he could tell us some stories of Erebor again.”

You frown slightly. Something just doesn’t seem right about Kili’s idea.  Your mother’s words are in your ear. Don’t ask him about any of that, she had once told you. She looked sad when she did. Before you can voice anything, the two princes are already half-way down the street towards Thorin’s house. You quickly catch up, despite the snow coming half-way up your legs.

Thorin’s house near the centre of the town. A lit forge is built on to the side of it. Thorin must be home, if the forge’s fire is lit. Fili, the oldest and slightly taller of you, is the one to step forward on to the porch and knock at the door. While you and the princes shake off the snow clumped on your boots, your ears prick at the sound of heavy footfalls approaching the door. You look up in time to see the door of the house swing open.

Thorin’s frame fills the portal. A frown instantly creases along his brow. “Why are you three out in this weather? Do your mothers know where you are?”

Kili pulls his scarf down from his nose. “We wanted to play in the grove, but it’s covered in snow,” he says. You hope that Kili’s big brown eyes and slurred dwarrow-speech should sway Thorin into letting you all spend some time inside with him. Even with the snowstorm over, there is still a biting chill in the air. And no matter how many layers of clothes you’ve all been bundled in, it’s still freezing.

And it works. Thorin’s eyes soften. “Come inside, quickly,” he says, ushering the three of you in. A hearth is lit in the main living quarters of the house. As you’re all shuffled inside, you notice how Kili has managed to wring his hand from his older brother’s. He scampers back and latches on to Thorin’s legs. The elder chuckles lightly before hoisting Kili up into his arms.

“So,” he says, glancing to you and Fili, “if your usual haunts are snowed-over, what did you plan on doing with your time?”

Kili is the one to answer. “We thought you could tell us some stories!” he giggles, settling in Thorin’s arms and pillowing his head against his uncle’s shoulder.

“Stories?” Thorin tilts his head. “What kind of stories?”

You glance at Fili.  

“The stories you used to tell us about Erebor,” Kili says, reaching up to grasp his little fingers around a newly smithed bead around one of Thorin’s braids.

You wait to be told no. Thorin used to tell them all the time to the young princes: particularly when Fili was Kili’s age, and Kili could barely stand on his own legs. Then Dís began telling you all of those times when you had managed to visit their house during dinners and late-suppers.

Your parents weren’t so forthcoming with those stories, however.

Thorin glances at each of you. A heavy sigh leaves his nose. “Come on, then,” he nods to the carpet in front of the fire. You and Fili arrange yourselves comfortably on the rug while Thorin stokes the fire, keeping Kili firmly bundled in one arm. The heat is welcomed. It chases away the shrill coldness of the air outside.

“Now,” he sighs, perching Kili on his lap, “where do we begin-”

While the lifespan of a dwarf is long, dwarrows grow quickly. Summer and winter moons passed each other and soon you found yourself being shoved into a sparring ring on more than one occasion with both of the princes.

The addition of elvish blood in your familial line somewhere meant that you stood out from the other female dwarves. Where they followed their male counterparts with short statures and lightly bearded faces, you stood slightly taller than most and without a whiskey in sight. The arches of your ears were similar to your father’s: slightly pointed. It had never bothered you. A couple of dwarven elders had eyed you during your youth; watching for when your beard would grow.

Some of those watching had taken to grumbling once you had picked up a spear and bow.

You were still a fighter. All dwarves could swing a sword or axe to some degree or another. It’s ingrained in their very bones. And while you were still trained to use a sword and axe, it was the spear that caught your attention.

An elvish weapon, one particular elder grumbled as he spotted you practising one day.

Today, you’re hidden away in a grove with the two younger princes: hidden away from prying eyes. Your muscles ache from your sparring session earlier with Thorin. With each day that passes, you grow stronger: something he watches closely. Holding your own against his best fighters was something worth watching, your father had told you.

A small smile even ghosted Thorin’s lips one day when you had managed to knock Fili to the ground during a training session.

The forest grove is quiet. The only thing you can hear is the faint chattering and singing of birds overhead, and the flowing of a river nearby. And the thump of an arrow landing its mark on a mannequin.

Kili lowers his bow, and smiles brightly. The arrow, you strain your neck to see better, is embedded into the mannequin’s shoulder. Good shot, you think. It would certainly down an oncoming attacker.

But a mannequin is stationary, Thorin’s firm voice fills your head. Trying to hit a clear shot against a moving target is much more difficult.

You tilt your head. Something isn’t quite right about the way the younger prince stands. “Lower your shoulder,” you say.

Kili turns to where you and Fili sit, brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

You bring your shoulder almost to your ear. “You’re doing this. Which means that the shot could have been a perfect hit between the eyes. An instant kill. But you missed. Because you did this.” You raise your shoulder again.

Kili’s frown turns into a scowl. “I’m practising,” he argues, nodding to the collection of homemade mannequins at the other end of the grove. Nothing but ‘borrowed’ flour sacks slumped together to make the vague shape of an attacker. You can only imagine that the town’s bakers will have a problem with their flour bags now having puncture holes in them.

“Well, practise properly, then,” you retort. Fili snorts by your side, hiding his laugh into a tankard he’s filled with clean river water. You’ve both sparred already. After having a quick dip into the nearby river, you can feel your skin starting to cool down: even after spending over an hour fighting in the midday summer sun.

Kili all but huffs as he turns back to face his targets, knocking another arrow. You don’t mention the fact that he is now subtly trying to adjust his drawing position.

“You’re starting to sound like our uncle,” Fili says after his laughter dies down. He’s watching his brother closely, but not like how their uncle would watch. Thorin watches with a mentor’s eye: always correcting positions and making comments on stances and movements, or how to better take down an opponent. Fili watches his younger brother with a brother’s eye: making sure that he doesn’t accidentally harm himself while knocking an arrow or realising his bowstring.

You frown slightly. “What does that mean?”

Fili turns his attention away from Kili to look at you. “You’re getting grouchy.”

“Grouchy?” you gape, shoving hard at his shoulder. “I am not grouchy!”

The prince hides another laugh into his tankard.

There’s one firm knock at the front door of your house. The sky outside is turning dark as the sun starts to set beyond the hills. Who would be calling at this hour? Your mother evidently has the same question in mind as she continues to busy herself around the kitchen, gathering dinner together. Your father stokes the fire in the next room. You can hear it spit and crackle as more wood is added.

Another knock sounds.

“Oh Mahal help us, who could that be?” your mother sighs, making headway towards the front of the house. She disappears into the hallway. There’s a short moment when all you can hear is the spitting of the hearth in the next room. Your father steps out into the kitchen and helps with placing the last of mother’s cooking on the table.

“Oh,” you hear your mother suddenly say. “Prince Thorin. Good evening.” Your head shoots up. Thorin. Why would he be here? You glance over at your father, who seems to be just as confused. He gestures for you to go out to investigate.

“I’ve got these, dear,” he says, taking a collection of plates from your hands.

“Good evening.” The prince glances around the entrance hall of your home. The small village of dwarven houses all look the same: wooden cabins with metal fastenings. They’re small structures, but hardy. And they suit their purpose.

Thorin folds his hands in front of him. “Is (Y/N) in?”

Your mother’s eyes narrow. “Yes, she’s been here all evening. Unless she’s been out causing trouble again?”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, no, nothing of the sort.” He turns to you. “Nothing that I’m aware of, anyway.”

A blush heats along your cheekbones. Truthfully, you haven’t seen the princes in a couple of days. They were always being whisked away to be trained by either Thorin or Dwalin; and while you had always been invited to these sparring sessions, you stayed at home and poured over some herbology books that Óin had recently gifted to you.

“I was wondering if I may speak with (Y/N) for a moment? In private?” Thorin asks, more to the room to anyone in particular. But it’s your mother who is first to nod and beckon you forward.  She reaches for the coat rack by the door and gets your cloak. She hands it to you with a stern look. Even though the winter snows have long since melted, and the spring lush grasses are starting to sprout, it’s still cold outside.

Thorin nods graciously to your mother. “We will only be a short while,” he explains, leading both of you out into the town’s main road.

You both pass the first couple of houses in silence. It’s heavy as it blankets over the both of you. Something is lingering within it: unspoken words. Or, more likely, words that Thorin now mulls over and is wondering how to voice.  A couple of smiths and miners returning home from work greet Thorin as they pass. Some acknowledge you with a slight nod of the head. That would be the most you’d get out of most of them. If anything, you think, they’re only greeting you in the first place because of who is walking by your side.

Thorin suddenly turns his head to you. “Fili tells me that you wish to learn herbology from Óin.”

You nod. “Yes, I,” you stop, glancing over at him as you walk, “I thought that I could try a hand at learning how to heal.”

His face is just as impassive as ever. “A noble profession, healers,” he says after a time. “They’re always needed. Their work is always well appreciated. Óin would be a suitable teacher.”

The tops of your ears almost burn. Thorin doesn’t show or give praise often. But when he does, it’s in short comments or a slight approving glance. You’ve been dealt a couple of them over the past couple of years.

Torches and lanterns light your path as you both walk through the main dirt road running through the town. “I am gathering a company,” he says lowly, as if the mountain hills around you had ears. No one lives this far out of the main square of the town. Some stagnant and watchful dwarves stand guard around the town’s edge, but they don’t pay either of you any attention. You both stop walking once you reach the border of the town.  Thorin gazes out on the surrounding hills. “It is time we returned to Erebor. To our home.”

Thorin glances back towards the path you’ve walked. “It will be a taxing journey, but I’m sure that with the right dwarves by my side, we can reclaim our home.”

As the words settle around you, they start to weigh down the air. You look down at your boots. “Why are you mentioning this to me?” you ask lowly.

Thorin folds his hands in front of him. “Because my nephews tell me that you’re a skilled fighter.” He tilts his head. “And I know as much from observing your training sessions with them.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “But my parents-”

“-I will speak with them,” Thorin assures. A quiet moment passes between you both. “You don’t need to give me an answer tonight. I will have to meet with our other kinsfolk and ask for their support,” Thorin sighs. “It will take some moons, I imagine.”

You nod. The tips of your fingers are growing numb with the swirl of panic that is starting to uncoil. Erebor. Your kinfolk’s home. Your family had fled with the other dwarves during the dragon’s attack: and countless moons after, you had been born. Erebor only existed to you within stories – stories that Thorin always told you when you and the princes would visit him.

Something must flash across your face because suddenly Thorin places one of his hands on your shoulder. “Think it over for a couple of days, hmm? When you have your answer, come to me.”

You swallow and nod.

The forge attached to the side of Thorin’s house is roaring. The closer you get to the house, the more you can feel the heat of its fire in the wind. When you step inside the forge, you glance around the small wooden and metal made hut. Not the biggest forge you’ve seen, but it allows Thorin to work and take jobs for either the miners and soldiers of the town, or requests for those who pass by.

Thorin stands at the anvil, hammering a red-hot sword into shape. “Thorin?” you call out to him. The forge is loud. The billows rhythmically bob up and down. Each puff sends a waft of air deeper into the forge. He must have been working since first light. Already splayed out on a worktable are collections of freshly smithed swords, daggers, and metal-plated helmets and breastplates. You frown slightly. This must be for the journey, then.

As the day of your departure grows closer, your training sessions with the princes have become more frequent. Now, almost daily, you return home at supper time aching and covered in cuts and bruises from sparring.

Your mother still hasn’t gotten over the fact that you’re going. When the moon rises for its nightly watch over the town, you try and not listen to the recurring argument between your parents about you going. One says it’s your duty to your prince – your king – to go. The other says it’s too dangerous: you may not come back.

You tried not to listen to your mother curse Thorin out of your house when he had come to explain everything. Being their only child, you could understand why they would be anxious.

You’re pulled back to the present by the sound of the hammering stopping. Thorin glances over his shoulder.

“Kili mentioned that you wanted to see me?” you manage to get out. Kili didn’t mention why Thorin asked for you. He didn’t seem to know anything other than you had to see Thorin before nightfall.

Thorin lifts the sword and dips it into a stone basin of water. It hisses and spits as it rapidly cools down. Content to leave it there for now, Thorin stands and sheds his gloves. “Yes,” he gestures for you to come deeper into the forge. “I have something for you.”

At that, you tilt your head. Thorin retreats further into the small forge, striding over to the assortment of shelving units and buckets of smithed weapons.

“You’re still quite fond of the spear as your weapon of choice, yes?” he asks, picking up a long, cloth covered item from one of the bigger shelves. You watch him bring it over to an empty worktable beside you.  You manage a small nod as a faint smile ghosts over Thorin’s lips, unwrapping the cloth from around the object.

A spear. Freshly crafted, if the shining metal spearhead and designs are anything to go by. The smell of polished leather then reaches your nose. Thorin steps away from the worktable, gesturing to it. “Go on,” he prompts. With a slightly trembling hand, you run your fingers along the leather-encased staff of the spear. When you pick it up, it stands just slightly taller than you are: a perfect length for a fighting spear, and your personal preference. It would be a normal looking smithed spear if not for the small, intricate dwarven designs etched meticulously into the blade of the spearhead. There are also gold embellishments on the pommel of the end of the staff, as well as just before the spearhead.

You run your thumb across the maker’s mark etched. The familiarity of it almost makes your heart stop.

The sigil of the Durin family.

Thorin made this.

You turn to him, mouth agape. “Thorin, this is too nice of a gift, I, I can’t-”

He holds up a hand. “-Just try not to skewer my nephews with it,” Thorin remarks drily, but his eyes lighting up slightly, “no matter how much they may goad you into doing so.”

