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Chapter Text

                “Tell us a story, Elder Ori!” chimed in a toddler from Dale as the old and ancient Ori was gently eased into the armchair next to the roaring fireplace by his son.  Sighing in contentment, Ori nodded his thanks at firstborn, and with that, the burly and gray-haired Dwarf walked away before leaning against the doorway to the parlor with a relaxed smile.

                Watching his father, the beloved Storyteller of Erebor.  Watching the numerous children crowding around him with puppy eyes and adoring expressions.

                One female young Hobbit handed Ori a large cup of nutmeg tea (Ori’s favorite) as the other young Dwarves, humans, Hobbits, and Elves clamored eagerly.

                “Oh, yes!  Please do!  Yes, tell us a story!  Tell us a story!  No one can tell stories like you Elder Ori!  Please?!  Make it a long one!”

                Ori pretended to think about the request, long and hard and scratching his frizzy and patchy beard.  But Ori’s son, who was watching this from the doorway, knew his father could never refuse to the young ones.  Except for rare cases when he was sick, Ori always never failed to give in and retell an entertaining chronicle once a week.

                Especially during the dark days of the War of the Ring, Ori was seen telling stories to the scared children as the combined armies of Erebor, Dale and Greenwood fought against Sauron’s armies and the Easterlings.

                This room, this weekly occasion, was a sacred and providential time for everyone.

                It was amazing how much excitement and warmth could come from a single cavern within the Lonely Mountain.

                “All right, all right, you young scamps have convinced me…” Ori chuckled before he motioned the crowd to sit down with one withered hand, which they all did so eagerly on the Warg-skin rug, tightly packed like canned sardines.  It did not matter if the children were sitting with their own race or not.  Elves sat with Dwarflings, human boys and girls eagerly made space for the smaller Hobbit progenies to sit in their laps, and one female Elf even allowed a male teenager Dwarf to cuddle against her, the two of them smiling exactly like Kíli and Tauriel when they courted.

                No matter what their race and culture, it was a time they could all enjoy Ori’s tales together, without fighting and as a community.

                If Bilbo were still alive, he would have been immensely proud.

                Taking another sip and reveling in the warmth spreading to his creaking bones, the Dwarf scribe enjoyed the comfort before he asked the innocent question.

                “Now, which story would you all like?”

                This immediately set out a round of suggestions and demands.

                “Tell us the story of Lady Darcy Lewis, Black Panther, and Prince Legolas’ journey to Mount Gandabad!”

                “That’s boring!  We should pick an exciting one!  Like when Lady Tilda and Lady Sigrid earned their roles as the Wasp and the Bumblebee from Mister Pym!”

                “How about the Kree Invasion of Isengard?”

                “No!  I want to hear how Prince Kíli and Fíli rode Lockjaw to win the Battle of Helm’s Deep!”

                “We heard that last week!”

                “Well it’s my favorite.  I wish to hear it again.”

                “Sod off!  Elder Ori should talk of when Captain Marvel and Quicksilver traveled with Arwen to the East!”

                “Tell us when Sir Coulson teamed up with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and Tom Bombadil to take out an entire army of Variags single-handedly!”

                “Personally, I would love to hear the tale of how Master Hawkeye saved Haldir’s life and became an Elf-Friend.  It’s been so long since I last heard that one.”

                “I’m in the mood for a funny story.  Oh!  How about the time when Lady Galadriel turned Tony Stark into a woman?!”

                There was immediately silence when Ori weakly raised a hand; it was amazing how much presence the old Dwarf could command from the children with just one gesture.  Ori then put out a suggestion.

                “How about I tell the story of Thor Odinson?  Of when he returned to Erebor after the Battle of the Five Armies with his good friend, Steven Rogers?”

                From the background, Ori’s son smiled underneath his beard.

                All the children cheered and clamored excitedly before they became silent as Ori began to speak, wistfully relishing the memories.  The old Dwarf started off his tale as he leaned back against his easy chair and cradled his hot cup of tea.

                “It was a little more than a year after Erebor was reclaimed and after the Battle of the Five Armies,” Ori narrated, “We did not know it at the time, but despite what Thorin Oakenshield claimed, the arrival of Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers was a blessing from the Valar…”

                “Dwalin, please!” Ori pleaded as he tried to plead with the muscular Dwarf.

                “I am sorry, Beloved,” Dwalin said as he finished fastening his armor around his torso, “There have been reports of another Goblin raid on the city of Dale, and Tauriel just informed me that there were sightings of a Warg pack close to the northern borders of Mirkwood.  I must perform my duty.”

                “But you promised!”

                “Next week, when there is a reprieve then.”

                “That’s what you said last week!”

                “Ori, my duty is to my King and to the safety of Erebor.  That includes the Company, Thorin, the Dwarves immigrating from the Blue Mountains, and you…”

                “This is the fourth time you had to cancel!  Please, Dwalin!  We barely have enough chances to spend time in private as it is!  Why not have Palli or Grugim take charge for once?!  They are some of your second-in-commands!”

                “Ori, no.  This job requires my expertise.”

                “Dwalin…” Ori pleaded as he gently but tenderly took one of Dwalin’s massive hands, the scribe’s smooth fingers tracing over the spiked knuckledusters, the varicose veins, the callused flesh and skin which sent shivers up Dwalin’s arm.  With great restraint and disappointment, Dwalin gently removed Ori’s hands from his.

                “Ori, no.”

                “Please.  This means so much to me.”

                Dwalin now was frowning at Ori, his eyebrows furrowing together like bushy, agitated caterpillars.

                “No.  That is final.”

                Ori then lost patience as he shot out irritably, “You just want to use this as an excuse to get out of me sketching your portrait!”

                The scribe was waiting for a denial, a heated refutation, a rebuttal with Dwalin swearing that he would always keep his Beloved’s matters and principles foremost in his mind as much as his own.  So imagine Ori’s shock when there was a hesitant and awkward silence from the grizzled Dwalin, with Dwalin lowering his gaze to the ground, unable to meet Ori’s eyes as he idly fiddled with a loose string from his armored tunic.

                “You are!” breathed Ori out loud in a combination of offense and indignation.  Dwalin mentally cursed, wondering why was it he had trouble keeping secrets from his fiancé.

                “You know how uncomfortable I am about this whole beautifying rubbish.”

                “It’s not rubbish!” Ori snapped before he continued in a more cordial and placating tone, not wanting to start an argument, “You’ve seen how well I’ve done all the other portraits of the Company, and the chronicles of our journeys show them in a wonderful light!  Even Tauriel and Galadriel commented on how skillful my drawings were!”

                “Love, when trying to convince me, in the future it would best to not use the praise of Tree-Shaggers as an example,” grumbled Dwalin as he began to stride out of their apartments.  Ori then dashed forward before he purposefully got in front of Dwalin’s path, keeping him from leaving.

                “It’s nothing to be ashamed about!  Don’t you want your deeds to be chronicled in history, in legends?”

                “I’m not comfortable with it,” Dwalin sighed with fatigue, not wanting to delve into this discussion any further, “Your chronicles of the retaking of Erebor will stand for ages, open for all to see.  You shouldn’t feel the need to preserve the image of a hideous, ugly Dwarf for future generations.”

                The image of so many young Dwarves and children, snickering and laughing outright at the image of a frowning and scarred Dwalin on paper in the history books, with his oversized nose and grumpy, sour demeanor, looking so much like a constipated Warg or a pathetic donkey…

                “I don’t think you’re ugly…” Ori whispered as he gently held Dwalin’s hand.

                Dwalin growled, already at the end of his patience, “Enough.  I do not want you to draw me.”

                “Perhaps…if we both were in a particular state of dress while I drew you…” Ori suggested, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

                Dwalin was both tempted and impressed at Ori’s audacity and naughtiness.

                And to think that Dori was still in denial of how his youngest brother was a moral, chaste, unsullied and mannerly Dwarfling until “that shit-faced bastard” corrupted Ori with the courtship.

                Still…

                Dwalin sighed as he gently removed Ori’s hand from his.

                “Regardless, I will not allow it.  I am the Captain of the Ereborian Guards.  My reputation means much to a Dwarf in my esteem and position, and I do not wish to be prettied up and drawn like a twittering, virgin female.  I’d be the laughingstock of the entire Lonely Mountain, and I am simply not comfortable with that.  Please respect my wishes.”

                “Really?  Such as how you’re respecting mine?” Ori shot back accusingly.

                Dwalin glared, unable to find an agreeable retort, before he tried to gently brush past Ori.  He was so sick of this talk now.

                Ori tried to soothe his lover and One as he placed a hand on Dwalin’s broad and hard chest, sending tremors down the guard’s spine as Ori leaned closer.

                “I think it would do wonders for your self-esteem if I could draw you the way I see you.”

                Frowning, Dwalin gently removed Ori’s hand before he snorted, “I doubt that.  Please, respect my wishes, Ori.  My reputation means much to me.  Leave it at that.”

                With that, the Guard Captain left their quarters, leaving Ori despondent.  Within a few seconds, a familiar figure emerged from the parlor closet after eavesdropping on the entire disagreement.  Ori rolled his eyes, not even bothering to turn at the sound and knowing full well who it was.

                “Oh dear, trouble in the courtship,” sighed an annoying voice from behind Ori with lugubrious sarcasm, “Oh well, Dwalin is hardly a significant loss.  It’s not too late to call the whole thing off, dear brother.  Dori will certainly be ecstatic and break out the good ale if you would finally remove that blasphemous eyesore from your hair.”

                With that, Nori playfully reached for the courting bead embedded into Ori’s braid, only for Ori to squawk and pull back and swat his brother’s hands irritably.  He fondly remembered how nervous Dwalin was as he offered it to Ori, how much his hands were shaking like a nervous Dwarfling as he braided the bead into Ori’s sandy hair, how much Dwalin whispered sweet nothings into Ori’s ear afterwards as the two curled up intimately next to the fire, skin against skin and Ori’s nuzzling Dwalin’s hairy chest…

                Ori blushed at the recollection, his face now turning a brilliant shade of ruby as he glanced at the smug and knowing smile on Nori’s face (the Dwarf Spymaster was no fool).  Hurriedly, Ori just quickly left his apartment, muttering over his shoulder, “I’m going to the library.”

                “Good.  I’ll come with you,” Nori replied, his grin absolutely sanctimonious.

                Ori knew better at this point to try to tell his aggravating older brother to leave him alone during his unpleasant mood.