It’s gorgeous. The spear’s weight is perfect in your hand. As you curl your fingers around the staff, the leather encasement gives slightly. It won’t put too much of a strain on your fingers or palms when you swing it. Thorin steps back slightly, giving you enough room to twirl the spear in your hand.

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, enthralled at how the gleaming steelhead catches the light of the forge. “Thank you, Thorin.”

Dark storm clouds rolling down from the nearby hills made you stop for the night in a small town’s tavern. They had been looming overhead for the past couple of days. Eventually, as you and the princes slide into a booth to the side of the tavern, the first crack of thunder bellows outside. It’s barely audible over the chatter inside. But you manage to make it out. A shudder runs up your spine. You were never fond of thunder. Clouds had been darkening for the past couple of days. The moment you had ridden down from Ered Luin, the air had been thick and humid. A summer storm was brewing.

Kili grumbles under his breath. “We’re going to be late if the roads flood.” His frown smoothes out slightly when a young tavernmaid returns with plates laden with meat and bread for the three of you. Kili thanks her as she turns to leave.

The tavern isn’t crowded, but it is loud. A group of human men sit to one side, near a roaring hearth. Some hobbits sit by the bar, nursing tankards of ale and chattering among themselves. No dwarves, you notice. None, except the three of you.

Fili takes a long, slow drag from his pipe. He shakes his head. “It will be a shower, and nothing more,” he breathes, letting wisps of smoke flow from his mouth. He puts his pipe away and starts to pluck at the food in front of him. Kili glances up at his brother, but says nothing.

You know Fili’s right. Summer showers are light things. The roads leading to the Shire will be muddy and slippery, but you’ll be able to navigate them. You would arrive in the Shire right on time. For the past two weeks, it had just been you and the princes. Thorin had left Ered Luin a couple of weeks before you and the princes did. He mentioned something about a sighting of his father within the wilds. You all knew better to dissuade him of the search. But he said he would rejoin you at the Shire, just in time to meet this burglar that would help win your mountain back.

You tear off a piece of bread. “So, this burglar,” you start, glancing to both of the princes, “are we to presume he’s a hobbit, if we’re going to the Shire?”

Fili shrugs a shoulder. “Most likely. I don’t know what the wizard said to Uncle, but he seemed sure that it would work out.”

The tavernmaid arrives back to your table with three tankards of ale. “Would youse like anythin’ else?” she asks, already looking to another table who’s waving her over.

“No, but thank you,” you pardon her with a gentle smile. As soon as she’s stepped away, you notice Kili’s gaze has followed her.

“No,” you scold, kicking him lightly under the table.

Kili balks. “What? I didn’t say anything!”

“Hush, the pair of you,” Fili sighs, taking a slow sip of ale. Your bickering is lost within the noise of the tavern. The door swings open and more human men pour in. The tops of their cloaks are drenched. Great, you think sourly, the rain’s already started. The ponies have been stabled for the night, content to be de-saddled and sheltered while the three of you rested. The journey to the mountain would be a long one.

You all finish your dinners in peace, occasionally talking about the best route to take to reach the Shire. Once the last bit of food is gone, you retire for the night. A tavernkeep already spirited your things into two free rooms for the night. The ground floor of the tavern would be raucously loud until the early hours of the morning, he told you. Someone within the town had turned fifty, and it required a celebration. None of you minded. Dwarves can sleep through earthquakes.

“Kili and I will take one of the rooms,” Fili tells you as you ascend the stairs to the upper level of the tavern. The noise from downstairs is muffled, but only barely. All three of you stop once you’ve reached the landing.

The younger prince arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” he says to Fili. A small smirk curls along his lips. “I thought you and (Y/N) would jump at the chance to share a bed for the night-” Kili breaks off in a huff when his brother’s elbow connects with his side.

A light blush creeps along your cheekbones. “It’s alright,” you shrug, stepping around the princes, “I know that you need your big brother to stay with you during the night, otherwise the wargs will get you.”

Kili goes to retort, but from his brother’s hit, he’s winded. Fili claps a firm hand on the younger’s shoulder and pushes him towards one of the free rooms. “We’ll see you in the morning,” he says quietly as you pass. “Come Kili. I’ll protect you from the wargs.”

The last thing you hear before the room door is shut is a protesting wheeze from Kili.

The journey is going as well as can be expected, you suppose. It was never going to be easy – you knew this even as you first rode out of the Blue Mountains with the princes. Still, though, nothing could have prepared you for days of being hounded by warg scouts.

You eye the hobbit that stands at the campfire with the rest of the company. Bowls of stew are distributed between each dwarf. The night rolled in quickly. As soon as the sun had fallen behind a nearby mountainous peak, the skies were plunged into darkness. Thankfully the fire and campsite had already been established by that point.

Fili notices you watching. “So,” he says, tearing his bread roll in half and handing the slightly bigger portion to you, “how do you think he’s holding up?”

You shrug, taking the offered bread and dunking it into your stew. “If the wizard says he’s capable, then he’s capable.”

That seems to be the general feeling within the camp. Gandalf must have chosen this hobbit for a reason. Whatever that reason is, it’s hard to find, you think. Still, you have to give the hobbit props for managing to keep up with the Company for this long.

“Well, Uncle seems to be smitten with our burglar,” Kili chuckles, lifting another spoonful of stew to his mouth. Before Fili can do it, you take the liberty of jabbing the heel of your boot into the middle of Kili’s back. It’s delivered with enough force to make Kili almost drop his supper on to the ground in front of him. He sends you a withering look over his shoulder. “What was that for?!” he squawks.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, delving back into supper. The commotion is enough to earn a couple of raised heads from those around the campfire. You wave your spoon at them. “Go on! Bombur didn’t slave away over the campfire for this stew to be wasted.”

The Company turns back to their own dinners, content to eat and chat idly among themselves. Bilbo wanders over to where the three of you sit. He gestures almost shyly to a spot of free ground among you. “Anyone sitting here?”

You dig your heel back into Kili’s back and shove the younger dwarf forward slightly, freeing up more space. “Go ahead, Master Baggins.”

Kili grunts. “Stop!” He lifts his bowl. “You keep making me spill all of it! I won’t have anything to eat if you keep doing that.”

Fili chuckles. “Good. I’ve been meaning to tell you to lose some weight.”

Just as Bilbo sits down beside you, Kili sets his bowl aside and launches himself at his older brother. Fili’s able to throw his brother off to the side, and kick him lightly in the shin.

“Namadinùdoy,” a deep voice travels from nearby. Thorin has returned from his walk.

Kili points towards you. “(Y/N) started it!”

“I’m sure she did no such thing,” Thorin scolds. “Finish your dinner, both of you. You’re on watch for the night.”

Kili almost balks, but knows well not to stir an argument with Thorin. Fili merely wipes the last bit of his bread along the inside of his bowl, and stuffs it into his mouth. You reach for the bowl. “I can bring it back to Bofur,” you say, “go on.”

Fili smiles. “Thank you.” He hauls Kili to his feet and starts dragging him away.

“Men lananubukhs me,” you grin as the princes leave. Kili goes to flip you off, but is caught by the arm by his brother. The two princes eventually disappear into the nearby thicket. You turn back to your own dinner. While the night isn’t particularly cold, the stew is starting to lose some of its heat. You only have a couple of mouthfuls left.

Bilbo’s mouth twitches. “What was that? What you said?”

You frown slightly for a moment. “Men lananubukhs me?” you repeat.

Bilbo nods. “I’ve never really heard...dwarvish...spoken before.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I love you,” you translate. “Khuzdul isn’t as fiddly as those elven languages, Mister Baggins. Humour and sarcasm translate well from Common Speech to our tongue.”

Thorin has wandered over to the campfire. Bofur places a couple of ladles into a bowl and hands it to the other dwarf. Bifur stands from where he sits to offer the space to Thorin. You and Bilbo watch him place a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. He leans down slightly to mumble something into the other’s ear. Dwalin merely nods and returns to his dinner.

You notice when the hobbit’s gaze lingers. “I can teach you some, if you like, Mister Baggins?”

Even with the dim light of the fire barely reaching you both, you see a faint blush rising to the hobbit’s cheekbones. “Um, yes, that....that would be good. Thank you.”

Barrels, you think to yourself, you escaped Mirkwood, Silvan elves, and Orcs in barrels.

Even though you’ve long lost those chasing you, each member of the Company, including yourself, keeps looking upstream: just in case an elven arrow manages to come shooting from the trees. A current in the river takes you all to a small inlet. Thorin and Dwalin are the first out, helping the rest scamper on to dry land and collect themselves.

As soon as you paddle toward the inlet, your attention is grabbed by someone shouting your name. Your feet are barely on the rocks before Bofur has you grabbed by the elbow. “Kili’s been shot,” he explains quickly before hauling you over to where the two princes are. Fili has his brother sitting down, leaning heavily against a jagged slab of rock. The elder moves to make room for you.

“It’s nothing,” Kili groans, doubling over as another bout of pain probably wracks through him. You crouch down by his side. A trickle of blood seeps down the cracks of the rock. It doesn’t take long to spot what’s causing him so much pain.

“On your feet. All of you,” Thorin orders.

You barely look up from Kili’s wound, too preoccupied with investigating it. An Orc’s arrowhead is lodged within the muscle of his leg. It’s going to be painful getting it out. Normally, you would be able to cut out the arrowhead. But any and all blades you had are within Mirkwood.

Fili turns to his uncle. His expression is almost murderous. “Kili’s wounded-”

“-I can’t do anything for it now,” you sigh, glancing to the elder prince, “it’ll have to be bound until I can get my hands on some equipment.”

“There’s an Orc pack on our tail,” Thorin bristles, marching passed all of you, “we keep moving.” Something resembling an argument starts behind you. It all fades out as you gently tell Fili to keep some pressure on Kili’s still-bleeding wound.

A choked sob wrangles out of his throat. “Hey, hey,” you hush the younger, taking one of his hands in yours, “it’s okay. I can fix it. Just keep still.”

Fili hands you a strip of cloth: ripped from the hem of his own tunic. It’s soaked with river water – which could have just about anything laced through it – but it’ll have to do. You tie the fabric tightly around Kili’s leg, making sure that the arrowhead won’t be able to move about during the walk to...

Wherever it is you’re going now.

“Y/N-”

Bilbo.

The shout of your name cuts across the yelling and ordering of the healing teams in various corners of the tent. You curse under your breath and fling the rag to the ground. The other healers glance briefly at you as you try to hold pressure on a soldier’s shoulder. Blood continues to pulse from the wound, spilling through your fingers. An artery must have been severed. The soldier – a boy, you think to yourself, probably from that fishing town – stares wide-eyed at you as you assure him that it’s going to be fine.

“(Y/N)!”

There it is again. You glance at the opened partway of the tent, frowning slightly when you see the hobbit: gasping for breaths, bracing his hands on his thighs. “I’m a little busy here, Master Baggins-”

“-We need you,” he gasps through another lungful of air, “we need you now. Thorin, Fili, Kili, they’re-”

Cold panic coils around your body. “What?”

The hobbit grimaces. “Thorin, the princes, they’ve been wounded, Balin said to come and get you. We need you!” He waves his arm down the street, presumably in the direction he came. Your mind turns to Fili. He, Kili, and Thorin. They went to fight the Orc King-

“I have this one, (Y/N).” One of your healers stands by your side – a human who’s already armed with a clean rag and pliers – says firmly. Her eyes soften slightly. “Go to your kin.” As soon as you move away, her hands press down on the wound, and she starts barking orders to the others.

Bilbo ushers you from the tent and through the winding streets of the town. Bodies of slain humans, elves, and dwarves line the way. You try to not glance at them as they’re dragged away by their kin. Some bodies are gathered on to large, open wagons. Others are picked up by their kin as whisked away into a vacant home for, what you can only assume, are passing rites.

In one of the larger tents on the outside of the town, you find some members of the company pacing outside the main entrance. Dori is the first to spot you. “(Y/N)!” The others turn. Each of them looks as battered and bruised as the next. If they look like that, you think with a shudder, you dread to think what the princes and Thorin must look like.

Inside you find a small army of medics all tending to a separate member of the line of Durin. Each bunk, divided by a cloth divider, gives the three separate teams enough space to work. The sight of one healer carrying away an armful of bloodied rags makes your stomach drop.

“Who fares the worst?” The words that spill seem numb, hanging limply in the air in front of you. You glance at your side. The hobbit looks as pale and in shock as you feel. “Who fares the worst, Mister Baggins?” you try again.

“Thorin,” he gasps, nodding over to the furthest bunk. “I don’t know, I don’t know, they’re all bad.”

In one of the bunks, the one furthest to the left, you manage to catch a glimpse of Kili. Your breath catches in your throat as you see him, awake, eyes opened and wildly searching the room. But he’s awake.

In the middle bunk, you spot a battle-weary Óin hunched over Fili, pressing a small bundle of rags to the prince’s chest. Your heart hammers against your ribcage. Óin is with him, your mind tells you, he’s in safe hands.

The bunk with the most amount of healers gathered around it is the one that pulls at you. Thorin. Bilbo is on your heels, but stops and stands to the side as you join the gathering of healers surrounding the bunk. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight in front of you. Thorin’s skin is growing sallow and sickly grey. Shadows deepen around his eyes, and even through the cacophonous noise within the tent, you can hear his ragged breathing. As the healers part to allow you access, his head rolls towards you. “(Y/N)?” Your name is breathed.

“Hush now. Just breathe,” you say, grabbing a fistful of dry, clean rags to start cleaning his various wounds. By your side, a couple of healers are starting to thread suturing needles and prepare bowls of warm water. You glance down at Thorin. “You’ll be just fine.”