                Entering the library, Ori sighed with familiarity at the sight of the towering yet bare shelves, the neat rectangular tables of steel and wood with miniature candles and inkwells (complete with quills) placed at the end for guests, the soft and plush armchairs set around stone fire-pits and crackling, warm fireplaces, and the inviting colors peach, red, and soft sunset-yellow of the walls and cloth tapestries hung throughout the upper and lower stories.  This chamber, this archive of tomes, scrolls, parchment and ink…it was still a long way off from being completely refurbished and finalized, but the Royal Scribe knew that within a decade, the Ereborian Library would be a monument of envy even to King Thranduil and Lord Elrond.

                Still in a poor temperament, Ori began his duties as he began re-shelving tomes and books, filling the empty spaces bit by bit.  Nori however lazily sank into a nearby chair and table and began picking his fingernails with a small dagger, not saying a word and once or twice glancing at Ori on the ladder.

                “You could help me, Nori…” sighed Ori after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.  Nori rolled his eyes, but then to the scribe’s surprise, Nori got on his feet and actually assisted in collecting the strewn books around the library, just to aid his younger sibling.

                Ori was appreciative of the gesture as he smiled.

                “Dare I ask if you’re here because you’re hiding or because you have nothing else better to do?”

                “The latter…” grumbled Nori as he hefted a stack of heavy volumes to hand over to the Royal Scribe, “After the dead end of seeing if any of our kin or our neighbors are somehow influencing the sudden appearance of Orcs, I’m bored!  Complete, utterly, absolutely, without a doubt bored!  Thorin has no missions for me, my fellow spies have turned up nothing, there is nothing definite I can report, there isn’t anyone or anything I can kill, and the worst of all, I can’t spend my newfound free time by betting!”

                “So they finally banned you from participating in the pots?” Ori asked nonchalantly without surprise as the descended carefully down the ladder.

                Nori gave his younger brother an incredulous look of outrage.

                “You knew?!” Nori barked.

                Ori didn’t look the least bit sorry as he straightened and reordered a pile of scrolls.

                “Glóin said that many in Dale, Mirkwood, and Erebor started refusing to participate in the betting pools unless there was a guarantee that you would no longer be included.  All the Dwarves and Men and Elves were getting sick and tired of you winning ninety-three percent of the time.”

                “Bollocks!  You made that figure up!”

                “Actually, Glóin showed me his calculations, and he triple-checked his figures.”

                Nori let loose several foul curses in Khuzdul that would have had Dori dragging Nori out of the Royal Library by his ear before scrubbing the Spymaster’s mouth out with soap.

                Ori then tried to explain as he took several manuscripts out of Nori’s arms and placed them in alphabetical order on the shelves, saying, “Perhaps it would not be so uncalled for to be gracious in this, Nori.  They simply did not like it that you kept being the victor, and many of the Elves, Men, and Dwarves kept accusing you of manipulating the odds in your favor.  Your winning streaks are far too unfair for them.  In fact, Thorin promised everyone to bar you from bets in order to appease them from doing something drastic like shaving your beard.”

                “Sore losers…” grumbled Nori.

                “Can you blame them?  The fact that you kept succeeding made them suspect cheating.”

                “It’s only cheating if they can prove it,” snapped Nori as he straightened out the chairs of a nearby table.

                Ori wasn’t sure if this was an admission or not, but he cordially bit his lip and decided not to comment.  Still, Nori couldn’t help but continue on about the injustice of the whole prohibition.

                “This is about as much of a pain in the rear as a Tree-Shagger’s arrow!  I need to think of a way to earn some money!” griped Nori.  Ori paused, blinking, before he turned to his brother with an incredulous look.

                “Nori…” Ori began slowly for emphasis, “You don’t need to earn any money.  You’re a Dwarf Lord who owns one-fourteenth of the treasury of Erebor.  You have more riches, treasure, and coin than most of the Dwarven Lords of the seven Dwarven families put together.  In fact, you do not have to work for a single day in your life ever again.”

                “It’s the principle of the thing,” sniffed the Dwarf Thief without shame.

                “Well, if you’re bored, you can always go and help Dori with his shop,” suggested Ori, sighing.  Secretly, if anyone could bring a much-needed spike of patrons in Dori’s new teahouse, it would be Nori.

                “I’d rather help you out,” grumbled Nori, sniffing derisively.

                Ori decided to take that statement as a compliment.

                Suddenly, there was a loud commotion as Fíli entered raucously into the library, sprinting through the wide entrance and looking wildly around before spotting Ori and Nori.  At a run, he hurried over to the two Ri brothers.

                “Quickly, come to the throne room!” Fíli exclaimed, “Gandalf is here, and he has summoned a meeting!  With all of us from the Company!”

                “Really?” Ori asked, titling his head.  Since when did Fíli seem so excited about meeting with Tharkûn?  The golden haired Prince then smirked as he dropped his bombshell.

                “He brings news about Thor Odinson, the warrior one who owns the hammer of Mahal that helped us in the Battle of the Five Armies!  I think Thor will be coming for a visit!”

                “Really?!” gasped Ori as he clambered down the ladder excitedly.  Thor Odinson?  The fabled visitor from the stars in the kingdom of Asgard?  Ori felt his face flush with eagerness and anticipation; he never could forget those stunning dark eyes of blue, the chiseled face and arms as if they were cut from stone, the shining hair pouring out from underneath his helmet, his deep voice that sounded both inspiring and terrifying.

                And if he got a chance to sketch the God’s portrait…

                Nori gave a suspicious look to his younger brother before he flatly stated his observation.

                “You both seem awfully excited.”

                Ori reddened as he did not meet the Spymaster’s eyes while they walked.  Fíli’s eyes just twinkled with mischief.

                “I’m looking forward to seeing the look of jealous discomfort on Kíli’s face.  I could use the entertainment.”

                Speedily, Fíli, Nori, and Ori managed to bustle into the massive throne room of Erebor with its high vaulted ceilings and metal walkways, realizing that all of the other members of the Company have already congregated.  However, it turned out it was not just the original Company of Thorin Oakenshield in the gathering.  Dís, sister of Thorin and mother of Kíli and Fíli, was alongside Tauriel as she watched her brother with a pure expression of amusement.  Bard, the King of Dale, was also present, standing respectfully next to Balin and Gandalf, and even young Gimli (a Dwarfling with muttonchops and a tuft of red hair on his chin) was standing next to his father, Glóin, eager and excited for the incoming news.  Dwalin, surprisingly, seemed to have desert his earlier mission to investigate the Goblin attacks as he stood next to Thorin’s left alongside the throne as a true friend and protector.

                Ori stared at his fiancé, trying to get Dwalin to meet his eyes, but Dwalin simply pretended to not notice as he gazed ahead.  Ori was crestfallen.

                On their respective thrones of rock sat King Thorin Oakenshield and his Consort, Bilbo Baggins.  Thorin was wearing his crown of dark, polished stone and steel and dark furs and blue fabric while Bilbo, in contrast, was smiling and seated properly in his red tunic and cape with a gold crown made lovingly by Thorin in the shape of a wreath of leaves with budding roses.  Bilbo seemed just as pleased and eager to hear Gandalf’s news while Thorin was actually fuming darkly, as if he wanted nothing better than to toss the Istari out of the front gates.  In fact, Thorin was sitting on the throne, arms crossed over his burly chest, back ramrod straight, and…

                “…is Thorin, our King and ruler of Erebor, actually pouting?” whispered Ori to his brother, Dori, who was nearby.

                “Do not comment if you know what’s good for you,” Dori answered.

                Gandalf coughed meaningfully at Dori and Ori, causing the two Dwarves to clam up hurriedly.

                “As I was saying,” Gandalf lightly said as he held up a pristine scroll of paper in one hand, “I wished to inform everyone that I have a letter from Thor Odinson himself.  The Prince of Asgard has requested me to dictate its contents to all of you since he remembers Bilbo Baggins quite fondly.  And because of a slightly more serious issue: Thor has a friend who needs help, and he beseeches any assistance you can offer him.”

                “How can we be of service?” Tauriel asked.

                Kíli’s face soured as he crossed his arms and mentally griped.

                Gandalf unrolled the thick parchment and began to verbalize the words scribbled inside.  The Gray Wizard narrated, “Greetings to the blessed and magnificent Dwarves, Elves, and Men of Erebor.  I, Prince Thor, son of King Odin Allfather and Queen Frigga, Prince of Asgard, hopes that this letter finds you all well, hale, healthy, and happy…”

                “Boot-licker…” grumbled Thorin under his breath, only to be silenced by a slap on the shoudler by Bilbo.

                “Unfortunately, this letter has a rather dire reason, and I reach out to my fellow Mjolnir brother and his friends in desperation.  If only my situation was not so grim that you could perhaps provide a sliver of aid and restoration.  In a distant world called Earth where I currently reside and which is populated almost entirely by the race of Men, there has been war and chaos.  A group of evil cowards and turncoats pledging allegiance to an organization most foul of craven and sadistic warmongers called ‘Hydra’ has slaughtered innocents and stuck against my dearest friends.  They have injured and killed many blameless men, women, and children in a blink of an eye, attempted genocide in a misguided and depraved ritual to cleanse the planet, crushed hope and resistance by ruthlessly striking against loved ones and families.  Yet the most unforgivable crime was the deed they have performed against one particular friend who is my dearest brother-at-arms: Steven Rogers who also is known as ‘Captain America’ on the battlefield.”

                There was silence as the entire group listening to this was horrified.

                Gandalf continued gravely, “My friend, Steven, is a devoted and reliable soldier of steadfast heart and gallant soul and morals.  Never have I been prouder to accept him as my most trusted brother-at-arms who I would gladly sing praise and escort to Valhalla of the most esteemed warriors such as Bilbo Baggins himself.  In fact, Steven is not that much different from my Hobbit brother; their mannerisms and good hearts are very much alike.”

                “By Mahal, two Bilbos…” murmured Bombur, blinking and trying to picture it.  Bofur couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

                “Unfortunately, the war against Hydra has damaged Steven Rogers physically and emotionally.  It turns out that his past friend and soulmate, Bucky Barnes, was enchanted by Hydra, allowing these evil scoundrels to take control of his mind, forcing Bucky to become Hydra’s most bloodthirsty assassin called ‘The Winter Solder’.  Many deaths were perpetrated by Bucky’s own hand as he was driven mad from the evil machinations.  Steven was devastated for though we eventually won the war against Hydra, Steven was forced to choose doing what was right over his childhood friend and comrade, fighting with the Winter Soldier and nearly losing his own life.”

                “Poor lad…” Balin murmured.

                “By the grace of the Gods, Steven managed to free Bucky from Hydra’s influence, but the joyous reunion was not to be.  Unable to cope once his mind was free and upon witnessing the destruction caused by Hydra, in shame and self-reproach, Bucky ran away, fleeing to destinations unknown.  After months of searching, Bucky has made it clear to Steven that he will never return with him nor forgive himself for his crimes against humanity.  Bucky has ended things with Steven, despite the years of love and friendship the two have shared and Steven pleading and arguing with Bucky for over three days.  Now, Bucky Barnes has vanished, so well that even our most skilled soldiers have little hope of discovering Bucky’s location.  Steven has been languishing, his heart rent asunder, both physically and emotionally, as he toils to try to help cities rebuild from Hydra’s attacks while refusing to take time to rest, recuperate, and heal.  He does not eat, he does not sleep, he will not confide in anyone, and he has distanced himself from myself and the other Avengers to the point where I fear Steven may commit suicide.  In fact, I worry that Steven cannot properly grieve for I have yet to see him shed a single tear or lament.”

                “What are ‘Avengers’?” Óin muttered, wondering if he needed to clear out his ear trumpet.

                “I wish for Steven to reconcile and mend in soul and heart, and the other Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D brothers have agreed.  Steven is of no use to us if he continues to put himself in this state, and it would damage our efforts for rebuilding as well as Steven himself.  He should not remain where there was death and loss to remind him of his own pain.  Then I recalled being told that due to Mjolnir assisting my fellow brother, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, in the Battle of the Five Armies, I would be granted any favor and assistance should the need arise.”

                Thorin bristled.  Neither he nor anyone in the Company made such a promise when Thor Odinson last visited Erebor.  Although he had a sneaking suspicion that a particular wizard made that offer without his permission…

                “I was also told that recently, the Orcs and Goblins and creatures of the dark have suddenly been amassing around Erebor and its neighbors.  This also distresses me, for I will not allow more individuals similar to Hydra to cause grievance to Brother Bilbo and his loved ones.  I would like to request a favor and a trade: allow Steven and I to stay in Erebor where the distance and new environment and among noble heroes such as Bilbo Baggins and his Company to heal the scars on his soul, and we shall help fight alongside and rid your lands of this evil.  If you can grant us sanctuary in your home among warmth and love, I bow down and thank you endlessly for your kindness and generosity.   Inform Incánus of your decision, and he will send me your reply posthaste as swiftly as the falling stars.  Sincerely, and with hope and gratitude, Prince Thor, Son of Odin and Frigga AllFather, Royalty of Asgard.”

                There was a tense and thoughtful hush as Gandalf finished before Thorin then coughed meaningfully and spoke in a controlled yet dismissive voice.

                “That was quite a sad tale, Wizard, and rest assured, my sincerest condolences go out to Thor and his friends.  However, as tragic and appalling as these events are…”

                “Of course we shall help, Gandalf,” jumped in Bilbo, getting to his feet and rising from his throne, eyes full of compassion and understanding.  Thorin whirled on his husband, his eyebrows raised high in rude surprise as one shocked eye started to twitch.

                “What?” Thorin hissed.

                Gandalf’s eyes twinkled like stars as he smiled underneath his bushy beard and declared, “Excellent!  I shall begin to write a reply and immediately pass your acceptance to Thor Odinson is Asgard posthaste.  I suspect that it would take several days before Thor can settle and finalize matters back on his world with the other Avengers before he arrives here with Steven.  Shall Thor be staying in Erebor?”

                “Gandalf, I’m afraid we cannot - !” began Thorin again, his powerful voice louder and trying to make himself heard, but to his dread, everyone else in the room began to add in to Bilbo’s affirmation.

                Dís announced, “I will start with having the servants and staff set up the finest guest rooms for the two warriors.  Since they will be staying with us for an indefinite amount of time, we must ensure that they feel welcome and at home in our kingdom.”

                Tauriel nodded, adding, “I shall report today’s meeting to King Thranduil.  No doubt that the Mirkwood forest would also like to extend invitations of hospitality.”

                Kíli muttered darkly under his breath, “I’d rather this Thor Odinson just stay in Mirkwood entirely.”

                “What was that, dear Kíli?” Tauriel asked sweetly that did little to hide the warning iron underneath as both she and Dís slowly turned to the dark-haired Prince with neutral looks.

                “Uh…I said…why bother?  Thor should stay in the Lonely Mountain as our guest entirely!” Kíli lamely covered.  Both Tauriel and Dís let it pass.

                “Excuse me!” barked Thorin, trying to make his disapproval known, but to his ire, nearly everyone ignored him save a select few who clearly had the same sentiment and opinions of Thor as he did.  Dwalin clearly wasn’t enjoying the sight of Ori excitedly rocking on his feet back and forth, his face giddy.

                King Bard of Dale then spoke to Balin, “We need to prepare ideas and strategies that can incorporate Thor Odinson and his friend in our efforts to track and fight the Orcs and Goblins.  If they are unfamiliar with our terms and lands, time spent in preparing to educate them of the terrain, our neighboring cities, and our world history could be beneficial.”

                The portly Dwarf advisor nodded, saying, “I shall convene with Dwalin and Dain and see if we can collaborate.  We need to ensure that we can effectively work with Thor Odinson and his hammer without hindrance or the risk of accidentally injuring our own kin during combat.  I still haven’t gotten entirely over my fear of lightning since Bilbo used the hammer on the spiders.”

                “Let me join in too!” Gimli pleaded in the background (only to get a swift slap upside the head by his father).

                “Now wait just a damned minute!  I did not - !” Thorin tried to interject, but no one was listening.

                Fíli then spoke to Nori, “Nori, it may be best to spread this news throughout the Lonely Mountain.  With the arrival of the God who actually wielded the hammer that killed Azog, if there are any of our kin who are spies for the Orcs and Goblins, it may cause them to panic and act hastily once they learn of this announcement.  Which might - ”

                “…make it easier for me to spot and track their movements and intentions down?  Consider it done, my Prince,” Nori finished for the blond-haired Dwarf, a smile gracing his lips.

                “That is enough!” Thorin tried yelling above the babble, “We are not - !”

                “I can start putting in requests for additional items to be bought at Mirkwood and Dale,” Bombur suggested as he waddled forward towards Bilbo, “If there’s anything that cheers up a warrior, it is a good feast.  Perhaps it could help this Steven Rogers if we presented him with a hearty meal.”

                “Though more trade is always welcome, resources may be a bit limited in the city.  We’re just beginning to rebuild,” Bard pointed out.

                “I am sure that perhaps the Hobbits in Hobbiton and the Shire would be more than happy to provide some of their plentiful Spring Harvest for some modest gold,” Gandalf offered, “Radagast and his Rhosgobel Rabbits would surely be able to make the trip to there and back to the Lonely Mountain with supplies in time for their arrival.”

                “Excellent!” piped up Bilbo excitedly, “Pay the Hobbits with funds from my share!  And have Radagast bring enough for both Erebor and Dale!  The Valar only know that the Shire will welcome the gold and will have enough to feed both cities!  I shall help assist with the cooking then!  Goodness, if this Steven Rogers is as big as Thor, they may have the appetites of Hobbits themselves!”

                “Allow me to help as well, Master Baggins.  I can decorate the banquet halls and supply everyone with tea from my shop!” Dori said.

                That was enough.  Thorin was at his absolute end as he shot up from his throne, took a golden wine goblet that was sitting on the armrest, and hurled it against the wall, scattering alcohol as it made a loud clatter that temporarily rendered the assembly silent.

                “NO!  I FORBID IT!” roared Thorin, his face now turning a dangerous shade of purple, “I AM THE KING!  MY WORD AND DECREE IS LAW!  AND I WILL NOT ALLOW THAT COCKY, ARROGANT, SHOWBOATING, AGGRAVATING IDIOT IN EREBOR WITH HIS FRIEND AS IF MY KINGDOM IS SOME SORT OF INN!  AS IF THE MOUNTAIN IS A TAVERN THAT ACCEPTS STRAYS TO LEECH OFF ONE’S CHARITY!  THOR ODINSON WILL NOT COME HERE AS LONG AS I STAND!  THAT IS FINAL!”

                “So how long was it before Thor Odinson arrived to Erebor with Captain America?” leered a teenage Dwarf.

                “The following week…” answered Ori with a smile.

                The entire crowd laughed with glee.

                “Damned sister.  Damned wizard.  Damned Thor Odinson.  Damned Company.  Damned majority veto.  Damned Arkenstone being the one thing my Beloved can hold over my head…” griped Thorin darkly under his breath, fuming.

                Bilbo graciously did not reprimand or rebuke Thorin, but he did discreetly ram his elbow into Thorin’s side to keep him quiet.  The King suppressed his grumbling, but his dark glare softened with Bilbo slid his hand into the Dwarf’s, his hand bringing a sense of comfort to the King of Erebor.

                Bofur noticed this with a sad and wistful look as Thorin leaned over a whispered something in Bilbo’s ear that made the Hobbit blush and giggle as he leaned into the comfort of Thorin’s bushy cheek.  Bifur, observing this, nudged his brother’s hand before signing in Iglishmêk with one palm.

                Do not torture yourself like this, signed Bifur.

                Bofur nodded as he gazed straight ahead.

                The Company of Thorin was standing alongside the two Royals of the Lonely Mountain at the front entrance as a welcoming reception.  They were actually not alone, for Dís, Gandalf, Radagast the Brown, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and King Bard of Dale stood with them.  As well as a massive crowd of Dwarves, Elves, and men and women, all of them forming a ring around a wide, circular area of dirt and stone as an invitation for Thor to teleport and arrive without causing any panic or injury.  The swarm was zealously enthusiastic, keenly impatient as they waited for the grand entrance of the fabled warrior who owned the hammer that single-handedly won the Battle of the Five Armies.

                It was as if for that moment, they could all forget about the impeding catastrophe of the raiding Orcs and Goblins.

                “Why are there so many people?” Glóin asked, tilting his head at the massive throng who were waiting in fervor, many of whom really did not have much of a reason to be a part of the soirée.  Even Bard’s daughters, the Princesses Sigrid and Tilda, were in the mass.

                Balin rolled his eyes, but the elderly Dwarf managed to find some humor in the whole situation as he clarified, “It appears that Thor Odinson has garnered a little bit of a fan-base, especially from the female subset of the population.”

                Indeed, upon a closer look, Glóin could see that what Balin said was true for over half of the congregation.  Ladies and women, Dwarrowdams, and female Elves from all three empires were tittering and whispering with anticipated gaiety, their eyes shining brightly and with such elated smiles that one would have to wonder how unsettling it was to show that much eagerness.  Even Glóin’s own wife, Täli, was waiting with clasped hands to her chest, much to Glóin’s annoyance.

                Two young women from Dale were whispering quietly and franticly amongst the crowd.

                “Do you believe that Thor would be willing to visit Dale if we asked him?” a woman named Mafria asked.

                “It is possible,” her friend, Bea, assured, “I just hope this Captain Steven Rogers is just as much of a brave and stunning hero as Thor!”