Your hands shake. It’s not something you even notice until they’re suddenly stilled, engulfed in one of Thorin’s. His breath comes in harsh, panicked wheezes. “My nephews, Fili, Kili-”

“-Being tended to.” You nod to the parting. Against the candle and lantern light of the inside of the tent, shadows sweep across the surface of the parting. Faintly, it reminds you of the shadow-shows that used to take place within the Blue Mountains for the younglings.  You shake the thought from your head. That was so many years ago, in an altogether different place, in a different time. Now, you look down at your king, having his armour and clothing gently peeled back by healers, and you almost wince. “They’re being tended to, Thorin. They’re alright.”

You grab one of the bowls of warm water and drench a couple of rags. “I need to clean your wounds,” you say, “do you understand? I can’t stitch them up until they’re clean.”

A couple of healers eye you cautiously. Talking to a gravely injured, felled soldier must seem strange, you think in the back of your mind. But if you can keep Thorin in the present, grasping and holding on to consciousness, his healing will be all the better for it. Thorin’s only reply is a minute nod – a slight bow of his head – as he gazes up blearily at the ceiling of the tent.

Cuts and grazes and bruises litter his entire body. They stretch from his arms to his torso and down his legs. Each part of him is attended to by a different healer, but they’re all working as one unit. Clean strips of cloth are passed to each other, as are thread and needles and small vials of pungent smelling salves.

You swallow a gasp when you spot his main injury: a gangly puncture wound to his chest, dangerously close to his heart. The skin has already started to turn dark grey in colour, with winding lines of black running through his veins. Orc blades teem with illness and disease. You’ve seen Kili struck down with black magic – and that had been from the point of an arrow. You can only imagine what’s running through Thorin’s system now.

“(Y/N)?”

Dori. You glance over to your side and see the dwarf standing just behind the army of healers. With his armour shed, he rolls up the sleeves of his under-tunic. “What do you need, lass?”

You struggle to think. “I need,” you press the clean side of your hand to your forehead, willing your brain to work, “I need you to find me a she-elf. Tauriel. She must be within the town somewhere.”

When Dori tilts his head, brow furrowed, you sigh and lean to his ear. “Say that (Y/N) asks for her. She needs to come here immediately. She’ll know what you mean.”

Dori nods, turns on his heel, and within seconds is out of the tent and jogging down the main street of the city. The other dwarves stand vigil at the mouth of the tent, peering in with worried and haunted expressions. Some of them wave off approaching healers. Stubborn things. They won’t let themselves be seen to until they know their kin are safe. You see their hands twitch by their sides. They want to help, but can’t seem to figure out how.

“(Y/N),” Thorin breathes. His eyes are glassy, but they hold yours once you make eye contact with him. A small wince flashes across his face. Glancing down, you can see two healers start to remove shrapnel from one of his legs. A bleary hand reaches for yours. 

“I’m here,” you assure him, taking his hand in yours. “Alright? And your burglar is safe and sound. He’s here too.”

Thorin’s gaze moves from you to something – or someone – behind you. Without even looking, you can guess that it’s Bilbo, making his presence known. A small smile tugs at the corner of Thorin’s lips. “Good,” he sighs, starting to relax back into the single pillow at the head of the bunk. “That’s good.” His grip on your hand slackens. You gently ease his hand back to his side.

One of the healers hands you a bowl. A strong-smelling salve is inside: beeswax, Echinacea, arnica, and pine tar. You sigh. This will have to do until Dori can return with Tauriel. No doubt she’s already tearing the town apart looking for where Kili had been carted off to.

You manage to get some of the salve to settle around the outside of the wound. It does nothing to fight away the black tendrils that seem to be creeping through Thorin’s chest. You swear under your breath, turning around to get rid of the bowl. New plan, you think. With a wet cloth, you clean away most of the dirt and debris that has lodged itself around Thorin’s chest. It earns a grimace from the dwarf, but you press on.

After what seems to be a moon’s turn, your ears prick at the sound of Dori’s voice carrying itself into the tent. Dori’s chest heaves with every breath he tries to draw. He ushers Tauriel over towards where you work. “Kili will be fine, but it is this one who needs your help,” he says. You almost wince at the concern that’s laced through his voice. When you look up from stitching, you can see how Tauriel’s eyes stare over to the other side of the tent. When she finally glances down at Thorin, she frowns.

“Who did this?”

“Azog.” The name rots in your mouth. “His blade may have been laced with the same black magic that poisoned Kili.”

That makes Tauriel look back up at you. She sets her jaw. She really has no reason to help a dwarven king that hates her kind. But you look imploringly at her. A silent moment passes between the two of you.

“I need athelas,” she says, turning back to inspect the puncture. Her face is impassive, but at how quickly her eyes scan over the festering wound, you can tell that she grows concerned. The request is directed to the dwarfs at the mouth of the tent.

It’s met by several tilted heads. “What?” Dwalin asks, brow furrowed into a deep frown.

“Kingsfoil,” you translate. “Check pigsties in the town. It’s usually used as fodder. Bofur should know what to look for.” Within seconds, you have a small army of dwarves rifling through the town.

Mending Thorin’s wounds takes almost three hours. By the time you pull the last stitch into place, your arms drop heavily by your side. Tauriel stands at the other side of his bunk, a hand placed on his forehead, easing him further into a deep, healing sleep. You had never seen elvish medicine in action before. Óin had spoken about it when Kili had been healed of his poisoning. But to see it for yourself, it’s something else entirely.

She takes her hand away. “He will rouse when his body has healed,” she says. Her voice is gentle, as if afraid that the slightest of sounds may wake him up. The healers that had once surrounded the bunk were now taking their leave. With arms laden with bloodied rags, emptied bowls, and used needles and thread, they retire from the tent: leaving it almost barren. The space is then filled by the rest of the company: Balin is one of the first to timidly step inside.

Tauriel looks over you towards the other side of the tent. As you glance over your shoulder, you meet the gaze of Kili, who is staring straight over at you both. No, you realise, seeing that his gaze is not at you, but over your head. He is staring at her.

“Go to him,” you gentle to her. At Tauriel’s raised brow, you continue, “he needs to see you.”

Unlike his uncle, he’s awake. You can see how his eyes brighten as Tauriel crosses the tent within a matter of strides. You tilt your head. Kili had always drawn the eye of many maidens within the realm. Not once, you realise, have you ever seen him look at anyone like this.

Dwalin and Balin post themselves to the bottom of Thorin’s bunk. Both of them wear steely expressions, but you see the sorrow and fear behind hardened eyes.

It takes you a second to realise that Bilbo is at your side, peering down at Thorin’s sleeping frame. You place a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “He will need a watcher while he sleeps,” you prompt.

The hobbit nods and clears his throat. “I’ll watch him,” he breathes, stepping around you and reaching for Thorin’s hand. You take your leave, getting a firm squeeze on the shoulder from Dwalin as you pass him.

The tent is quiet. A handful of healers have stayed back, refilling small bowls with water and arranging new strips of cloth. Even as they move around, they hardly make a sound. You glance back at the three injured princes. They’ve escaped the worst of it. Now, it’s a waiting game to see if they ever recover.

Your hand curls into a fist by your side. They will recover.

The thickening quietness blankets over the tent interior. Tauriel sits close to Kili’s beside, murmuring something to him. The dwarves that wander between each bunk, checking on each member of the Durin’s line, keep silent.

With Kili awake and speaking, and Thorin in a healing sleep, you turn your attention to the middle bunk. Fili is somewhere in between. When you approach his bedside, you see the work that his healers had been doing. Like his uncle, and presumably his brother, he now has a collection of stitched wounds dotted over his torso. You place the back of your hand on his forehead. It’s drenched in sweat and scalding to the touch. An infection has already set in. You drench a clean cloth in some water, wring it out, and place it on his forehead. His shaking lessens slightly, but you still wince at how he trembles.

Your hand is caught feebly in one of Fili’s. Two bleary, half-opened blue eyes blink at you when you look up at him. “(Y/N)?” he rasps.

You hush him. “Sleep,” you whisper, placing his hand on to his chest. It rises and falls evenly.

Fili swallows thickly. A frown creases along his brow. “You, you weren’t on the battlefield-”

“-I was needed here, Fili,” you explain. He knew this. He was there when the bodies started to pile up during the first leg of the battle. He was there when those who needed saving started to call out. He was there to see Thorin take you aside and give you a blessing to get away from the fighting and help those in need within the town: assuring you that the company had everything handled.

His injuries must be causing some memory loss. You sit at the edge of his bunk and reach for a small vial of clear liquid. It should help with the infection that seems to be wracking through his body. You help him tilt his head forward, just enough to get him to drink what’s in the vial. He grimaces. “That’s not poison, is it-”

“Sleep, or I’ll get Óin to come and set you straight, prince,” you threaten, but only lightly. It’s enough to earn a small, barely there smile from Fili. The prince hums as his eyelids start to flicker shut again.

The mountain is silent. Once the elder healers had been satisfied that the three Durin kin were stable enough to be moved, the company and their kinsfolk from the other hills carried them to the mountain on stretchers.

Each was brought into separate chambers and allowed to rest.

Each was given salves and potions to aid with their healing and sleep.

Each was checked on by you and Óin as you both wander the upper halls of the mountain.

During your latest watch, you eventually stop in your tracks outside Fili’s chambers. Bofur stands in the middle of the hallway, a bowl of steaming stew in his hand.

Tilting your head slightly, you frown. “I don’t think they’ll be able for that kind of food, Bofur-”

The dwarf shakes his head. “Oh no, this is for you lass,” he explains. “Some of the townspeople have given us some provisions, just until the trading routes and markets open up to us again. This is the best Bombur could make with what we were given.”

The smell reaches your nose and your knees almost buckle. Mahal knows how many days have gone by without you having eaten a proper meal. Bombur had always been a keen cook: being able to take the barest of ingredients and make something hearty and wonderful with them. When you walk to stand in front of Bofur, you see that what’s in the bowl is a vegetable soup made with chunks of potato, carrots, leeks, and turnip.

“Thank you, Bofur,” you smile, taking the bowl and spoon. “Could you thank Bombur for me too, if you see him?”

The other dwarf nods. “Will do, lass.” His eyes flicker over to the doors that line halls. “Are they...?”

You keep the bowl cradled in your hands. “Yes, everyone’s fine.” You look over your shoulder to Fili’s quarters: the latest of the Durin line that you visited on your rounds. Everything looked good: he sleeps comfortably, the stitching keeping his wounds closed look firm and clean, the infection had been chased off. Truthfully, you only left his quarters just to seek out some food for yourself.

Bofur smiles warmly. “Good. That’s good.” He gestures to the other end of the hall. “Well, I have to go back and oversee some things.”

With Bofur gone, the eerie stillness of the halls return. Distantly, you can hear the faint trembling of smith hammers against anvils. The forges are beginning to be relit. You sigh. Well, at least that’s one less job to worry about.

Until Thorin wakes up, Balin has been officiating any hearings and meetings within the throne room. Dain had returned to the Iron Hills, anxious to get back to his own kin. It was understandable. Once the last of the bodies had been removed from the battlefield, everyone scampered back to their own realms: prepared to never speak to each other over what had occurred.

You step inside Fili’s quarters: a large space with a lit hearth, a four-poster bed lined with furs, and frame on both sides by cabinets. An oak table sits on the other side of the room with a single chair pushed in. You grab it and drag it over to Fili’s bedside, mindful of making any noise.

You eat in silence: alternating between looking at your supper and at your sleeping friend. With every bite of food, you can feel your energy slowly returning. It’s going to be another couple of days of watching and observing. That’s what Óin had told you, anyway. He told you of bloodier battles in which soldiers’ healing could take weeks, or even months.

The emptied bowl and spoon sit on the bedside table, long forgotten about. Even with the meal now resting in your stomach, looking at the sight in front of you makes you want to throw up everything you just ate.

It’s how still he’s lying. With every breath that he takes, when his chest rises and falls and the whiskers of his moustache shake, the anxiety within you begins to fade away. It slowly rears its head again during the pauses between each breath.

But he’s fine.

You keep that mantra going.

He’s fine. He’s alive. All of them are alive.

The window of the room looks out on to the vast stretch of land that had been a bloodied battlefield not two days ago. You frown. It almost seems like a lifetime ago. Your bones ache with how tired you are. Sleep has been fitful for everyone. Some of the Company have been aiding the other dwarves in trying to start the forges again. Others have been organising getting food supplies into the mountain again until the trade routes can open again: but for them to open, Thorin needs to be there. Traders need to have the word of the King to make any promises.

You and Óin have spent the last couple of days wandering the upper halls of the mountain: the heirs’ quarters. At some point during the last couple of days, you started to wonder if the polished stone floors of the hallway outside would become worn down by how often you paced.

A change in Fili’s breathing makes you lurch forward. His once deep, rhythmic breaths are now lighter, coming together more quickly. You’re just about to reach for a pulse point before you see his eyelids begin to flicker.

He’s surfacing.

Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you breathe, “Fili?”

It takes a couple of minutes. Eventually, Fili’s eyes open. They stare up at the canopy of the bed first, adjusting to the dim light of the room. Then a small frown creases along his brow.

“Fili?” you try again. This time, his head rolls towards you. His frown eases. “You’re in Erebor.”

A silent moment passes between the two of you. Then, without any warning, panic suddenly flashes across the blonde’s face. “Kili-”

“-Is awake and well, and is being watched over by his she-elf,” you soothe, placing your hand on Fili’s chest to gently press him back to bed. His heart hammers within his chest. Your eyes soften. “Thorin is still in a healing sleep, but he has his burglar as a watcher. Everyone is alright.”

That seems to ease the panic somewhat. Fili leans back against the nest of pillows arranged at the head of his bed. But his chest still heaves. You reach out and take one of his hands in yours. “Fili,” you say gently, “everything’s fine. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

He holds your gaze for a moment before glancing down at your slouched frame. “How long have you been in that chair?” His voice is slow and croaky, but his words come.

You can’t stop a small smile from curling along your lip. “Not very long,” you assure him. When you sit up slightly, you wince at how your back lets out a loud crack. Fili’s laugh is breathy, but it dissolves into a coughing fit.

It subsides within a couple of seconds. He tilts his head to the side. “Who brought you food?” he nods to the bowl.

“Bofur. I can ask him or Bombur to make you something, if you feel up to it?”

Fili shakes his head. “No. I’m too tired to eat.” His eyes close again. Really, you think, he shouldn’t be sleeping this much. But the war they fought was difficult. The injuries they’re trying to heal from were catastrophic. Still, it’s unusual to see the prince sleeping for so long.

You glance down at your joined hands. His grip on yours is firm, but slackens slightly as sleep starts to pull at him. Within a couple of moments, he’ll slip off again. You squeeze his hand. “Rest for as long as you need,” you gentle, watching him start to descend into another healing sleep.

Their healing takes time. Potions, herbs, and salves can only do so much. In the end, you, Óin, the other healers, and the rest of your kin wait on the princes’ inner strength to get them through the rest of their healing. Kili had been the first to awaken. With Tauriel by his side, he surfaced quickly and without any problems. Óin had been called to check on the younger prince and, satisfied that Kili’s body was on the mend, was happy to leave him in the care of the elf.

Fili drifted between the worlds of wakefulness and sleep for a couple of days. It’s normal, lass, Óin had said, standing over the prince’s bedside. He’ll be slipping in and out for a number of days. It’s his body trying to right itself, is all. You spent as much time as you could beside Fili’s bed, watching for any changes in his condition. With each sure, full breath he took, the anxiety that had been plaguing you for days on end started to fade away.

Once word had reached you that Thorin had awoken, you made a point of leaving Fili’s side during one of Óin’s visits to the prince. Two sentries stand guard outside Thorin’s quarters. Dwarves that had returned to the mountain easily fell back into roles they had lost after the dragon’s raid, or into new ones. These guards, with hardy, weather-beaten faces, look as ancient as the mountain itself. You wonder if they were Thrain’s guards.

As you reach the king’s quarters, they part out of the way. “The King is awake,” one of them informs you. To him, and presumably the other newer dwarves of the mountain, all you’re known as is the healer. Not the King’s ward or charge.

You nod graciously. “Yes, I’ve heard.” They let you enter, and as soon as you step through they fall back into position in front of the door.

Thorin sits up in his bed, supported by a collection of pillows at his back and neck. You quickly run your eyes over him. Clothed in a loose-fitting blue shirt, you can see the top of his chest wound peeking out over the collar. But, you note, his colour has returned. He’s not that sickly grey that had been plaguing your nightmares for the last several days.

“(Y/N).” His blue eyes seem just as bright as they had when you all lived back in Ered Luin. The anguish and exhaustion of the journey, the Dragon sickness, the black poison that rotted his body: it’s all gone. You can’t help the small smile that’s tugging at the corner of your lips. It takes you a second to realise that Thorin isn’t alone in the room. Perched at the edge of his bed, with his back facing you, is Bilbo.

You ignore the faint blush that’s spreading along the hobbit’s cheekbones as he looks to you over his shoulder. He clambers off of the side of Thorin’s bed and moves to stand over to the side.

“I just want to do some checks,” you say, gesturing to Thorin’s chest, “now that you’re awake.”

Thorin nods. Eventually, Bilbo steps forward. He catches the end of Thorin’s shirt and helps manoeuvre it over the king’s shoulders and head. Once it’s out of the way, you gesture for him to lie back against the pillows at the headboard of the bed. You take your time inspecting the healing wounds. The smaller cuts and bruises have healed nicely, leaving only faint white lines and yellow splodges in their wake. When you turn your eyes to his chest, you tilt your head.

Bilbo clears his throat. “Is everything alright?”

You let a small smile curl along your lip. “Yes, everything seems to be just fine.” The skin around the stitched wound is healthy and pink. The wound itself is healing nicely, so, in a couple of days, the stitches may be removed.

But the length of the wound is still something you struggle to look at. An Orc’s blade is a gangly thing. Not sleek or uniform in shape like a dwarven or elvish sword. It has an ability to pierce and rip and maim skin with one swoop. And for Thorin to be impaled on one drenched in black magic, you can only imagine the damage that might have been done if Azog had aimed just a little more to the left. Towards the King’s heart.

Something must flash across your face because when you look up at Thorin, he tilts his head. “Something bothers you, abrithê?”

You swallow. “I’m...I’m just sorry I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “At the battlements. At Ravenhill.”

Thorin’s gaze softens, though he clicks his tongue. “You were needed in Dale, in the healing tents. I was the one to tell you to go. You helped those who fell-”

You blink back forming tears that start to sting the back of your eyes. “-I could have helped you. I could have helped Fili and Kili. I could have-”

“-If you had been there,” Thorin grunts, “you could have been killed. And if you had been killed, we wouldn’t have had a healer waiting for us when we were brought into Dale. We would have been lost that day, if you hadn’t been there.”

Thorin holds your gaze. His piercing blue eyes never frightened you, but something is behind them now. Something firm that is pushing his words through to you. “Don’t spend your days and nights fretting over any of this. Do you understand?”

A lump lodges itself into your throat. Swallowing around it, you nod, and turn to Bilbo who is standing quietly a couple of feet away. “Make sure he gets enough sleep and actually takes the medicine Óin brings him?”

Bilbo gives you a soft smile. “I will.”

It takes another two weeks for Thorin and Fili to be well enough to leave their beds. Once Fili had been able to surface from sleep, and stay awake, Óin had seen no point in keeping him confined to his quarters. A short walk will do you some good, laddie, the elder had said, eyeing you as he spoke. So a couple of days were then spent with you supporting Fili’s weight as you both took tentative steps around the upper halls of the mountain. Eventually, after a few stumbling attempts, he was able to support himself on his own two legs.

As soon as Thorin was able to stand and move about, he was whisked away into meetings with traders and councils. You would have worried, if not for Bilbo being always by his side: making sure that the meetings didn’t go on for too long, or if Thorin ever grew too tired to continue, that the meeting could be rescheduled for another day.

While wandering the halls, you manage to come across two Sons of Durin within the throne room.

Fili walks alongside his uncle, their heads bowed but tilted towards each other. They speak in hushed voices. It’s how they often spend their days now. Fili is Thorin’s heir, you remind yourself: he must start shadowing his uncle, learning the finer details of ruling. Even with the expansive hall around you, it’s difficult to make out what they’re saying. Whispers don’t carry well in these halls: shouting and yelling does, though. Before either of them spots you, you keep walking down one of the hallways towards the kitchens.

With the trading routes opened back up between the neighbouring towns and Erebor, fresh food and produce stream into the mountain’s kitchens while farmers, butchers, and bakers are paid handsomely for their work. Bombur is by a selection of pans, managing several of them at the same time. The kitchen is separated from the main dining halls by a single wall with a small opening, letting the cook often look out on to the rows of stone benches and tables that line the vast hall. Before you step out into the kitchen, you call out to Bombur. “Do you want anything taken out yet?”

The dwarf looks up at you. “No, no. Everything’s nearly done. Should only be a couple of more minutes!”

“(Y/N)!” You turn when Bofur calls out from the other side of the hall. “Tell that cousin of mine to hurry up! We’re all wasting away out here!”

A chorus of dwarven laughter erupts from the hall. Bombur grumbles under his breath as he finishes uploading the last of the large platters with an assortment of different cooked foods. The kitchen maids start to distribute them to outside. A rumble of cheers erupts from the dwarves.

“Thank Mahal!” you hear Bofur cheer.

Bombur narrows his eyes. “One more comment out of that dwarf, and I’ll-”

“Just make sure to spit in his food,” you laugh before stepping out into the main halls. Some off-duty soldiers and guards sit to one side of the dining halls while another section is taken up by soot-smeared smiths and forge-workers. On one table, near the top of the hall, sits the Company. Kili waves you over, having a seat near the top of the table. The head of the table is reserved for the King. By his right, sits his consort. By his left, his heir. The table then is a free-for-all of who would like to sit by whom. The free seat offered to you is by Kili’s side, near the top of the table. While not the crown prince, Kili is still of royal blood.

Tauriel left a number of days ago. Some business had to be attended to in Mirkwood. Her stay within the mountain wasn’t going to be a long one. Once Thorin had learned of an elf being within the kingdom, you were summoned by Bilbo to lower Thorin’s blood pressure. All you did that day was assure him that the Tauriel was enamoured with Kili, and Kili the same with her. It seemed to be enough to simmer Thorin’s anger. Thorin had a hobbit within the mountain. And you yourself had some traces of elven blood within your veins from a handful of generations ago. What was the difference?

But now, Kili looks happy.

In fact, you note as you settle into your seat, he looks overly happy.

He has one of his big, stupid grins plastered across his face.

“What has you so cheerful?” you comment as you slide into your seat. Just as you’ve settled, a couple of kitchen maids come to place large platters of food in the middle of the table.

Kili shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve heard a rumour, is all,” he says, grinning into his tankard.

“Oh? Are we going to trade gossip like a pair of miners’ wives, Kili?” you sneer, loading up a plate with mutton, roasted vegetables, and bread rolls.

Kili knocks his shoulder against yours. “It concerns you,” he says in that sing-song way Kili does when mischief is to be had. It’s a voice you know all too well. He’s goading you into asking what he could possibly know. He knows how much it bothers you.

“It concerns me,” you parrot back all the same. “Is it how my expert healing abilities and skill helped you survive your injuries?”

Kili narrows his eyes at you, but shakes his head. “Though, I do thank you for that,” he says quietly into your ear. You smile at him before everyone starts to delve into their dinner. The workers and guards seated at the other benches are vicious with tearing into their food. It reminds you of that night in Bag End. When dinner then had been a free-for-all.

When Thorin steps into the halls, everyone ceases eating and stands. He’s flanked by Fili, who strides alongside his uncle. They’re dressed in similar clothing. Thorin has his usual blue robes on, adorned with metal fastenings and a fur over-cloak. Fili wears the same, but instead of blue, his robes are a tawny brown. His adornments are a mixture of gold and silver. When they reach the table, the rest of the halls sit back down and resume with their dinner.

Thorin takes his place at the head of the table, while Fili sits at his left. A kitchen maid wanders over to the table with a jug of ale and pours out ample glasses for the couple of you at the head of the table.

You look to the vacant seat on the other side of the king. “Where’s Bilbo?”

Thorin thanks the serving girl before turning to you. “Resting. He managed to catch a cough during the night.”

You frown. “Do you want me to look in on him?”

Thorin shakes his head. “No. Óin saw to him last night. With a couple of walks outside in the fresh air, he’ll be fine.” He gestures to the halls. “I can only imagine living within a mountain such as this is a stark contrast to living within the Shire.”

You nod. It must be different. Living within the mountain took some time to adjust. The other dwarves, the ones in the Company that had lived through the dragon’s siege, fell back into that old life so easily. The younger of you – the princes, Ori, and yourself – took some weeks to get used to the feeling of living within a mountain; hardly seeing the outside save for a couple of walks through Óin’s herb garden on one of the upper levels. Sometimes, if the weather permitted, you would wander into Dale; perusing the market stalls and visiting some of the people there.

Dinner continues with dwarves chatting idly among each other. Thorin joins them when appropriate, but mainly keeps to himself at the head of the table. Every so often, he will turn to either nephew or you to discuss what you had been doing of late.

“You and Fili seem to be having a lot of private meetings recently, Uncle,” Kili starts, spearing a piece of lamb with his fork. “What have you two been discussing?-”

A loud thump echoes around the table.

Kili gapes over at his brother. He splutters. “Fili-”

“Be quiet. It’s none of your business,” Fili glowers. His eyes have darkened.

The younger turns to the head of the table. “He kicked me under the table!”

You pick up another bread roll before dumping it on Kili’s plate. “Stop being a dwarrow and finish your dinner.” It earns a small smile from Thorin, but it disappears just as soon as it showed.

“You’re going to be some big sister, alright,” Kili grumbles under his breath.

Your spoon freezes midway to your open mouth. The rest of the table, even lost in their own rowdy conversation, seems to quieten. You lower your spoon and turn to the dwarf at your side: the dwarf that seems to want the walls to swallow him up. “Excuse me?” you ask slowly.

“Nothing,” Kili says, burrowing his head into his plate.

“Laddie,” Glóin says from further down the table, “you best explain yourself to our (Y/N) here. If there was a knife or fork in that hand instead of a spoon, I’d be grovelling.”

“She certainly does have the potential to turn a spoon into a murder weapon,” Dwalin says, eyeing the pair of you closely.

You glance quickly down at your hand. Your knuckles are white with how tightly you’re holding on to your spoon.

Kili glances over to Fili on the other side of the table. He looks as thunderous as you do. Thorin doesn’t look any better, but sighs, and sets down his fork. “Fili, (Y/N), come with me.”

You think best with a weapon in your hand. Getting out of the mountain had been easy enough. The guards let most pass through the main gate without batting an eye. They recognise your face. Thorin’s ward. You’ve often taken short journeys into Dale, into the markets for supplies or even a wander to clear your head.