                “Um…I hate to break your vivid hopes, but I would like to remind you that since Thor Odinson was making sweet on Bilbo Baggins, who is most definitely a male, you are most likely setting yourselves up for disappointment,” Bain commented, only for Sigrid to slap her younger brother upside the head.

                “Oh be quiet!” snapped Sigrid.

                “To be fair, it’s not every day we get a visitor from another world, and a God at that,” Fíli mused as he grinned at a fuming Kíli (who was next to the Crown Prince), “Plus, it is sort of entertaining to see if this Steven Rogers is just as much of a troublemaking yet charming scamp and heartthrob as Thor.  It would be noteworthy to see how my dear brother would handle there being two superbly gorgeous rivals.”

                “Go suck on Dwalin’s warhammer…” growled Kíli grouchily at his brother, with his arms crossed over his chest and a grumpy expression on his face as he scowled at the sight of Tauriel smiling and explaining to young Gimli about Thor Odinson.

                Indeed, Kíli wasn’t the only one who was unhappy.  Legolas as well as a number of Men and male Dwarves and Elves were grumbling and showing similar expressions of reluctant displeasure like Kíli, Dwalin, and Thorin Oakenshield.  Even Bard was giving a side-eyed glance of worry at Sigrid’s eager glee.  King Thranduil however was smiling (a rare occurrence ever since the King of Mirkwood lost his hair and eyebrows due to a certain hammer last year).

                “Ada, why are you so merry?” Legolas asked his father, one eyebrow raised.

                “The look on Thorin Oakenshield’s face,” Thranduil stated.  Legolas nodded in understanding upon seeing the great King of Erebor sulking and puckering as if he was sucking on a lemon or something sour and bitter.

                Suddenly, Gandalf raised his head, bringing the attention of the people nearby.  The Gray Wizard intoned loudly, his voice amplified by his magic for everyone to feel as it echoed eerily throughout the lowland.

                “He is coming…”

                Immediately, there was a massive flash from the cloudy sky before a peal of thunder rang throughout the entire atmosphere.  Straightaway, a cylindrical column of multicolored light erupted from the clouds before slamming neatly into the middle of the clearing thoughtfully spaced out by the mob.  The crowd gasped and made various exclamations and cheers of surprise and amazement as the rainbow bridge pealed and surged with roars of an unfathomable din, shining so brightly like a star.  And the might and force of the prismatic wonder invoked a small typhoon all around them as the air churned and whistled significantly.

                “It’s so beautiful!” Tilda gasped, her eyes wide and eager.  Bard grabbed the back of Tilda’s collar before his youngest could give into the temptation to go running into the enchanting kaleidoscope.

                Within several seconds and as suddenly as it appeared, the rainbow abruptly vanished, leaving two figures standing amid the telltale circle of scorch marks amid the dirt and stone.  One was Thor Odinson, wearing a sleeveless, armored tunic, breeches with metal leg-guards, and his trademark red cape.  Thor was without his helmet, however, allowing his blond hair to flutter around his broad shoulders and rugged, bearded face.  Nevertheless, Thor’s eyes shone like the deep blue sea under the midday sun as he broke out in a wide and profound smile upon seeing the crowd.

                Everyone in the cluster immediately hushed in awe.

                Thor broke the silent contemplation as he ambled forward and cheered, raising a bulky arm and waving, “Incánus!  Bilbo Baggins of Bag End!  King Thorin of Oak’s Shield!  Well met!  And to everyone in this world, we give many thanks for your most welcoming tidings!  I am greatly honored by such munificence!”

                Thor bowed slightly, angling his head.  The female folk tittered and smiled.

                Thorin was starting to wonder if it was too late to immediately grab Bilbo, renounce the crown to Fíli and Dís, and retreat off to the Shire forever.

                Scowling but respectfully remaining silent, Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Gandalf, and the members of Thorin’s Company ambled forward as the crowd of Elves, Men, and Dwarves parted respectfully to have the Lord and Rulers of Erebor greet Thor and his guest.  Enthusiastically, Thor grabbed his quiet and reluctant companion by looping a burly arm around the Man’s shoulders before nodding.

                “Allow me to present my friend and a trusted shield-brother, Steven Rogers,” Thor boomed.

                Everyone was graciously non-judgmental as they studied the stranger next to Thor.

                Steven Rogers was tall, only an inch or two shorter than the Asgardian himself, with blond hair of wheat and straw that was cut short and combed meticulously.  Like Thor, he wore no helmet, but one could notice a blue one with eyeholes and a chinstrap hanging off his multi-pouched belt (Nori had to marvel at how much he could steal and store with such an accessory).

                Conversely, the foreigner donned the most bizarre armor and clothing.  It was not made of metal but more like bulky cloth with a hardened shell, dusty but well-worn, colored in the queerest pattern of red, white, and blue, and complete with boots, gloves, protective pads on his shoulders, knees, and elbows, and many, many straps of brown leather.  The most conspicuous bit of Steve’s attire were two wide straps of leather looped over his shoulders and under his arms, similar to a knapsack, only it held a circular shield of metal, colored alternatively with rings of red and white and blue with a white star in the center.

                Dwalin frowned.  A shield but no sword?

                What kind of addled warrior was this friend of Thor?

                However, Steven was impressively built and muscular, his physique evident despite the layers of clothing he was wearing.  It would have been a safe guess that he was a fierce and accomplished combatant, and Balin could discern with his eyes that the Steve was antsy, on the balls of his feet as if waiting to move, watching this unknown soldier being acutely aware of his surroundings and the people surrounding him without even turning his head.  His face was lean, square-jawed and solemnly blank, but his mouth set in a flat line and tight-lipped as if anticipating danger.

                It was clear to Balin that the lad had been through a devastating war; these sorts of details could not be faked by a novice.

                Yet what was the most intriguing about Steven Rogers were his eyes.  Unlike Thor’s which were dark blue, like the color of a bottomless ocean, Steve’s eyes were clear and light, as if the pure, cloudless sky of dawn from the mountains descended down and swirled in his pupils.  They should have shone like the sharpest crystal.  But unlike the vibrant and enthusiastic Thor, these light blue eyes were glassy, lifeless, as if he no longer had a soul.  And underneath his eyes were dark bags, clearly due to a lack of sleep, and so full of misery.

                Bilbo suddenly felt the urge to give the suffering legionnaire a comforting hug.

                Bofur couldn’t help but be a little disappointed; this Steven Rogers was as different from Bilbo Baggins appearance-wise as one could possibly get.

                “It’s nice to meet you.  All of you,” Steve said, his voice surprisingly easy-going and polite.  It wasn’t as deep and powerful and ostentatious as Thor’s but more amiable, agreeable, and good-natured.  In fact, Bilbo could have easily said this Steven Rogers easily reminded him of Hobbit tweens who looked after their younger sisters and brothers like a true responsible role model, the type who was faultless, reliable, and could always be on call to help or babysit.

                Steve looked at Thorin before he stood at attention and bowed respectfully, stating, “King Thorin Oakenshield, Your Majesty.  Thank you for allowing us to stay in your kingdom.  Both Thor and I will do everything we can to assist you in any way or in any way Gandalf suggests.”

                “Perhaps both of you leave immediately and go back home…” grumbled Thorin under his breath, but a quick and surreptitious kick in the shins via Bilbo made him school his face into a less hostile expression as he nodded.

                “You are welcome to stay as long as you both need to,” Thorin replied.

                “The welcome also extends to the Kingdom of Mirkwood and the city of Dale,” King Bard broke in with Thranduil giving the barest of passive nods, “We could truly use some expertise in fighting the sudden uprisings of Orcs and Goblins.”

                Steve nodded, showing his thanks before he reached from one of the pouches from behind his belt and brought out a large bag of seeds before offering them to Bilbo and Thorin, bowing and stooping down a bit so that he could politely hand his gift to the Consort of Erebor.

                “Oh, thank you,” Bilbo said with sincere interest while Thorin narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

                “Thor told me that Hobbits love to grow plants and flowers, and these peanuts have been designed by S.H.I.E.L.D to be hardy and strong and can flourish in any sort of soil, which would make it perfect for the rocky dirt here in your kingdom.  I’ll help you grow enough so that the first crop can provide a lot of food and oil for Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood,” Steve explained, and Bilbo was truly touched at the evident thought and deliberation in the offering.

                “Shield?” blinked Óin as he looked suspiciously at his brother and at his ear trumpet, “Did I catch that right or was I mishearing things again?”

                “How can his shield make seeds?” Bombur whispered, completely misunderstanding Steve Rogers’ statement.

                “Maybe it’s a magical shield, like Thor’s hammer!” chimed in Gimli excitedly, quickly to duck before his father could swat his son upside the head and having Glóin’s gloved hand narrowly miss Gimli’s head.

                Then Thor none too gently ambled forward, nudging Steve a bit to the side as he bowed before Bilbo with a flourish.

                “And this is mine,” Thor said with honor and respect as he brought out a potted plant from the folds of his billowing cape, holding out the ceramic container to the Hobbit as he intoned, “Bilbo Baggins, fellow Brother of Mjolnir, I present to you my promised item: a flower with your namesake.  Feast your eyes on a flower blessed by the finest of all Asgardian botanists…the Bilbo Blossom.”

                Resting in the red-clay pot was a mess of tender leaves and baby ivy, and in the very center was a flower.  Thick-stemmed, the size of a man’s finger, the bloom rose above the dirt and ivy only to form a large orb that swayed gently from the breeze.  Upon a closer look, Bilbo was amazed to see that the head was actually comprised entirely of little miniature flowers, each one urceolate and in the shape of an urn with small pistils sticking out of each mouth, similar to the blossoms of a snapdragon.  And at each opening was a small drop of clear, succulent nectar that gave off a pleasant smell of honey and sugar.  Yet what was most extraordinary about the flower was that each miniature globe-shape segment was glowing and alternating in colors.  It cycled from a soft pink to a warm peach to a stunning hazel to a deep indigo to a florescent red over and over, like a moving rainbow.

                Bilbo sucked in a breath as he whispered with reverence and wide eyes, “Oh…Thor, it is absolutely beautiful!  Thank you!”

                Indeed, the gift was fit for the Consort of the Lonely Mountain if not for a King.  Many of the Elves were murmuring to themselves about such a wondrous sight, and King Thranduil looked a bit envious.  Even the Men and the Dwarves (who usually did not care for such fragile objects) could see the rarity of such a gift.

                “It is a poor gift for one so noble of heart to love his fellow brothers and to be chosen by Mjolnir,” Thor stated as he handed over the Bilbo Blossom before taking one of Bilbo’s hands and gently kissing the Hobbit’s knuckles.

                Bilbo stammered a bit, wide-eyed and blushing, but he wasn’t offended or scandalized.