But you leave the mountain today dressed in a simple tunic, breeches, boots, and your braided hair flat against your back and pulled from your face. The guards you pass try not to glance at the spear you carry in one hand. Your most recent discover had been a collection of trees dotted around the base of the mountain. It was far enough from the main gates to not be disturbed, but close enough to get back to just in case of trouble.

Besides, you thought, the training rooms of the mountain will be full of off-duty guards, and maybe even members of the Company.

And that’s the last place you want to be right now.

You take most of your frustrations out on a fallen tree trunk. The blade of your spearhead easily chips and slashes into the dying bark of the trunk. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to hold your spear in your hand: but all of the movements, stances, and strikes you’ve learned over the years are muscle memory to you now. There’s enough space for you to twirl around, moving around the empty space like a river. River dancing – that’s what Dwalin had once called your fighting style. He had seen it once used by the Silvan elves. Your movements were graceful, elegant, but had a power behind them. Falling into a stance, ready for strike, that’s when your dwarven side showed: your feet would root into the ground, making you an immovable object. Sentry, is what Thorin used to call you. Unable to be moved.

You lash out at the trunk again, slashing away at the bark until pieces eventually crumple to the forest floor. A couple of birds overhead flourish from their nests.

Behind you, a twig suddenly snaps. You twirl on yourself, falling into a ready stance, with the blade of your spear jutting forward. You lower it when you’re met with a familiar face.

“Balin,” you breathe, standing up to full height. The older dwarf stands by the opening to the alcove, hands folded in front of him.

“May I speak with you, lass?” His expression is as soft as it always is whenever he speaks with you.

You eye him. “Have you been following me since I left Erebor?”

The elder dwarf breathes a long sigh. “The guards said that Thorin’s ward had left the mountain,” he explains, glancing to the spear in your hand, “armed and walking towards a nearby forest.”

Your grip on your spear tightens. “I needed to clear my head,” you say curtly.

Balin bows his head slightly. “Thorin told you about the meetings then?”

You twirl the spear in your hand. “Yes,” you grunt. Thorin’s words still echo in your head, no matter how hard you jab and cut into the fallen tree trunk. It was something that always lingered in your mind.

Without any dwarrows of his own, Fili is Thorin’s heir.

The Durin line is secured through him.

But he’ll need an heir of his own. That, or Kili will need to produce one. And currently, as it stands, Thorin won’t let the half-blood offspring of his own kin and Thranduil’s have Erebor. He would never say it, but he thinks it. You’re lucky enough to have a couple of generations’ worth of dwarven blood to breed out the elven in you.

Apparently, in Thorin’s eyes, that was perfect.

When you were both dwarrows, Fili was your best friend. As you both grew older, your friendship only firmed. Fili became your shield-brother. He stood by your side at campfires and battles.

Thorin practically raised you alongside both of the princes. And as you grew older, you knew that surely Thorin Oakenshield had noticed how close you and one particular prince had become.

Balin steps forward into the clearing. The alcove is quiet. Passing gusts of winds rustle the leaves in the canopy overhead. The birds nesting among the upper branches chirp and sing. Balin tilts his head upwards. The older dwarf wanders over to a fallen log and sits. He pats the space beside him. “Sit with me for a moment, lass,” he sighs, pulling out his pipe.

A breeze sweeps through the alcove. It chills the sweat that’s dampened your skin. You’ve no idea how long you’ve spent out here. Hours could have passed since you left the mountain. But you doubt that if the guards really did know that you left, that they would have kept it to themselves. One of them must have informed Thorin. And Thorin must have sent Balin to check on you.

You stretch out your muscles: they start to ache now.

Balin puffs his pipe. “Ruling and politics can be messy,” he nods, twirling the end of his beard with his fingers. He gazes off to one side of the alcove, but looking at nothing in particular. As you take a seat beside him, he hums. “Fiddly.”

You snort. “Nothing fiddly about it,” you mutter, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. You rest your spear against the log beside you. The blade catches a stray beam of sunlight that breaks through the overhead canopy. The dead bark of the trunk left its mark in the collection of small notches in the metal of the blade. You fight the urge to sigh. You’ll have to take it to the smiths in the lower halls.

Balin nudges you with his shoulder. “Listen to me, lass,” he says quietly, bowing his head slightly. He acts as if the forest surrounding you listens. “If you want the opinion of an old dwarf, I see the way you look at that lad-”

“-Balin-”

“-And the way he looks at you,” Balin continues. “Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it. Thorin, the most stubborn, boar-headed among us, sees it as clear as day. He was the one to suggest it.”

You’re practically a Durin, anyway, some unhelpful voice in your head pipes up.

You look down at your hands. Your fingers fidget with the fraying edge of your sparring tunic. “I trained to be a warrior. I trained to be a healer. That’s all I am,” you meet his gaze. “I’m no princess. I’m no queen.” You stop fidgeting when one of Balin’s hands clasps yours together.

“You say that,” he sighs, “but Thorin would not have mentioned it if he wasn’t certain that you would be a perfect match.” You can feel the intensity of Balin’s gaze on the side of your face. It’s almost as hot as the high summer sun just beyond the trees. You try to avoid it. Ultimately, when Balin lets out another tired-sounding sigh, you turn to face him. You’re met with warm eyes. Mahal damn that kind dwarf, you think.

“You need not give an answer now,” Balin says, squeezing your hands.

The sound of someone clearing their throat almost makes you jump. You both turn to see Fili standing awkwardly at the mouth of the alcove.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says quietly, glancing between the two of you.

Balin clasps a hand on your knee, before rising to his feet with a short grunt of effort. “Nonsense, laddie. I was just on my way back to the mountain. Your uncle and I are needed for some negotiation or other.” Balin quietly excuses himself from the alcove, leaving both you and Fili to stand there, alone.

The prince’s gaze goes to the spear by your side. “Should I be worried?” His words are tinged with his usual humour. He’s nervous, you realise.

You shake your head. “I would never harm you. You know that.”

Fili cocks his head. “Really? I have a scar on my knee from that time you knocked me to the ground when we were dwarrows.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as the memory surfaces. It was one of the first times you managed to best Fili in a training lesson. It was one of the first times you heard Thorin laugh: something he tried desperately to hide behind a clenched fist.

“You should have kept your guard up,” you retort lightly, shuffling over slightly on the log. You nod to the free space. All frustration and anger from earlier has been flushed out of your body. When you look at Fili now, you don’t see the impassive, stone-faced dwarf that had sat silently during Thorin’s talk with the both of you.

You see Fili, your friend, at a loss for words. Or a sense of what to do.

“Sit with me,” you offer. Fili slowly steps into the alcove, heading for the log with tentative steps. When he sits beside you, your fingers begin to fumble with the hem of your tunic again. A nervous tick that you’ve always had. One that you’ve tried to hide during the years, but never managed to shake off.

“So, is that what you and Thorin were always discussing on your walks? A potential proposal?”

It takes a moment, but Fili nods, his face shadowing slightly. “I didn’t want to be tied to anyone else,” he starts, but the next few words fail him. He looks off to one side of the alcove for a moment. “I knew that once we had re-established ourselves here, dwarven matrons and ladies would start pushing their daughters forward, hoping to get into Durin’s line.”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“It’s true!” Fili turns slightly towards you.

You know it is. Truthfully, you were surprised anxious and excitable noblewomen haven’t been leaving their eligible daughters at the gates of Erebor already. The kingdom is steadily getting back to what it used to be – even with you all only occupying it for a couple of weeks. With the forges back, wealth is starting to pour back into the mountain. The trading lines and connections with surrounding kingdoms hold strong. Erebor has never been stronger.

And it’s common knowledge that Fili is the heir apparent. Thorin doesn’t have his own children. He’s never taken a wife. When Fili turned 40, he had been taken under Thorin’s wing.

Besides, the thought of Fili being tied to someone else is enough to turn your stomach. Inside your chest, your heart constricts. You’re tied to the mountain. You live within the halls. You would be seeing Fili and his potential match every day for the rest of your lives.

You could return to the Blue Mountains, the voice in your head pipes up again, go back to mother and father.

Absolutely not, you answer it. This is my home.

“I wanted to do it properly, you know,” Fili suddenly mutters. Even among the quiet of the alcove, you have to strain to hear the words. Fili clasps his hands together to stop them from fidgeting. “I wanted to ask you myself: when we could be alone.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “You still can,” you mumble.

The words are so quiet, and it takes such a long time for Fili to respond, that you fear that he hasn’t heard them at all. And you’re not going to repeat them. Your heart is already hammering against your ribcage. At any given moment it could all but burst through your chest and out on to the forest floor in front of you.

But you feel Fili tense at your side. He turns to look at you. “I thought you told Balin you’re no princess.”

You shrug slightly. “I can learn. I’ve been around you and your uncle long enough to know manners.” Fili snorts. “And I...I want to be with you. We...we were always so close. We were always together, as partners...I...”

You squeeze your eyes shut when you see Fili gently take one of your hands in his. “Men lananubukhs me,” you breathe. The words almost lodge themselves in your throat. It’s a battle to push them out. 

Your hand is lifted from your lap. You follow its movement as it’s brought to Fili’s lips. He presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand. It’s enough to squeeze the last breath of air from your lungs.

“Amrâlimê.” The word leaves Fili’s lips in a breath. “Menu tessu.”

“Do you remember the lamb pies Old Agatha used to make in Ered Luin?”

Fili’s laugh is nothing more than a warm puff of air against the back of your neck. Sitting behind you on a stool, he holds strands of your hair between his fingers. A collection of decorated beads sit organised on the vanity table in front of you. Your room is quiet, with only the crackling of the hearth breaking it every so often.

“I remember you and Kili always trying to steal them from her windowsill as they were cooling,” Fili chuckles, lacing together more strands of hair. You glance at the mirror of your vanity. Even with the rim of it covered in thick grime, distorting the reflection, you’re able to use the centre of the mirror to watch what Fili is doing. The beads shine against the hearth’s fire. He made each one of them. According to Dwalin, the crown prince had spent many a day with the smiths, personally designing and crafting the beads.

Ered Luin seems like a distant memory now. An afterimage that’s quickly fading. The more weeks you spend inside the mountain, or wandering over the fields towards Dale, the more your old home you seem to forget. Your parents still reside there. Every so often a messenger bird will bring you a letter from them. Although your communication is sparse, they’ve learned of your engagement. Thorin’s work, no doubt, you think.

You smile at the surfacing memory. It’s quickly chased away when Fili’s eyes meet yours through the mirror. “Why are you thinking about Old Agatha’s pies?” he says, sliding another bead into your braid.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “I’m trying to remember when I first thought you loved me.”

You see Fili pull a face. “And Old Agatha’s pies come into this...how?”

“Kili and I did manage to steal a few one day. I was thirteen, Kili was ten,” you recount, remembering your dwarrowhood as clearly as if it was in front of you. “I remember Old Agatha caught us. She took the two of us by the ear and led us straight to Thorin’s house.”

You see Fili raise his brow. 

“Thorin was furious. Then you appeared from upstairs, saying that it was your idea. You dared us to. You took quite a scolding from Thorin, if I remember correctly." You glance over your shoulder, ignoring Fili’s protests that you’re ruining his work. “And I remember not being able to see you for weeks afterwards.”

Fili sighs, nodding for you to turn back around and hold still. Courting braids are tricky...apparently. The moment you’ve turned back, Fili resumes his work. The rest of the mountain sleeps. It’s late at night. The moon is already perched high in the sky, peering through a collection of rain clouds that have rolled in from the south.

“Or was it that time you broke that dwarf’s nose for calling me a mongrel?” you try again. That was a particularly fond memory. The rumour of your part-elven heritage made it to the ears of one unsavoury character in a local tavern in Ered Luin. After a few hissed curses in your direction, the dwarf suddenly found it difficult to speak once Fili’s fist had shattered the dwarf’s nose. You were fairly sure Fili managed to knock out a couple of teeth too. You can still hear the crack of cartilage.

Fili huffs a laugh. “I’ve always loved you,” he says quietly, glancing up at you through the mirror again. “That’s why you’re struggling to pinpoint one exact moment.”

“Well, you never seemed to show it,” you grin.

“We were preoccupied,” he retorts drily. “Every time I wanted to tell you, something came along and interrupted.” Fili slides the last of the beads on to your braid and sits back slightly. He tilts his head. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He must be done.

You turn your head slightly to see his work.

The braid at the side of your head sits flat against the rest of your hair. It’s slender, like your others, but it’s the decoration of beads at the end of the braid that sets it apart from the rest. With this, everyone will know. Everyone who even glances at you will know that you’re engaged. And it won’t take an extortionate amount of effort to work out who you’re engaged to.

You look over your shoulder. “Do you want me to braid yours?”

“It’s late,” he sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I should go.”

You fight the urge to sigh. Stupid, noble, honourable prince. When Fili pulls away from your back and stands, a rush of cold air takes his place. You tug your shawl tighter. A thick layer of furs covers the end of your bed. They were hauled in by the guards once it became apparent that the halls of the mountain were starting to grow bitterly chilly. Before he goes to leave, he wanders to your hearth to stoke the fire. Embers crackle and hiss, but eventually, a few more flames lick against the fading logs.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

“Well, I’d like you to stay,” you tilt your head, a small smile on your lips. You don’t see any reason for him not to stay. On the journey to reclaim the mountain, you either shared bedrolls or slept soundly near each other. Nothing ever came of it. You’re about to voice all of this before Fili settles you with a look.

He, instead, leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. “Goodnight,” he smiles.