                Thorin Oakenshield, however, felt the nails of his fingers dig into his skin as his hands clenched into fists, one eye twitching ever so slightly.  Inhaling sharply through his nose, the Dwarf King reminded himself to take joy in Bilbo’s happiness and pleasure in the gift and to be cordial in Thor’s benevolent souvenir and that they needed Thor and Steven Rogers alive to help with the growing problems of the Goblins and Orcs.  But just before Thorin could utter a retort, Thor then dropped another surprise.

                “And of course, I have a present for King Thorin Oakenshield as well,” Thor announced.

                There were quite a few murmurings of disbelieving amazement from the crowd all around as Thorin blinked, stunned.

                A present?  For him?

                Considering the last time Thor and Thorin met, they did not part on the best of terms.  And yet…

                Suddenly, Thorin could somewhat feel a bit ashamed as he realized that perhaps (just perhaps) he was a little judgmental on Thor Odinson.

                Balin let loose a sigh of relief he had no idea he had been holding in.

                Thor’s blue eyes gleamed a bit as he draw out a second object under his cloak with a flourish.

                “King Thorin of Erebor, we have also created a flower under your namesake.  I present to you…the Oakenshield, a flower that suits your attire and personality.”

                Thorin’s face and expression froze in horror as he stared.

                In Thor’s hands was a large slab of wood, artistically ripped and hacked off the trunk of an oaken tree, and growing out of the exposed wood and bark were three thin flowers, with frail, curled leaves and baby vines like those from a pea plant.  One flower was the color of the brightest pink the Dwarf had ever witnessed, bell-shaped and hanging downwards.  The second flower was light blue, like the sky, and had its petals open up like a trumpet, with a bunch of yellow pollen at the opening.  The third flower was star-shaped with six thin petals curled in feminine magenta with a peach-colored center.

                Yet what was most extraordinary was that each time the petals of the flowers moved or shifted in the wind, they tinkled.

                Like tiny bells of glass and silver.  Ringing in a high pitched and annoyingly chiming cacophony of dandy wind chimes.

                In short, Thorin’s gift was the most feminine and garish flowers he had ever seen in his life.

                That tinkled.

                And Thor christened the subtle insult under Thorin’s own name.

                Everyone else in the Company as well as Bard the Bowman internally winced.

                Gandalf’s eyes twinkled as he did his best to not smile (although the corners of his mouth were twitching underneath his white whiskers).  Dís however couldn’t help but chuckle to herself while Gimli was full out holding his stomach and howling alongside Bain (despite the warning glares from Glóin).

                “Da?” Tilda asked her father, “Why is King Thorin turning red?  Does he not think the musical flowers are so pretty?”

                “Cover your ears, Tilda,” Bard sighed, deflecting his daughter’s question as he brought his youngest over and covered both sides of Tilda’s head with his callused palms.

                Thorin felt one side of his head buzz in pain as an ugly vein popped up and throbbed in growing outrage.

                Given the snickering and attempts to cough to disguise their growing laughter from the other Dwarves, Men, and Elves in the audience, nearly all were finding the alien flower absolutely hilarious.  Thranduil wasn’t laughing, but he had an absolutely smug smile as he leered at Thorin, enjoying his embarrassment.  Steven, to his credit, looked a bit uncomfortable.

                And right now, Thorin was trying his best to not give in to the murderous urge to tackle that damned Asgardian and beat him into a bloody pulp, starting with his handsome and perfect face.  He couldn’t help it; all reasoning and assurance that Thor simply meant no harm went directly out of Thorin’s consciousness.  Thorin’s face and cheeks flushed deeper and deeper into a crimson color, his teeth starting to grind and jar against each other  and his nails began to dig into the skin of his palms as he clenched his hands into fists.

                All Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Lonely Mountain, needed was just one excuse to kill Thor Odinson.

                Just one.

                Bilbo coughed as he then said politely and gently amid the disguised chortling all around, “Er…as...as generous as your offer is, Thor, I must ask: why did you decide to create a flower to honor my husband as well?”

                Thor grinned with a look of feigned innocence, showing some of his teeth.

                “Because I know that the both of you adore Elves.”

                “Oh dear…” groaned one of the Dwarflings, flinching.

                All the other children made squeals and exclamations of surprise.

                “He didn’t!” gasped a Hobbit girl in shock, hugging herself in anticipation.

                “On my word, and I swear by each and every book in the Erebor Library, Thor Odinson said exactly that to Bilbo and Thorin’s faces,” Ori chuckled.

                “That must not have been pretty,” commented one of the Dale children.

                “If I recall, it was quite violent from what I was told by some of our guards who bore witness to the brawl,” one young Elf piped up, frowning, “They told me that it led to the infamous Food Fight Battle of Erebor between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson.”

                “Actually, you are incorrect, young one,” Ori butted in with a smile, “That led to the Great Pummeling of Broken Noses and Hair Pulling between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson …”

                “Well, I certainly hope you’re pleased with yourself…” admonished Balin, not making an effort to hide his displeasure.

                He was glaring at his King, who at the moment, was lying on his back of the soft feather mattress in one of the guest bedrooms close to the Royal Wing.  Despite having a bruised eye, a fractured and twisted nose, and a broken rib (with his bare, hairy torso wrapped with bandages and soothing herbal ointments thanks to Óin), Thorin was actually smiling, paying little heed to his advisor.

                Balin continued, ticking off each worry with a finger, “You have initiated an embarrassing scandal with a God and a Prince who resides from the stars, thus staining the good name of Erebor’s hospitality.  You have made an embarrassment to yourself, to Bilbo, to Gandalf, and the entire Company in front of the populations of Erebor, Mirkwood, and Dale.  Your fight could have been possible grounds of triggering an interstellar…by Mahal, I cannot believe I just said that.  But yes, an interstellar incident that would have been perfect grounds for war between ourselves and Asgard.  Your actions have forced Bilbo to kick you out to the royal bedroom as punishment for attacking his friend Thor in such a disgraceful manner, and now it shall be a while before your injuries heal, which not only prevents you from contributing in the battles against the sudden Orc uprisings but also from being intimate with Bilbo.  Especially a given, considering our deal Consort is quite furious at your immature conduct toward his friend whose hammer is the only reason why you and your nephews are still alive as of this day, need I remind you.”

                Balin then finished this with a stern sigh as he crossed his arms and glared at Thorin, who was still grinning like a satisfied cat that just ate the proverbial canary and clearly not the least bit repentant.

                “Why are you still smiling?” Balin demanded.

                Thorin merely raised one clenched fist, showing a lock of silky, blond hair (with a bit of bloody scalp at one end) before bragging smarmily, “I managed to rip a chunk off that ponce’s head.”

                “Ouch…” murmured one Dale child upon hearing that.

                The young she-Elf frowned a bit to herself before she commented, “How strange.  I could have sworn my Elders informed me that the Great Food Fight of Erebor happened around that time-frame.”

                “Oh, it did,” Ori chimed in as the Dwarf nosily slurped his tea, “It was the morning after…”

                Pink roses for admiration and appreciation…

                Red roses for deep love…

                White tulips for forgiveness…

                All encased in winter’s daphne for desiring to please his beloved…

                Thorin couldn’t help but chuckle with complacent fulfillment as he ambled towards the Royal Kitchens, mentally patting himself on the back.  Even though it was early in the morning and two hours before sunrise, he could smell the wonderful aromas of baking bread and spices and knew Bilbo would be helping Bombur and his wife with breakfast.  Bilbo would be truly ecstatic and excited to the brim with joy when he would just glimpse at Thorin’s magnificent bouquet of flowers (which was almost as large as the Dwarf King himself).

                And that was not including the lavender, violet flowers, and yellow rose petals the King scattered on their bedsheets in the Royal Bedroom, perfect for the mood once Thorin dragged Bilbo back to their bed for a vigorous and intimate round of lovemaking and apologies.

                Thorin’s smugness made him think rather uncharitable thoughts as he was about to step into the entranceway to the cookhouse.

                He’ll show that stupid Thor Odinson what a true royal does to please Bilbo.

                He’ll show that damned Thor Odinson how to actually make flowers impressive.

                And he’ll also show that self-righteous jackass who truly had Bilbo’s heart and adoration right before Thorin and the Royal Guard toss that useless lump of muscle out of the mountain –

                “Oh my!  Oh my!  Oh my!” Bilbo gasped softly with unexpected bliss.

                Thorin felt his heart freeze and clench with chains of icy horror as he went still, right in the middle of the doorway.

                “Oh, Thor!” groaned Bilbo in delight, “That feels absolutely wonderful!”

                The massive bunch of flowers dropped from the Dwarf’s twitching and numb hands, collapsing ungracefully into a messy heap on the stone floor.

                “Am I using too much pressure, Brother Bilbo?” Thor said gently, his deep voice reverberating throughout the bustling kitchen, “Shall I instead work on the back of your head and temples again?”

                Thor’s eyes glazed over as his lower eyelid in his right eye began to throb and pulsate worryingly.

                “No, right – oh!  Right there!  Oh yes!  That – oooohh!” Bilbo moaned with relished pleasure.

                All the usual chatter and cooking activity hesitantly crawled to a standstill as the tense and worried Bombur and his staff glanced uneasily at the figure of King Thorin, his face frozen in a permanent grimace, teeth bared and eyes so wide one would see the gaze of madness in the shiny whites all around his dilated pupils.

                There, right next to the ovens in the scullery, was Bilbo, sitting backwards on a wooden chair and with his stomach leaning against the backing and chin resting on top of the crest.  Bilbo was without his waistcoat and wearing only his breeches and thin dress-shirt, but his eyes were closed and Bilbo was sporting the most idyllic and blissful smile Thorin had ever witnessed.

                Primarily because the lumbering Thor Odinson, shirtless and without his cape, but wearing a giant apron which did little to hide the muscles in his arms and shoulders, was kneeling behind Bilbo and gently massaging the Hobbit, invoking whimpers of delight and pleasure as Thor rubbed the Consort of the Mountain.  His back, his shoulders, his neck, and even his head with his fingers raking through Bilbo’s curls of gold, Thor kneaded and pressed against Bilbo’s tense muscles artfully, tenderly, and with the same softness and care as a lover.  Despite the barely-noticeable bald spot amid his blond hair or his swollen nose from Thorin’s punch yesterday, Thor was smiling and looking like he was appreciating every instant of being in close proximity to the Hobbit as he leaned closer, his chest nearly squashing against Bilbo’s back and whispering in Bilbo’s ear.

                “Do not worry about taking up my time, Brother Bilbo,” purred Thor as he used his thumbs to hit the tender and small spot between Bilbo’s shoulders that made Bilbo feel like he was melting, boneless, and strangely limp like overcooked noodles, “I am simply content in making you smile which is reward enough.”