“Night,” you mumble, placing your hand on his chest. Even beneath his layers of tunics and cloaks, you can feel the hammering of his heart against his chest. When he leaves, you can’t help the room feel that bit colder, even with the hearth fire behind you.

You know the very moment Dís arrives at the gates of Erebor. You race down the many stone stairways of the mountain, rounding corners and narrowly avoiding patrolling guards. There’s a buzz in the air within the mountain. They’ve arrived. Your parents’ journey to the mountain will take another couple of weeks. The caravan they’re journeying with contains quite a number of young dwarrows: making travelling such a long distance nearly painful.

But as you race towards the main gates, your heart starts to hammer against your chest. The first of the dwarven caravans heading back to the mountain has arrived. Those who have restarted the forges and made up the guard are only those Dain left behind after the war had been done. A handful of dwarves lived in small towns and villages dotted around the mountain. Once word had travelled that the dragon was slain and the mountain was opened again, they returned. But now your kin was returning. Now, dwarves like Dís and your parents were returning home.

Once you reach the bottom of the last staircase, you scramble towards the main gate.

Kili has beaten you to it: already engulfed in his mother’s arms, cradled tightly to her chest as if he were still a dwarrow. She has her face buried into his neck. She abruptly pulls back with a stern glare and, with a pointed finger, starts telling him off. You’re too far away to make out what it is, but you can hazard a guess.

Leaving Ered Luin.

Travelling across the continent.

Going to war.

Nearly dying.

A small smirk spreads across her face. Does she even know that her only two boys nearly died? Some part of you says yes, she absolutely knows. Thorin would never tell her, of course. But Dís, being Dís, knows.

You slow to a jog, and eventually to a walk as you near the gates. You can see the carriages of dwarves and supplies just beyond her. Some of the stronger men start to lift their families from the carriages. Young dwarrows gape up at the large, ornate gates into the mountain.

Dís’ stony expression dissipates immediately when she spots you. Kili steps out of his mother’s arms, making room for you to run into them. She hugs you tightly. “(Y/N), my sweet girl,” she laughs into your hair. She pulls back and frames your face in her hands. “Look at you! How strong and beautiful you’ve become.”

A blush creeps up along your cheeks. “It’s only been a year-”

“-Over a year,” she corrects, tilting your head to each side. Looking for injuries, you note with a small smile. Her eyes catch the side of your head. “Ah,” she smiles. She reaches up and gently holds your courting braid in the tips of her fingers. Something sly surfaces in her eyes. It reminds you of Kili. “Should I hazard a guess to how this came about?”

Your blush only darkens. It must be obvious under the high sun as Dís lets out a chuckle. She lets the braid go. “Where is my other boy, hmm? Off gallivanting with my boar-headed brother, I suppose?”

“The throne room,” you supply. “They’re wrapping up the last of the trade negotiations with the northern towns.”

Dís nods. She hooks your arm in hers and waves her youngest son forward. “Come on then,” she says, leading you both into the mountain. The dwarves behind her start to follow, lugging in their belongings. Some guards that stand at the mouth of the mountain move forward to help.

Kili is the one to recount your adventure to his mother. You don’t point out that he leaves out some bits: getting shot by a poisoned Orc arrow, nearly dying, being the most prominent. He does occasionally send you a look, though. Don’t even mention it.

The guards you pass on your journey to the higher levels all bow their heads. You can imagine a younger Dís, alongside her brothers, wandering the halls of Erebor with each other. Before the mountain was lost. Before the dragon slithered and nested inside. She walks towards the throne room as if the very pathway is still embedded in her memory.

Once you all reach it, your surprised to see that the negotiation meeting has ended. Thorin sits on his father’s throne, with Bilbo and Fili flanking his sides. They’re the only ones inside the vast space. Thorin has his face buried within his hand. Negotiations must have gone well. Bilbo stands close to his side, a hand on his shoulder, mumbling something in his ear.

Fili is the first to notice the three of you.

“Amad,” Fili breathes, stepping down from the pedestal and striding towards his mother. She hugs him to her as she did with both Kili and you. Thorin is slow to stand from his throne. Bilbo tilts his head, but his hands fidget in front of him. Surely he’s heard about Dis.

When she parts from Fili, her gaze goes over his shoulder towards her brother. And her gaze turns absolutely murderous.

“What’s all this I hear about you nearly killing my boys?!” her voice thunders around the vacant halls of the throne room. The miners and smiths in the levels leagues below can probably hear her.

Thorin blanches. “Namad, I-”

“-You boar-headed, idiotic, beardless dwarf! You nearly killed my boys! My only boys!” She points at you. “And to drag (Y/N) into it! Have you anything to say for yourself?!”

You try to muffle a laugh as you watch Thorin start to flounder. Bilbo, standing just behind him, drops his gaze to the floor. “They all knew the risks of the journey. As did you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling. Dís lurches forward, marching towards her brother with a pointed finger. “I distinctly remember telling you what you could do with that journey, brother!”

She looks to Thorin’s side. “And who’s this?” All colour from Bilbo’s face washes away in an instant.

“Bilbo,” the hobbit rasps. He quickly coughs, clearing his throat. “Bilbo Baggins. Of Bag End.”

Dís regards him for a silent moment.

“He helped us in reclaiming the mountain, amad,” Kili supplies.

“Is this that burglar that your wizard-friend mentioned?” she tilts her head, analysing. “He doesn’t look like the burglar-ing type.”

Bilbo looks to Thorin. “Yes, well, I wasn’t,” he laughs, but it quickly dies, “I was just...roped along, really.”

Dís hums. She turns her attention back to her brother. “Tell me, why does he stand at to your left within this room?”

This time, Kili does actually let out a snort of a laugh. The heir stands to one side of the king – his right hand. His next of kin.

His consort stands to his left.

Watching Thorin fumble through an answer is enough to make you start giggling alongside Kili. Fili hushes the pair of you, but a smile is starting to creep along his lips.

The king is the first to marry. It’s as grand of an affair as you expect it to be. Kin from other hills and mountains all descend upon Erebor, gathering into the main banquet hall to celebrate the joining. The ceremony itself was short: adapted slightly to suit the hobbit’s own traditions. Once it had been done with, everyone was then shepherded into the banquet halls to start the feasting – and drinking.

The king’s table is laden with food and ale. In the middle of it sits Thorin and Bilbo, dressed in fine robes and laden with precious metals and jewels. To their right sits Fili, you, and Kili. On the other side sits Dís, Dain, Balin, and Dwalin – the closest relatives Thorin has in this world. The rest of the Company sits close by, sending the occasional cheerful toast towards the king and his new consort. The king’s table itself is raised up on a small stage, overlooking the rest of the hall. Dwarves line long rows of tables that spread the length of the halls.

You catch Fili smiling warmly at you. “What?”

His smile only grows. He leans to your ear, making sure to be heard among the raucous noise of the hall. “We’ll be next, you know that?”

His breath is warm against the shell of your ear. You struggle not to let a shiver run up your spine. “You say that as if we’re heading to the executioner’s block,” you laugh, letting Fili lace his fingers with yours beneath the table.

He presses his forehead against yours. Even with the rising heat and humidity inside the hall, his skin is warm against yours. “You can still say no-”

“-Don’t,” you chide, “don’t. I want to. You know that.”

He breathes out a long sigh. “Ghivashelê.” You bring your other hand up, cupping the side of his face. His beard scratches at your palm slightly. You run your thumb over his cheekbone.

Just over his shoulder, you see Dís smiling warmly at you both.

Your own wedding is two months later. Your parents arrived in Erebor not long after Dís’ arrival. The time between their arrival and the day of the wedding was spent preparing for it. Invitations to the nobles of your kin had been sent out within a matter of days. Each of them, who had just attended the wedding of their king, was more than happy to attend the wedding of their future king. Your mother had spent the morning of the wedding bustling around your room, brushing tangles out of your hair, and monitoring your choice of jewellery and gown. Fili would be dressed as status dictated: royal robes, embellished in fur lining, with a simple-styled crown resting on his head.

Thorin presides over the ceremony, as the king of your kin. When you and Fili both stand in front of him within the throne room, he can’t seem to shake a smile from his lips. The throne room is as packed as it can be: with your immediate family standing on the main catwalk towards the throne. Nobledwarves gather on the many viewing platforms that branch out from the main walkway. Dwarven weddings are usually quiet affairs: but those of the king and his heir? Not so much. Compared to the wedding of Thorin and Bilbo, yours is quicker. It’s not hindered by the inclusion of hobbit or foreign customs. Dwarven weddings, like dwarves themselves, are blunt.

Do you both love each other? Yes.

Do you promise to stay together, protecting each other from all that might harm you? Yes.

As future regents, do you promise to serve in the best interest of your kin? Yes. Done.

“Then, I do declare, in the sight of Mahal and those gathered with us today, that the two who stand before me are now married.” Thorin bows his head, stepping back one pace towards the throne. Bilbo, just visible over his shoulder, smiles broadly. You and Fili turn to face each other. He brushes some stray strands of hair from your face. With that hand, he cups your face – a gesture that’s become increasingly familiar over the past few months. Fili leans down, softly rubbing your noses together, before pressing his lips to yours.

It’s a struggle to keep your legs beneath you.

Don’t crumple to the floor in front of your kingdom.

Cheering echoes through the halls around you. Even the smiths working in the forges below to keep them moving must be calling up to you both.

“I just realised,” you mumble, watching the fire in the hearth start to wither away, “we got married before we even kissed.” Held against Fili’s side, you place your hand over his chest. Even with the low light from the fire and a scattering of candles around the room, you can make out the faint scar branching over his pectoral. The injury that nearly stole him away from this life.

Fili snorts. “That’s true.” His fingers trail gently up and down your bare back. “Would it be wrong of me to say that it didn’t matter? Us not kissing before getting married?”

You hum, perching your cheek on his chest. “Explain,” you prompt.

Fili turns to look up at the ceiling. “It’s difficult to...” he sighs after a moment. “I always felt something for you, even when we were dwarrows. Amad used to tell Kili and me about having Ones: that you were only ever half of a being in this world. Someone else out there made you complete. And I knew that my One was you. When we lived in Ered Luin, I used to get so upset and lost whenever I went home after spending a day with you.”

You listen silently. He doesn’t look at you: just letting his eyes flicker and trace the patterned stonework of the ceiling. “Us never having kissed was more...lack of opportunity. I felt that we didn’t need it. Being around you was enough for me.”

You’re quiet for a moment. A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “But you would have kissed me earlier if you had the chance?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Fili nods firmly, laughing lightly as you bury your face into his neck to stop your own giggles. You understood him completely, though. Being around him was enough for you. There were moments during your life, however, that you wished you had just kissed him. But there were lingering touches, soft words, looks shared between the two of you over the years that filled that gap.

When you lift your head, Fili looks straight into your eyes. He leans forward, kissing you soundly and threading his fingers through your hair. You sigh into the kiss. Neither of you was new to this. You knew about every maiden that had been drawn to Fili. He knew about every lad that had been drawn to you. But something about this was different. Your heart quivers in your chest: seizing completely when Fili moves over you. He brushes your hair away from your shoulder, letting his lips trail down the length of your neck.

“Kidhuzel,” you breathe as you feel the light scrape of teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You’ve already left your own marks on him. Most are on his back, scrapes that will be hidden by his clothes. Others, like a forming bruise in the middle of his neck, will be a bit more difficult to hide.  

His mane of hair tickles your bare skin as he moves to brush his lips over your throat and collarbone. “Atamanel,” he mumbles against your skin. The vibration of his words wrack through your entire body. “Lukhudel.”

Distantly, in the halls somewhere within the mountain, you can still faintly hear the festivities rumbling on. Royal weddings will last well into the next morning – even if the wedded couple have retired for the night.

You thread your fingers through Fili’s hair, brushing it back from his face. “Make love to me again, yâsùn.” You gasp when Fili moves above you, rolling his hips forward, filling you with a single movement. Your breath gets caught in your throat when his teeth return to your neck.

“Careful with that, yâsith,” he breathes. Your legs fall to either side, bracketing his hips. “Or you’ll never leave this bed.”

You turn your head, just enough to nudge his forehead with yours. “Would that really be so terrible?” you grin, gasping again when he starts to move.

It’s an unspoken question that hangs over the peaks of the mountain.

When will the next heir of Durin be borne?

It’s an unspoken question that you try your best to ignore.

But even though it’s unspoken, it feels like it’s being shouted from the very peak of the mountain. It’s in the occasional glances to your midsection that nobledwarves give you. Fleeting things, those glances, but you see them nonetheless.

The one place where you won’t find these wandering glances is in the sparring arenas in the lower halls. Often occupied by off-duty guards who want to keep limber, it’s surprisingly empty today. As you step inside, you glance around at the large, open space. Sparring dummies line the walls: most with arrows already embedded in their heads and chests.

You twirl your spear around your wrist. Being in a time of peace is a strange thing. You’re thankful for it. No one is attempting to raise a coup or war against anyone else – to the best of your knowledge. But at the same time, it’s boring. You’re a soldier, something in your head pipes up. You were born during a war. You grew up during a war. And now, without one, you’re bored.

You drag one of the sparring dummies out into the middle of the arena. Outlined only by a thin strip of gold, it’s not big, but gives you enough room to move about with your weapon. You place the edge of your spearhead against the ‘shoulder’ of the dummy. The blade cuts into the fabric casing slightly. You frown. Fili must have taken your spear to the smiths, then. It’s been recently sharpened.

You lift the spearhead, twirling the staff of the spear around you before taking a few steps back. A stationary target isn’t going to be of much benefit. But it’s something.