                Bilbo then opened his eyes to see a petrified Thorin, white as a sheet, standing wordlessly and bug-eyed in the doorway.  Though Bilbo knew what this looked like, at this point, he couldn’t really have cared.  By Yavanna, an entire army of Orcs could have invaded the canteens right then and there, and Bilbo still wouldn’t move from having such a heavenly bodywork session.

                “Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo whimpered in relished leisure, “Thor knows how to give wonderful massages!  Something called ‘shiatsu’ something or other!  He came down here before sunrise and helped around with lifting our heavy supplies and crates before he helped Hilna with her tense neck!”

                “He gave all of us back rubs!” sighed Hilna, Bombur’s wife, as the jolly Dwarrowdam turned to her husband and asked eagerly, “Was it not wonderful of Master Thor to give all of the kitchen staff massages for our aching shoulders and backs?  Was it not simply divine?”

                “Um…well…it was…all right?” Bombur offered meekly, not sure if joining in on his wife’s accolades was going to earn him a swift and painful death.  Given the look of simmering and shocked wrath on Thorin’s face, Bombur was not in the mood to risk his life considering the King appeared as if he was going to execute everyone in the scullery within the next second.  Still, despite the hazard, many of the workers and cooks were smiling contently at the memory.

                Thor leaned closer to Bilbo’s ear and whispered, “Brother Bilbo, when I am finished, perhaps you can grant me the honor and privilege to massage your husband as well?  As a token of appreciation for his generosity in allowing myself and Steven to reside in Erebor?”

                “Uh…Master Thor?  I daresay that may not be…prudent…” gulped an ashen Bombur as he nudged his wife backwards a bit cautiously, away from the incoming explosion.

                Thor then maddeningly leered with pure self-righteousness at Thorin Oakenshield, showing his teeth and as jovial and light-hearted as one could be.

                “Nonsense, Master Bombur!  I would be delighted to!  After all, I have magical fingers…”

                “Oh by Eru and all of the Valar…” groaned one Elf, covering his face with one hand in embarrassment as all the children and teens laughed and guffawed at Thor’s statement.  Even Ori’s son snorted in the background, his voice a deep bass compared to the light-hearted tenor of the chortling youngsters.

                Ori smiled as he said, “That led to the Great Food Fight between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson.  Along with the Fight of Painfully Misplaced Kitchen Instruments.”

                “…‘painfully misplaced’?” echoed one Dale girl in confusion.  Ori smiled as he sipped his tea.

                “I shall explain it to you when you children are older.”

                “Wait…” piped up one young Hobbit boy, “Is this the reason why the Royal Kitchens has a skylight in the ceiling?”

                “It was the only way we could fix the hole,” Ori confessed with a smile.

Chapter Text

                “I will kill you if you touch him!” declared Eowyn strongly as she placed herself between the Witch King of Angmar and Théoden.  Her fallen uncle, crushed under the weight of his dead horse, was barely on the brink of consciousness as he recognized his niece.

                The Witch King smiled before he raised one clawed hand, and immediately, appearing out of thin air, the other eight Ringwraiths materialized before Eowyn’s eyes like dark magic, their black cloaks billowing eerily in the wind and their swords glinting harshly under the sun.

                Eowyn felt her breath still in her throat.  In order for the dreaded Black Riders to be out in the middle of daylight and to be visible such as this…

                The leader dismounted from his winged steed before uttering his raspy voice of despair and ethereal death.

                “Thou fool.  You think yourselves so presumptuous that thou could actually hinder us?” the Witch King intoned as he hefted his chained mace.  To her absolute and utter disbelief and shock, Merriadoc Brandybuck rushed forward and put himself next to Eowyn’s side, eyes dark and grim but with his Barrow-Blade drawn out and pointed at the specters.

                Eowyn was both moved and worried at Merry’s bravery while the Witch King and his undead soldiers cackled, nearly crushing both the Hobbit and the Shieldmadien with the immense feelings of gloom and dreariness.

                The Witch King intoned cruelly, “Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!  Or he will not slay thee in thy turn.  He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shriveled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

                Despite the icy fear threatening to overwhelm her heart and senses, Eowyn managed to stay bold with her sword and shield drawn and ready.  But even she could not see any hope in this.

                The Witch King was bad enough, but there would be no possible way that she and Merriadoc could conceivably have a chance against all nine of them.  Not even Gandalf could survive such odds.

                And then, completely out of the proverbial left field…

                “Oh my God.  Shut up,” intoned Melinda’s steely and monotone voice from behind, taking everyone (even the Nazgûl) by complete astonishment, and the warrior maiden and Hobbit turned around to see a wondrous and uplifting sight.

                Walking up to Eowyn and Merry were Black Widow, Captain Marvel, and Scarlet Witch of the Avengers, Agents Melinda May, Maria Hill, and Bobbi Morse of S.H.I.E.L.D., Queen Dís of Erebor, Captain Tauriel of Mirkwood, Lady Arwen of Rivendell, and Lady Síf of the Warriors Three of Asgard.  All of them were dressed for battle with mail and reinforced body armor and fully equipped with necessary armaments.  Captain Marvel and Scarlet Witch needed no weapons, but their hands were glowing with yellow solar energy and crimson hex magic.

                Despite the sounds and howls and chaos of battle all around them, they marched on, grim, determined, and resolute in finishing this fight together.

                Eowyn sent a silent prayer of thanks to Eru as she felt her heart buckle with relief while the ten female combatants flanked alongside the White Lady of Rohan and her Hobbit friend.

                “You OK, Eowyn?” Natasha asked with concern as she drew out her twin pistols.  Eowyn gave a nod but she pointed to Théoden.

                “My Uncle!  You must help him!”

                “And we shall swiftly get him to the Healers’ tents, but we cannot retreat.  We must take care of these foul creatures.  Now.  Before they cause even more destruction and tip the war in Sauron’s favor,” Arwen pointed out as she rested a soothing and calm hand on Eowyn’s shoulder.  The Lady of Rohan realized that Arwen had a point; the battle was already precariously in the balance, and leaving the Nine Ringwraiths unattended and free to roam could very well be the deciding factor that could cause them to lose.

                “How did you know we were here?” Merry couldn’t help but ask.

                Captain Marvel couldn’t help but smirk as she ruffled the Hobbit’s curly hair, teasing, “What, squirt?  You think we don’t know how to spot you in battle with the Big Ugly?  Like we’d miss this the second the Witch King summoned his cronies.”

                “Galadriel sent us,” Tauriel said with assurance with a smile as she readied an arrow on her bowstring, “You both will not fight alone, and she is guiding us…all of us, as of now.”

                “Thank you…” Eowyn said with extreme gratitude.

                Annoyed and a bit disturbed by the rude interruption, the winged steed of the Witch King arched its head high and roared menacingly.

                Without missing a beat, both Captain Marvel and Scarlet Witch flicked their hands at the Fell Beast.  There was a suddenly explosion of red and yellow energy before the steed was flung off its feet and crashed onto the ground.  The creature twitched before it went limp and died with a croak, its charred and withered head looking exactly like the burned end of a matchstick.

                “Oops…” Scarlet Witch said facetiously, clearly not the least bit sorry.

                The Witch King’s clawed hand tightened on the handle of his mace before he made a gesture to the skies, and instantly, upon command, the other Fell Beasts started appearing in the sky, roaring and circling above like vultures.  At the same time, all of the Nazgûl shrieked in an unholy tone that could never be duplicated by anything mortal, sending a gust of glacial air to buffet against the heroes.

                Though a few flinched, they still stood tall, and Melinda May even used the moment to activate the Berserker Staff in her hands while Síf drew forth her double-bladed sword, boasting haughtily.

                “You call that a scream?” Síf scoffed, “I have heard fiercer and more vigorous cries from wee newborns when they demand for milk!”

                “Y’know…” Bobbi Morse commented as she twirled her iron battle staves, “You asswipes really need to stop ripping off the ‘Harry Potter’ novels.  The dementors weren’t scary then, and they sure as Hell aren’t scary now.”

                The Nine weren’t sure whether to be bothered at the fact that these mere beings refused to cower or to be furious at such disrespect and audacity.  The Witch King himself was now ready to eviscerate every one of them and feed their corpses to the Orcs.

                “Carol, get Théoden, and fly him to the healers and reconvene with us here!” barked Maria Hill, readying her flamethrower, “Everyone else, quit gawking, and get ready to fight!”

                “Aye!” Dís boomed as she held her axe high in the air, “If we are to die, let it be a death that Mahal shall sing praises of in our Father’s Halls!”

                The Witch King growled before one of the Nazgûl named Khamûl pointed his sword at the allied heroes.

                “You presume the Nine can be vanquished by mewling quims?” Khamûl hissed with derision.

                Black Widow, Maria, Arwen, Bobbi, Tauriel, Síf, Melinda, Arwen, Dís, Captain Marvel, and Scarlet Witch all gave the Ringwraiths a collective, deadpanned look…

Art by tosquinha

                “And thus, the noble Lady Eowyn and her Shieldmaidens attacked the Witch King with a renewed and fierce vigor as they clashed together.  Within minutes, all of the nine Ringwraiths were defeated for they could not withstand their combined might and experience of their heroic teamwork and courage, and the last words of the Witch King were screams of mercy before Eowyn delivered the killing blow with some assistance from my Barrow-Blade.  King Théoden died of his wounds, though thankfully, he managed to give his last words of blessings and praise to my Lady and her fellow female warriors for their valor.  The end,” Meriadoc “Merry” Brandybuck retold, his eyes dancing with delighted glee amid his wrinkled face and white hair.

                There was a tense and stunned stillness from the audience of children before they started complaining towards the elderly Hobbit.

                “That is it?!” piped up a Hobbit girl, thoroughly disappointed.

                “That is all,” Merry replied cheekily.

                “That was not an adequate tale!  I daresay you have only talked for four minutes!” one Elf child complained.

                “That was a short story!” whined a Dale adolescent.

                “It was a short fight,” Merry shot back with jest, “I believe Lady Darcy Lewis termed it as…‘curb-stomp battle’.”

                “Old Merry Brandybuck, you simply cannot leave it like that!” whined a young human girl.

                “You should tell a long story!” cheered one young Dwarrowdam.

                The old and wily Hobbit then got a gleam of delight in his eyes as he declared, “Yavanna, have pity on a tired and frail Hobbit who is quite done in from travelling from the Shire!  How about you, Ori?  I daresay you have yet to prove you can tell a better story than this Hobbit who helped defeat the Witch King.”

                This brought cheers and exclamations of delight and encouragement from the young humans and Dwarflings and Elves.