You clasp your palms around the staff of your spear and lurch forward, jabbing the tip of the spearhead straight into the ‘heart’ of the mannequin. You tract quickly, dodging out of the way of an imagined attack, twirling the spear again. The sound of metal clattering against metal fills your mind. You grab your spear again and knock the pommel at the end to the back of the mannequin’s head. If he had a helmet, it would be gone: uprooted from his head. You catch your spear in both of your hands and put all your strength behind one single swing. The blade of the spearhead slices through the neck of the mannequin. The force behind the swing sends the decapitated head flying to one side of the arena.

Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. Thorin stands at the opened entrance of the room, hands folded in front of him. “Something on your mind?” he asks, eyes moving to the beheaded sparring dummy.

You blow a strand of hair from your face. “You could say that.”

Thorin nods. The faintest hint of a smile is on his lips. “Would you like a sparring partner who could fight back?”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to have the current king fight against the soon-to-be queen,” you nod to your spear, “with very sharp weapons.”

Thorin’s smile is fond. He clasps his hands behind his back and strides into the hall. “Fetch some sparring swords, then,” he offers. He stops just outside the outline of the arena. “Or I could leave you to your massacre?”

You snort. “Funny,” you say, pointing the tip of your spear at Thorin. “You should become a jester.” The sparring swords are lined up in railings to the side of the room. They’re dulled along the edges, ensuring that if someone were to get a blow from one, you wouldn’t lose a limb. You take two from the railings and walk back to the arena. You toss one towards Thorin.

“It would be easier than what I’m currently doing,” he says almost solemnly, catching the pommel of the sword. He twirls it around in his hand, feeling for its weight. It isn’t until now that you realise that he’s without his usual garb: he doesn’t wear his thick, throne-room layers or his crown. He’s in a simple blue, patterned tunic and dark breeches.

You tilt your head. “I take it you came here to let out some frustrations too, then?”

At either side of the arena, you both begin to stalk around each other. “It would seem that way,” Thorin laments, before suddenly rearing his sword arm back and lurching forward. A simple move, you think, blocking his strike and stepping to the side. You haven’t sparred with Thorin in decades. The last time was in Ered Luin, when you had been a dwarrow. He could only go so far with his mentoring from telling you about foot movements and stances. The first time he entered a sparring ring with you, he spent the entire thing correcting the placement of your limbs, how straight your back had to be, how you should be quick with your movements.

As you slip to the side, you launch your own attack: swiping the sword across from the side. Thorin easily blocks it. “So tell me,” he says, taking a couple of paces backwards, “what has you so bothered?”

You huff. “Nobledwarves and their stupid questions,” you state simply before attacking again. Each hit you try to land on Thorin, he blocks. Each hit he tries to land on you, you block. This isn’t an actual sparring lesson, you think. This is the two of you having a conversation.

Thorin chuckles. “Any particular questions?”

“When I’m going to pop out an heir is the one I keep hearing,” you hiss. Steadily, your attacks become more forceful. Anger and frustration start to seep out from your pores. Thorin goes from attacking you to defending himself, constantly blocking the barrage of attacks you deal him.

Thorin eventually grunts as he steps to the side. “Really?” he hums, twirling his sword in his hand again. Your anger simmers. “I’ve barely sat on that throne and they’re already thinking of who comes next.” The words are in jest. Your kin is more than content to have Thorin sitting on the throne. But they worry. The line must be secure. It’s the mantra that’s been playing, embedded, in your head for bloody weeks.

“It’s politics,” you recite one particular nobledwarf who you overheard. 

“Aye, it is.” Thorin steps back from you, nearing the edge of the arena. He lets his sword-arm hang limply by his side. He meets your gaze. “Tell me, gehyith, what are your feelings towards all of this?”

Your own arm falls to your side. “I...” you scrunch your face. “Fili and I have barely been married a couple of weeks.” You brush your hair out of your face. It sticks to your forehead with sweat. “It’s...it’s all happening so quickly and...”

Words don’t come. You gesture vaguely. “I guess it’s just complicated,” you end up saying.

Thorin stays silent for a moment before softly smiling. “It really isn’t.” With his sword arm by his side, he takes a couple of steps towards you. “What it is is indescribable. But I understand what you’re saying.”

He doesn’t attack you. Your fingers still twitch around your sword. “I think,” he continues, looking down at the ground, “that you and Fili will have children. Eventually. When you are both content and happy and secure. And even though you feel you are now, you aren’t. That is what’s stopping you. You say everything has moved too quickly? Then wait for it to slow. Wait until I turn old and grey and start to slouch on that throne. There is time, gehyith. Make use of it.”

Hot tears start to prickle the backs of your eyes. “And what of the nobledwarves who keep asking?”

“Tell me who they are,” Thorin says lowly, “and I’ll deal with them.”

Óin is eerily silent as he presses his palms against your abdomen. You sought him out personally. It’s not that your handmaids or the hall guards can’t be trusted. But everyone is capable of slipping up. And word travels quickly in the halls of this mountain.

It’s been over two years since your conversation with Thorin in the sparring arena. He kept to his word: silencing nobledwarves who had the nerve to speak up about when an heir to the throne would be making its presence known. Since one particular spectacle, when Thorin unleashed his rage to a counsel room full of the insufferable bastards, no one had ever voiced that question again.

Then, almost two weeks ago, you started to feel different. Every morning – specifically at first light – you had to disentangle from your bed’s sheets and Fili’s arms to wretch up bile. The first time it happened, you blamed an illness that was wracking through the mountain. Óin and the other healers had their hands full with dwarves running fevers and hacking coughs.

But this was different. When the illness started to leave the mountain, yours remained.

Óin stands up to full height and begins to place his other instruments away. “Well, your suspicions are correct,” he tells you, fiddling with the clasp of his healer’s bag. You shuffle to sit up against the headboard of your bed. Well, Mahal. As you pull your tunic back down over your middle, Óin clears his throat.

“Are congratulations in order?” he says, eyeing you sideways. Everyone should know at this point about the Question That Should Not Be Asked.

You sigh. “Yes, yes, they are I suppose.”

Óin watches you silently for a moment. He plucks his hearing horn from the side of the bed and puts it to his ear. “I know you wanted to wait, lass-”

“-It’s fine,” you breathe, bringing your knees up to your chest. You knew all along. Mornings spent in the washroom, hurling up everything you had eaten the dinnertime before. Sudden tiredness. A missed bleed.

It’s probably too early to know for absolute certain. And Óin isn’t a midwife. Someone either from Dale or a nearby town will have to be smuggled into the mountain – and promptly sworn to secrecy. If word ever spread that a Durin heir could possibly exist, you dread to think what could happen. Those who appreciate and accept Thorin back on the throne of Erebor would celebrate: those in Dale and the trading towns. But Thorin does have enemies. The elven king beyond the horizon has not been heard from them since the battle. His silence unsettled everyone: but the wizard had assured that he has no quarrels left with Thorin.

Before Óin takes his leave, you slip from the bed and hug him tightly. “Thank you for everything.”

The old dwarf wraps his free arm around you. “If you need anything else, lass, anything at all, seek me out.”

When the door closes after Óin, a silence falls over the room.

Your ears twitch at the sound of metal scraping and clinking against each other. Two guards have passed your quarters, heading in the direction of the other royal chambers. This must be their usual path. All of the guards within the mountain are on rotation, constantly looping around the many halls of Erebor keeping watch.

You step out into the hallway, gently shutting your chamber’s door behind you. “Do you know where my husband is?” you call out.

Both of them turn on their heels to face you. One of them visibly bristles. Most of them within the mountain are sentinels: never spoken to, but keeping a constant, vigilant watch on the goings-on within the halls. “He is with the King in the throne room, your majesty.”

You thank the guard and start your journey into the heart of the mountain. With every step you take, the more your hands start to tremble by your side. Anxiety. Excitement. Fear. They all course through your veins like blood.

The throne room is empty except for the three Durin dwarves near the throne: held in a soft, murmured conversation between the three of them. With Thorin perched on his throne, both Fili and Kili stand on the small flight of steps up towards the throne.

Thorin is the one to spot you entering. “(Y/N),” he greets you. The two younger Durin dwarves turn on their heels to face you. A soft smile spreads across Fili’s face once he sees you.

Your fingers fidget by your side. The anxiety within you suddenly spikes. “Can I borrow my husband for a moment?” you direct towards Thorin, not knowing if the three of them are in the middle of something important or not.

“Of course,” Thorin nods. He turns to Fili. “Meet with me later in the conference room.”

Fili bows his head slightly before taking his leave. You catch his hand in yours as he nears you. Something flashes across his face. His brow furrows in confusion. “Is everything alright?” You can see worry suddenly clawing at him.

Holding his hand firmly in yours, you take him away from the throne room. The halls of the mountain are vast, but you manage to find a small, secluded gap in between two supporting pillars along the walls.

Fili glances down at your joined hands. “(Y/N),” he prods, “what’s wrong?”

A small patrol of two royal guards suddenly come around a nearby corner. They march idly by, bowing their heads slight once they spot you and Fili in the chasm.

“Right, well...” You run your fingers through your hair. “I’m not entirely sure, and neither is Óin, but he’s not trained in anything like this,” you breathe, “but we can’t exactly try to smuggle someone from Dale in right now to check but-”

“-(Y/N)-”

“-I think I’m pregnant,” you manage to get out. The words hang between the two of you like lead: thickening the air, making it difficult to breathe. You keep your eyes focused on Fili’s face. You see the words slowly register with him.

“You’re...” he trails off, eyes dropping to your midsection. Distantly, you realise that his hold on your hand has tightened.

“I can’t be certain,” you press on, swallowing a lump forming in your throat, “and Óin doesn’t know either, but he suspects...A midwife will have to be brought in-”

Your words are cut off when Fili’s lips are suddenly pressed to yours. His hands come up to frame either side of your face, keeping you close to him. A shiver runs through your body when your back presses against the cool surface of the wall.

“Who else knows?” he mumbles against your lips.

“Well, Óin, you, and me,” you think for a moment. “That’s it. And Óin has been sworn to secrecy.”

Fili brushes some of your hair from your face. “I was just thinking that we could keep this to ourselves for a bit,” he says lowly, as if the mountain halls around you were listening. His eyes go to your middle again. A soft, breathy laugh escapes him.

You tilt your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that...” Fili shrugs a shoulder, “everything we do is watched and scrutinised. We’ll eventually have to tell everyone about this but, I don’t know, what if we just kept this to ourselves for a bit.”

Your breath catches in your throat when you feel one of Fili’s hands press gently against your abdomen.

The news isn’t yours for long. Morning sickness gets progressively worse as the days pass and eventually, Óin settles you with a look that just says we’re getting a midwife. One is found in Dale – an elderly human woman – who is more than happy to be escorted discretely into the mountain by two royal guards. They went without their usual armour and garb: ordered by Fili to only approach the town in civilian clothes. Seeing dwarves within Dale wasn’t unusual, so their presence there wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

The midwife was a kind, gentle woman with warm hands and a soothing voice. She had barely been ten minutes examining you before announcing that both you and Óin had been correct: you were pregnant.

Fili waited outside the door of your chambers, pacing up and down a portion of the hallway, worrying his fingernail against his teeth. When the midwife and Óin stepped out of your chambers, he rushed into the room and straight to your side. As you adjusted your tunic, pulling it back down over your abdomen, your hands are suddenly taken in Fili’s larger ones.

“Everything’s fine,” you say before anything can rush out of your husband’s mouth. You let your fingers interlink with his. “The midwife says that I’m pregnant. And everything is fine.”

Fili’s eyes soften slightly, as his gaze goes to your abdomen. Nothing substantial would be there now. Your stomach hasn’t even swelled yet. Dwarven gestations are long, tiring things. It would be a while until you started to show.

Your grip on Fili’s hands tightens. “Do you still want to wait, or will we go and find your uncle now?”

You manage to find both Bilbo and Thorin together. Gazing up at the intricately carved pillars supporting the stone roof above you, the hobbit still looks as captivated by the craftsmanship of the mountain’s interior as when he first stepped inside all those moons ago. All the while, Thorin gestures up at the tops of the pillars: to intricately carved dwarven faces posted in every direction. As if they were keeping watch of the hallways and caverns. The conversation between the two of them is quiet, mumbled, and just between the two of them.

You clear your throat, letting them become aware of your presence. Bilbo is the first to turn around. “Fili, (Y/N),” he smiles. Thorin turns then, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Fili shifts his weight by your side. “We would like to speak to you,” he starts slowly, glancing over to Bilbo. “To both of you.”

Thorin’s brow furrows slightly, but he nods. “Come,” he gestures down one hallway; one that leads back towards the private chambers of the king. It’s not a long walk back, but the halls feel like they stretch on for leagues. Fili’s hand stays firmly clasped with yours. Thorin and Bilbo lead the way, making idle conversation between each other: but every so often, Bilbo will glance over his shoulder to you with a worried brow.

By the time you’re all led inside the king’s chambers, your heart hammers against the inside of your chest, ready to burst out through your ribcage and land on the stone floor in front of you. Thorin and Bilbo’s chamber is large, made up of several separated rooms. There’s a hearth inside, already lit, and warming the room nicely. A collection of books and papers are sprawled across a desk near the lancet window: Bilbo’s doing, probably.

“So,” Thorin breaks the silence, “what is it you wanted to speak to us about?”

You look at Fili. Royal tradition states that he would be the one to inform the current king. That, and your words are failing you. They’re lodged somewhere in your throat, refusing to budge. You couldn’t even tell Thorin and Bilbo if you tried.

But he’s looking back at you: eyes unblinking and mouth slightly agape.

It reminds you vaguely of being dwarflings again: the years spent causing mischief around Ered Luin, only to be eventually caught out by an elder.

“Uncle,” Fili swallows, turning to his uncle, “(Y/N) is pregnant.”

The words falter slightly, barely audible over the crackling of the hearth, but they reach the other two beings at the other side of the room. Thorin straightens. “Are you sure?” he directs at you.

You nod slowly. “I had suspicions. I had Óin confirm it almost a week ago. We sought out a midwife in Dale today.” Thorin tilts his head. “Neither Óin nor I are trained in this specific type of medicine. We needed someone with that speciality to come here and, not only confirm it, but to make sure everything was alright.”

Fili squeezes your hand. A smile then overtakes Thorin’s lips. All at once, his expression softens. “This is excellent news,” he all but laughs, striding over to both you and Fili. He claps a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Mahal’s blessings on you both.” He hugs his nephew first, mumbling something you can’t make out into Fili’s ear. But Fili nods once Thorin pulls away.

The sight of Bilbo approaching you catches the corner of your eye. “Congratulations,” Bilbo beams, hugging you to him.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” you hug the hobbit tightly.

With the king, and his consort, told, the news is ready to be spread throughout the mountain and the neighbouring kingdoms and towns. It’s going to spread like wildfire. Even though it’s been years since the battle, the memory of it still lingers. Days since then have been spent with Thorin assuring neighbouring kingdoms that the dragon’s sickness that infected his bloodline did not infect him anymore. Scars from that battle are on the flesh and mind. And though everyone seems to want to put it behind them, the memory of it still hangs over like a dark cloud in the sky.

Maybe this first nugget of good news will finally break that cloud.

A soft, gentle voice greets you as you surface. The first thing you notice is how warm the room is. A hearth is crackling nearby; heating the air just enough to almost send you back to sleep. Without moving too much, you blearily glance down at the bed. Layers of thick over-blankets and furs are brought up to your chest. Everything from the hours before has been cleared away: the bowls of bloodied water, the stained rags. Your lower body thrums with pain, but it’s been quelled slightly. 

Movement catches your eye. Fili wanders aimlessly around the room. He cradles a squirming, whimpering bundle to his chest. “Ghivashithê,” he croons, letting your little one grasp on to one of his fingers with tiny hands. “Hush now, your mother is resting.” With his attention firmly enraptured by the babe in his arms, he doesn’t notice you watching.

He brings your child to the main window of your room: the one that overlooks the expanse of land between the mountain and Dale. “Come, look at this,” he gentles, tilting his hold slightly to show your child the world outside. “This mountain and all the lands around it will be yours one day: when your great-uncle and I are long gone.”

Another soft whimper comes from the bundle. Fili hushes. “Don’t worry. Your amad and I will help you,” he gentles. “As will your great-uncle and uncle. And you have a company of dwarves already wrapped around your tiny finger. You’ll never be alone.”

Your heart clenches. It’s a struggle to stay awake. Exhaustion settles deep into your bones. Alongside the heat of the room, and the softness of Fili’s voice, you can feel your eyelids start to droop closed again. You’ve almost been pulled back under when hear Fili start to hum gently. The tune is familiar. A lullaby Dís used to sing to her two boys. The dwarrow in his arms seems to settle, as you don’t hear anymore squirming whimpers.

The first dwarf to meet the heir, outside of the parents, is the resident king. It’s the next day when you’re both visited by Thorin. As your child is placed gently in your arms, and Fili sits by your side on your bed, Thorin steps into the room. Just over his shoulder, you see the rest of the Company gathering outside in the hallway: alongside Dís, Bilbo, and your own parents. They’ll all have a chance to come in and meet the new dwarrow. But customs dictates that everyone must go in order of rank.

A guard outside closes the door behind Thorin. The king tentatively walks further into the room, eyes focused on the bundle in your arms. Your child squirms, managing to untangle a pudgy arm from the blankets and flail it in the air. Fili reaches out and lets your child grasp on to his finger.

“A boy,” you smile. A laugh bubbles up your throat when Thorin stops just a couple of feet from your bed. You let out an exasperated sigh. “You won’t be able to see him from there, Thorin. Come closer.”

Dwarflings are precious little things. Dwarven males will protect their few female counterparts with their lives: but their children are even more valued. The birth of one is not a rare thing, but it’s not entirely common.

The newest heir to the Durin line will be guarded with sword and shield.

Thorin’s eyes shine as he glances down at your child. You gently tug some of the blankets surrounding your son’s face, letting Thorin get a good look at the babe. A dwarfling with a round, soft face with large dark brown eyes blearily looks up at you all. He already has a tuft of honey-coloured hair on his head.

“By Mahal, isn’t he just perfect?” Thorin whispers, tentatively reaching out to run the back of his index finger along your son’s chubby cheek. You can imagine he was this gentle with both Fili and Kili, when they had been born. It’s such an odd thing: seeing a battle-hardened warrior reduced to a gentle and soft-spoken dwarf in the presence of a tiny baby.

Fili slides an arm around your shoulders, supporting you against his side. “We would like to name him Frerin, uncle.”

Thorin’s breath catches in his throat. He raises his gaze to the both of you. You give him a soft smile. You never knew Thorin’s brother. He died long before you, or the princes, were even born. But you heard many stories about him. Fili apparently looks like him, Thorin always said. It was only fitting that when you discovered your son had a honey-colouring, that the name would be his. Thorin nods firmly. “Congratulations to the both of you,” he says quietly, smiling fondly as the babe starts to wiggle in your arms again.

The next to enter is Bilbo – the king’s consort. The hobbit looks just as lost as his husband as he slowly approaches the bed. Thorin gently guides him over, keeping a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. As Bilbo sees your son, he smiles. This is probably the first time he’s ever seen a dwarfling. You can only imagine how small and vulnerable your son looks in comparison to the rest of you in the room.

Your parents, Dís, Kili, the rest of the company – they all pile in one after another once Thorin and Bilbo take their leave. Each of them marvels over the dwarfling in your arms. You think back to what Fili said during the night: that your son will have the entire mountain wrapped around his finger within days. You smile broadly as every member of the company – especially Dwalin – melts as your son squints up at them. He had them wrapped within seconds.

He’ll be presented to the rest of the kingdom and your kin at a banquet. But for now, the only dwarves allowed lay eyes on him are his family.

Fili presses a kiss to your temple once everyone has had their chance to see the new heir. Your son sleeps soundly in your arm, settled now after being cooed at by just about everyone. You turn your head upwards and catch Fili’s lips with yours. The arm he has around your shoulders tightens slightly. “This may not be the best time to ask this,” he breathes against your lips once you’ve pulled away, “but are you happy?”

You chuckle. “What a silly question to be asking,” you rest your head against his shoulder. “Of course I’m happy. Are you?”

Fili glances down at your son. Tucked snugly into your arms, the dwarrow barely moves a muscle. Occasionally, his nose will twitch and snuffle, but he sleeps nonetheless. “Very much so,” he sighs, watching his sleeping son with fascination.

A single beam of summer sunlight streams into the room through the window. You watch as it slowly crawls over the cobblestone flooring of the room, over the fur rug in front of the quenched fire, and towards the wooden posts of your bed. Distantly, you can hear the rumbles of the forges starting. Even though leagues of mountain stone separates the forges from the living areas of the mountain, tremors from below still ricocheted throughout Erebor.

“Go back to sleep,” a voice mumbles behind you. It’s followed by an arm coiling around your waist. Said arm pulls you back slightly, until your back makes contact with a broad, firm chest.

You laugh lightly against your pillow. “I wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

Fili hums, but presses himself closer to you. Neither of you would be needed until midday. Fili would eventually be called away for a diplomat’s meeting between Erebor and a mining town north of the mountain. You would be needed in the training rooms in the levels below. Young dwarves from Dale and the Iron Hills had come to be employed as guards within the mountain, and needed to be trained. Dwalin and you oversaw most of that. You can’t stop the small smile that spreads over your lips. You can imagine Dwalin already has those dwarves up, dressed, and doing laps of the fields to the east of the mountain.

Fili buries his nose into your neck. He lets out a long sigh. “Can’t we just stay here?”

You pat the arm around your middle. “Hmm, sadly not,” you say, turning slightly to face him. “I’d rather not have your uncle kick down the door to our chambers, demanding to know where you are.”

The arm around your middle tightens. “Thorin is who those dwarves want to speak to,” he says, “I can assure you; my presence at that meeting wouldn’t be missed.”

You click your tongue and turn around in Fili’s arm. “Thorin needs you by his side, you know that.” You run your fingers through your husband’s hair. A quiet moment falls between the two of you: until your ears twitch at the sound of scurried footfalls against cobblestones out in the hallway.

A joke within the company had been that Frerin never learned how to walk, but to run. Ever since he could get his feet underneath himself, and move about without holding on to the edges of furniture or the fabric of your pants leg, he was always scampering about. Exploring came naturally to the boy. And what better place to explore than an entire mountain.

When the door latch of your chambers opens, Fili’s arm tightens around you. “Brace yourself,” Fili mumbles, before a small, giggling dwarfling is suddenly clambering up on to the foot of your bed. Fili’s arms leave your body. They, instead, go about the mission of trying to catch and tame the wiggling young intruder. You hear Frerin let out a shrill squeak: Fili must have a hold on him.

“Why are you up this early, inùdoy?” you giggle as your son tries his best to squirm out of his father’s hold. He eventually gives up with an exasperated huff, and settles into the space between you and Fili.

“Uncle Kili promised to take me to the forges today,” the young dwarf explains, brushing his mop of blond hair out of his face. You entangle an arm from the sheets and reach out to tame your son’s hair slightly. It’s still too short to be braided: but it is long enough to flop down and cover his eyes.

Fili arches an eyebrow. “Did he now?”

Frerin nods firmly. “He promised.”

You glance over at your husband. “Kili always keeps his promises, Kidhuzel.” Your son starts to struggle in Fili’s hold again, managing to wiggle out of his arms and sit up between the two of you. His hair – which is starting to curl slightly as it gets steadily longer – flops back down on to his face. Some strands are held together with simply designed beads: gifted to the young dwarfling by both you and Fili. He won’t be able to do proper braids until he reaches his teen years.

“He said we could go and visit Bifur today,” Frerin says, his eyes lighting up. You wondered what the smith had promised to gift your son today.

Fili sighs, but nods his head. “Alright then,” he sits up, pressing his back against the headboard of your bed. “Where are you meeting your uncle?”

“By the council room,” the dwarfling recounts firmly. There’s something mischievous in his eyes: something you remember always seeing in Fili’s and Kili’s when you were all Frerin’s age. Your son suddenly tilts his head. “It’s okay if I go, isn’t it, adad?”

“Of course,” Fili ruffles your son’s hair, but his expression becomes firm. “But you must stay with your uncle. And promise me and your amad that-”

“-I won’t wander off. I’ll stay by Uncle Kili’s side, and listen to whatever he tells me,” Frerin recounts almost methodically. You hide your smile in the plush, soft bedding you bring to your mouth. The young dwarfling huffs. “I know, adad. But we’re only going to the forges!”

You reach out and draw some hair from your son’s face. “Your papa and I just don’t want you to get hurt, mizim.”

Frerin’s eyes soften, but he nods. “I know. I’ll be safe, mama. I promise.”

There’s a soft knock at your chamber door. Before you can even blink, Frerin flings himself from your bed and scrambles over to the door. The door cracks open slightly; just enough for Kili to poke his head inside. “Is this where my favourite nephew has disappeared to?”

“I’m your only nephew!” Frerin giggles, but reaches for Kili’s hand and starts to drag him away for their adventure.

“Keep an eye on him, Kili!” Fili shouts. The message must reach Kili as all you see is a waved hand, and suddenly the door to your chamber is closed again.

You turn your eyes back to Fili. He’s sitting up in bed, sheets gathered around his lap. He watches the door with a cocked head.

You snort.

Fili turns to you. “What?”

A light laugh bubbles out of your throat. “Who does he remind you of?” you nod to the closed door of your chambers.

Fili looks between it and you for a moment, before he eventually shrugs. “Who?”

“He’s just like you like when you were his age,” you smile, reaching up to run your fingers along the bared expanse of Fili’s back. Your fingertips bump along old scars: raised inlets of flesh that haven’t quite healed into his skin.

Fili lies back down. He arches an eyebrow.

You catch one of his braids between your fingers. “Don’t even try and deny it,” you giggle. “You were just as bad as me and Kili.”

Your husband sighs, but a smile lifts the corner of his lip. His fingers reach for your face: gentle fingertips running along your cheekbone. “I just worry for him, that’s all.”

“You’re his father. You’re meant to worry for him.”

It isn’t lost on either of you that Frerin is growing up in a different sort of world. He has what neither of you did when you were his age. While Ered Luin had been a home of sorts for your families, it wasn’t your home. Before either of you were born, your families and the rest of your kin had spent too long wandering the wilds, searching for work and board.

Frerin has a home: one he’ll know for his entire life, Mahal be gracious. The mountain will never fall into someone else’s hands again. He’ll grow up in a time of peace, without any worries to ever bother him. But there’s always a shadow lingering. Someone will do something, you think. The elves in the woodland realms will start quarrelling with your kin again. Or men will find some reason or another to ignite fights among each other – and somehow the dwarves will be dragged into it.

Or something else entirely will rise up.

Your only wish is that you can teach Frerin everything he needs to know before any of that can happen. You want him to be ready for anything.

Fili leans forward slightly, pressing a kiss in between your eyebrows. “Where did you go?” he whispers, rubbing his nose against yours.

You smile. “Nowhere.”