                “Yes!  Yes!  Tell us a story, Elder Ori!  Show Old Merry who’s the better storyteller!  Elder Ori, please say yes!”

                Ori smirked at the challenge as his eldest son served him a cup of jasmine tea (not Ori’s favorite, but it was pleasant nonetheless).  Ori’s son, however, got the sneaking suspicion Old Merry Brandybuck told a short story on purpose given the naughty gleam in the Hobbit’s eyes.

                After serving Merry a second cup of tea with honey to soothe Merry’s vocal chords, Ori’s grizzled son made sure his father was comfortable next to the fire before walking away.  Calmly resting against the cavern wall, the Dwarf arms waited patiently with crossed arms over his barrel-like chest.

                Ori sipped his tea before he began in his pacifying voice.

                “Now, then…where was I?  Oh, yes!  This shall be a continuation of the story from last week.  Within the next several days, Steven and Thor did their best to settle into their new residences here in Middle Earth.  Unfortunately, though Thor acclimated well enough, Steven’s healing was slow and non-evident…”

                “Master Rogers?” Balin asked.

                No answer, so the Dwarf advisor became a bit more insistent.

                “Master Rogers!”

                Captain America jerked out of his fugue state, only to find the entire War Council staring back at him from the round table of marble and stone.  They included Thor Odinson, Gandalf the Gray, Thranduil, Tauriel, and Legolas Greenleaf of the Elves of Mirkwood, King Bard and several of his advisors from the Men of Dale, and Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Dain, and Fíli of the Dwarves of Erebor.

                Each and every one of the attendees was staring at Captain America with various looks of worry, disdain, and confusion.

                “Are we boring you, Captain America?” Dwalin asked coldly, “You have not yet made a single suggestion or comment at all during the past hour.”

                Steve felt quite uneasy with everyone staring at him, and he did his best to not hyperventilate.

                He didn’t mean to drowse off, but the Captain couldn’t help but envision Bucky’s face over and over again relentlessly, reminding him of his guilt and anguish…

                “My apologies, Mister Dwalin,” Steve stated sincerely, “I have not been sleeping well recently, but I mean no offense.”

                Gandalf and Thor’s faces fell upon realization that Steven was most likely having nightmares.  Balin, with compassion, then rose from the table in a smooth sidetrack.

                “Members of the War Council, it has been a while, and I can smell the aromas of a succulent luncheon being prepared for us in the Royal Dining Room.  Let us break for a good meal, and frankly, Bilbo’s cuisine is certainly a promising treat, the best you can ever receive in the Lonely Mountain!”

                At this, even Thranduil and Legolas looked forward to enjoying Bilbo’s apple turnovers and fresh salads and a hearty soup of squash and mushroom.  Still, as they left, there was some muttering amid the participants as one or two looked furtively at the melancholy Captain America who remained seated at the table.

                Thranduil and Legolas did not say anything, but Legolas looked back at Steven, one eyebrow raised scornfully.  Clearly, neither Elf was suitably impressed.  Tauriel, however, gave Steven a small smile of pity (which understandably, made Captain America feel worse).

                “He certainly does not say much…” grumbled Dain in Khuzdul as he lumbered away, “I am starting to believe that Thor has been lying about this Captain America’s worth in battle.”

                “He better pull his weight.  We cannot have him be an example of leeching off our hospitality,” Dwalin pointed out with disparagement, “He barely does anything useful!  Thor is actually more useful than this Steven Rogers!  And I hate admitting that!”

                “I hate hearing it,” Thorin muttered.

                “Do you believe this warrior is muddled, my Lord?” one advisor asked Bard.  Frowning at the tactlessness of the question, Bard shook his head.

                “I am willing to trust the Son of Odin and his judgment considering how his hammer assisted us in the Battle of the Five Armies,” Bard said affirmed, “And keep in mind, Warrior’s Sickness is not something that can be rushed.  Thor mentioned that Steven needed time to recover from the war in his world.”

                “But how much time?” another advisor pointed out, perplexed, “That is the issue, especially with the Goblin and Orc attacks surmounting.”

                As the entourage exited, Thor and Gandalf remained behind with the downcast Steve, who was currently cradling his face in both hands as he rubbed his face with fatigue, elbows propped on the table.

                Steve wished with all of his heart he wasn’t here in this forsaken Middle Earth.

                Thor tried to reach out and place a hand on Captain America’s shoulder.

                “Steven…” Thor intoned quietly and kindly, but with a frustrated shove, Steven got up from the table and strode away out of the meeting room, in the opposite direction.  It was clear that the Captain was not willing to open up, not even to his fellow Avenger.

                Thor sighed as he looked at Gandalf and pleaded, “Is there not a spell you can cast to heal my shield-brother, Incánus?  Please, for his sake, I will do anything you ask of.”

                The wizard shook his head gravely as he intoned, “Magic cannot fix everything, Son of Odin.”

                “Then what will fix this?  If it is too big for even a wizard’s magic to resolve it?” Thor asked softly after a moment.  Gandalf smiled before he patted Thor on the shoulder and strode away.

                “The little things, of course.”

                Thor frowned before he complained, “Riddles?  Must you, Incánus?”

                “Does it answer your question?”

                “No.”

                “Then I must,” Gandalf preened with a satisfied smile as he left the room.  Thor exhaled wearily, rolling his eyes, but followed his childhood Elder out of the meeting room.

                Things didn’t get much better the next day…

                Ori couldn’t help but be mesmerized as Thor and Steve sparred, practicing their hand-to-hand combat skills on each other.  Thankfully, since it was just after sunrise, the training grounds were devoid of any guards and Dwarves, which allowed Thor and Steve to use the secluded area for exercising in private.  Thor was devoid of his breastplate and cape while Steve changed his clothes to a simple pair of comfortable, gray sweat-pants.

                Both were shirtless, however.

                Ori gawped at their incredible musculature (and Ori couldn’t help but be a bit self-conscious at his pudgy belly compared to Steven’s chest and well-defined stomach), the hairless yet white skin of Steve contrasting against Thor’s tan with the beads of sweat glinting off the torchlight, the way how Steve and Thor’s punches and kicks were so powerful and fluid, like a wild dance.

                Their brawl was both treacherous and picturesque, both terrifying and inspirational.   Ori had watched Dwalin and Kíli and Fíli spar many times in the Blue Mountains and on the road during the Quest for Erebor.  However, the movements and tactics displayed by Thor and Steve transcended Dwarvish fighting techniques to an entirely new level.

                In particular, Ori focused his concentration on Steve.  Whereas Thor’s swings were wild, enthusiastic, and as if the Asgardian were fighting drunk in a bar or tavern, Steve was precise, controlled, and actually focused as much on offense and evasive procedures, actually rolling, bouncing off walls and the floor, and cartwheeling with a gymnastic agility that could rival an Elf’s.

                It was amazing how someone that hulking and bulky could move as nimbly as a cat, as evasive as a gust of wind.

                Ori’s hands went mad with passionate creativeness as the Dwarf scribe did his best to capture the movements on paper, the charcoal smudging as he saw the two warriors dance on air.  The scribe felt that he could have drawn hundreds of pictures of Steven Rogers, the insightful muses bubbling inside him like a geyser.

                If only the warrior would be willing to allow Ori to draw him (and he felt himself blushing upon that realization).

                No, such a thought would be silly.  Preposterous even.

                Why would such a powerful and haunted warrior want to waste his time with such a trivial distraction?  Dwalin didn’t.

                “Ori!” called out Bilbo from the sidelines as he emerged with a tray with tea and a pile of cheese scones and jam and clotted cream, “Nori informed me where you were!  You missed first breakfast, so I – oh!”

                Bilbo was so preoccupied in bringing in the tray of food that he did not realize who else was in the drill grounds until he managed to make his way through the door.  Bilbo’s eyes went wide with shock as he let out a strangled and embarrassed squeak from his mouth upon seeing Steven and Thor sweating, bare-chested, and dueling each other in a vicious burst of strikes.

                Upon hearing the squeak, Thor suddenly smiled as his expression brightened upon seeing the Consort of Erebor gaping at them from the side entrance.  Unfortunately, that one distraction was exactly what Steve Rogers needed as he fluidly leapt into the air like an acrobat, cinched his legs around Thor’s neck and head in a hurricanrana wrestling move before using his body weight and momentum to throw the Asgardian off his feet and slam Thor into his back hard on the ground.  Thor was a bit dazed before he then yelped in pain as Steve grabbed his left arm and twisted hard, nearly breaking it as he kept Thor pinned to the ground.  Ori gasped in surprise as Bilbo actually dropped the tray of breakfast, scattering the food and tea onto the ground as he rushed forward in foolish worry for his friend.

                “Stop!  Stop!  That’s enough!” Bilbo cried as he grabbed at Steve’s shoulder, but it was like trying to move a stone wall.  Steven Rogers was completely lost in the moment, automatically acting upon instinct without even deciphering what was happening all around him.

                Thor bellowed in pain, “Steven!  Steven, it is I!  Thor!  Son of Odin!  Steven, wake up!”

                Upon the shout, Steve blinked as if waking up from a trance before he realized what he was doing.

                His face fell in revulsion and terror as Steve quickly stopped and rescinded back his legs.

                “Oh jeez…” Steve gasped in self-disgust as he blanched, immediately offering a hand, but Thor couldn’t help but chuckle at the about-face and the look of Steve Rogers now looking like a chagrined and ashamed puppy dog as he took the hand Steve offered out.

                “I’m sorry,” Steve apologized, shuddering a bit at how he lost control.

                Thor boomed jovially, clearly not showing a grudge as he powerfully clapped Captain America on the shoulder and declaring with nonchalance, “Nay, there is no need to apologize, Brother Steven!  My mother has hit me harder than that, and there is no damage!  Tis just a bruise, that is all!  Friend, do not be ashamed.  There is no dishonor or disgrace in having Warrior’s Sickness, especially since you endured such grueling tragedies with Bucky…oh.”

                Thor mentally kicked himself for his big mouth when he saw Steven’s dismayed face at the lapse.

                Despite the wariness at how easily Captain America just took down Thor Odinson, Ori could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the Man.  Perhaps he could arrange to have Dwalin talk with Captain America.  Dwalin himself was no stranger with Warrior’s Sickness and traumatic dreams and flashbacks ever since the Battle of Azanulbizar, so perhaps from one soldier to another, Steven could find some healing in Dwalin’s advice.

                “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…”

                Bilbo was muttering over and over under his breath as he was hurriedly picking up the discarded tray and shattered teapot.  There was little point to salvage the first breakfast he brought to Ori; the scones, the tea, jam, cream, and berries all were ruined, trampled, tipped over, and covered with filth.

                Steve immediately rushed over, apologizing as he hurriedly offered, “Mister Bilbo!  Let me help - !”

                “Oh, no no no no no!” Bilbo frantically shot down, trying to smile despite his quivering hands and flinching at Steve’s close proximity, “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Master Steven!  That is too kind of you, but I need no help whatsoever!  I’m fine!”

                Steve winced, as if Bilbo struck him.

                Thor, sensing the discomfort, tried to change the subject.

                “Brother Bilbo!” Thor intoned with a smile as he ambled forward, his chest gleaming with sweat, “We did not mean to worry or frighten you!  Allow us to escort you back to the kitchens where we shall help make another fine meal worthy of a King!”

                Bilbo’s timid smile grew a bit warmer as Thor knelt down next to the Hobbit and began to help his friend gather up the remnants of the breakfast repast (though Bilbo did his best to not ogle at the sight of Thor’s muscles).  Though it wasn’t intentional on Bilbo’s part, Steve’s eyes clouded with remorse at the act of the Hobbit being immediately at ease with the Asgardian God and brushing Steven aside.

                “Oh!  There is simply no need to accompany me back to the kitchens, Thor.  Besides, I do not wish for you to disappoint your fans.”

                “…our fans?” echoed Thor, tilting his head in confusion.  Bilbo looked a bit amused as he pointed at the back of the training grotto, causing Steven, Thor, and Ori to turn around to see a rather unexpected yet flattering sight.

                Sitting on the numerous stone benches, the floor, or lounging casually against the walls of the cavern was a crowd of female Elves, Women, and Dwarrowdams.  Ori, to his astonishment, spotted the Captain Tauriel was sitting side by side with Princess Sigrid of Dale; it was sort of amusing to see the female Captain of Mirkwood having a mirror image of delight like Sigrid like twitter-pated schoolgirls.  Undeniably, all of the females were surveying the two Avengers with various degrees of intensity.  Some were a bit hesitant upon seeing Steve’s violent lapse, and some thankfully showed no judgement, their faces calm and inquisitive.  However, most of them scrutinized the two Avengers keenly, yearning and with lovesick expressions and as if they were trying to visually devour every delicious minute detail.

                Apparently, Ori, Thor, and Steven were all so preoccupied during the spar that they did not even detect the mass gathering behind them for the past hour.  Ori and Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder how they all knew that Steven and Thor were in the training grounds.

                Steve felt even more exposed and awkward.  No doubt that they were now thinking some rather uncharitable thoughts about his behavior and mental health, and the Captain had a small desire to flee and hide…

                Thinking quickly about doing damage control, Thor decided to go for some humor.

                “Dare I ask why you lovely ladies have decided to grace us with your illustrious presence?” Thor asked with a cocky smile, as he may have deliberately clenched his fists to flex his biceps a bit ostentatiously and bounced his pectorials, which invoked many of the crowd to blush.

                Including Bilbo, much to Thor’s delight.

                “We’re training…” one Dwarf lass twittered.

                Ori raised an eyebrow as he pointed out, “But…you’re not practicing any fighting or combat techniques or weaponry.”

                “We’re studying!” Sigrid insisted, her eyes wide with delight.

                “Very, very thoroughly,” sighed Tauriel as she drank in the sight of the two bare-chested Avengers dreamily.  One other female Elf from Mirkwood then raised her hand with a request.

                “Masters Thor and Steven?  Perhaps you both could demonstrate some more of the techniques you use in your homelands?  Those moves are simply extraordinary!  I simply cannot stop observing such splendid maneuvers!”

                “Agreed!  We could benefit from such a performance – er, I mean, some instruction,” chimed in another Woman.

                Thor rolled his eyes at Steven with a wide and mischievous smirk.

                “Shall we, Steven?”

                “Er…I guess so,” Steve admitted after some hesitation, still reluctant, which was all Thor needed as he tackled Captain America with a wince-worthy blitz that would have put any rugby or pro-football player to shame.

                Ori continued to draw as the audience cheered while Thor and Steven wrestled on the stone ground.  Bilbo couldn’t help but ponder over the absurdity over this whole thing.

                Meanwhile, two familiar young women from Dale were hurrying down the corridors in the Lonely Mountain, eager to hasten towards the training grounds as they stumbled slightly over the shadows…

                “I am telling you, that one Dwarf guard looked like he wanted to cry in frustration when I asked him where the training grounds were inside the Mountain,” Mafira insisted, “All right, so I had him repeat the directions thrice, but I consider the way his face broke a complete overreaction!”

                “That is a bit strange…” mused Bea, “You would think he acted as if he had been asked that question multiple times before.  Oh dear, I think we are lost.”

                “Actually, you are both correctly where you need to be if you’re here to see Thor Odinson and his friend,” a voice piped up annoyingly, and both Mafria and Bea turned to see Nori, smoking from his pipe and seated on a metal stool outside the entranceway to the training grounds.  The Royal Spymaster jerked a thumb towards the entrance next to him where both of the girls could hear various hails and applause from cheering ladies.

                “All the others are inside enjoying the show.”

                “Oh, thank you, Master Nori!” Bea gushed, but before she or her friend could enter the cavern, Nori blocked the path with his mace.

                “Hold…” Nori said in an authoritative tone, “It will cost one gold coin per visitor to ogle Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers.”

                Both of the young women quickly handed the Dwarf their payment, and the Dwarf instantly did an about face as he stepped aside with a friendly flourish of his hands.

                “You may ogle away,” the Spymaster declared gleefully, allowing the giggling Mafria and Bea to rush into the room.  Nori added the payments to the bulging sack lashed to his belt before deciding that he should ask Bifur to make a money chest for his future endeavors.

                “For some odd reason, I daresay I am hardly surprised,” commented a young Dwarrowdam as she rolled her eyes while the rest of the youngsters twittered and chuckled.  Merry clapped with glee in the background.  Ori sipped his tea before continuing.

                “Regardless of the new admirers they have gained, believe it or not, they did not matter much to Steven.  However, little by little, a select few started showing Captain America that Middle Earth had its share of nonjudgmental people and heroes as well.  And I along with one other found it positively delightful when it turned out that Steven was an enthusiast for good stories as well…”

                “Mrs. Murry went very white and with one hand reached backward and clutched at a chair for support.  Her voice trembled.  ‘What did you say?’”

                “Mrs Whatsit tugged at her second boot.  ‘I said’ she grunted, shoving her foot down in, ‘that there is’ – shove – ‘such a thing’ – shove – ‘as a tesseract.’”

                Tilda was rigid, starry-eyed and so silent and still that one could imagine she was a statue carved out of rock, as Steve continued to read to her of the Murray children meeting with the enigmatic and alien Mrs. Whatsit and the upcoming adventure beyond the stars…

                Despite his warrior-background and his age, Steve appeared to be absolutely having a fun time as he narrated from the story.  His voice was hardly monotone, but calm, patient, full of warmth, taking care raise or lower his voice an octave or two when he imitated a character’s speech patterns, while bringing the words to life in a magical bubble of warmth and imagination all around them.

                And from the starry-eyed fawning look and how the girl was resting her blushing face in her hands as they devoured each and every word, it was becoming apparent that the Princess was starting to adore the Avenger as she remained sitting on the ground in front of the Captain.

                “Tilda?” called out a familiar voice, somewhat concerned with worry.

                “Da!” squealed Tilda as she leapt up from her sitting position and went to hug her father (much to Bard’s immense relief), “Master Rogers has been reading stories to me!  I had so much fun!  Can I see him and have him read to me next time when he is in Dale?  May I?  May I?!”

                “It depends on Captain America, Tilda,” chuckled Bard as he patted his daughter’s head before he turned to Steve, “Thank you for watching her.  I was a bit worried when the meetings went longer than planned, and when she was not at the safe-house with Bain.”

                “I am sorry…” Tilda apologized, now drooping and regretful.

                “You’re welcome, your Majesty.  And no, I don’t mind if she wants me to read to her again,” Steve responded with a smile, which brought a squeal of joy from Bard’s youngest as the King of Dale and his youngest daughter walked away.  Steve could not help feeling his heart lighten a bit in relief.  The Avenger watched them leave before he gathered his book and knapsack, but he couldn’t help but hear the murmurs from several of the Men in the marketplace on the sidelines.

                “Useless is what this Steven Rogers is.  All he can do is entertain children.”

                “Tragic.  That is probably the only thing this Captain is best at.”

                “What a ponce.”

                “Hardly.  Did you ever hear about the incident between Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson in Erebor?”

                “I’m surprised King Bard would even allow someone that out-of-control anywhere near his child.”

                “I haven’t even seen him participate in any of the battles with the Orcs and the Goblins.”

                “I daresay this is a nuisance.  The one help a God from the stars above brings to our city, it turns out to be a violent hindrance to ourselves rather than the Orc scum.”

                “Perhaps the Captain should join the Orcs.”

                “Do they accept fops?”

                And just like that, his heart fell to his stomach, once again.

                Steve pretended to not overhear any of these insults, admirably maintaining a neutral face as he walked away.  It would do no good for anyone to start a fight, and frankly, he didn’t want to give reasons for Thorin, Bard, or Thranduil to kick them out.  Although frankly, it was tempting to use that as a reason to go home since begging and threats didn’t force Thor to consider returning to Earth in the slightest…

                Steve felt his mood sour a bit as his stomach gave a growl.  He needed to eat soon, but he did not have any local currency to possibly purchase any food from the markets and taverns of Dale.  Perhaps he could run back to Erebor; he could use the exercise…

                “Um…Captain Rogers?” a voice broke out, and Steven turned to see the two young residents of Dale, Mafria and Bea, standing politely.  Mafria was holding out a small wicker basket, covered with a cloth, but there was a delicious aroma of hot food emanating from within.

                “Yes, Miss.  How may I help you?” Steve gave a polite smile as he bowed his head in greetings, quickly getting over his astonishment.  Both Bea and Mafria shared a look and giggle.  Captain America’s manners and respectful demeanor would never get old for them.

                “Actually, we wanted to help you,” clarified Mafria as she handed the basket over to Steven.  Bea then also chimed in.

                “We made you some food since it is far past dinner, and it is our way of showing you a welcome to our fair city of Dale.”

                “Thank you…” breathed Steve with gratitude as he hurriedly sat down and started wolfing the fresh bread and butter, fish jerky, and boiled potatoes in an enthusiastic manner.  In between mid-bites, Captain America smiled sheepishly for his ravenous hunger, but both Bea and Mafria sat beside the Avenger, watching him with amused looks.

                “It’s not much.  We’re not as good at cooking as Master Baggins…” admitted Mafria.

                “It is far appreciated, regardless.  A lot better than the food I had with Buck-…when growing up, so thank you for the gift,” Steve finished before cocking his head with some curiosity, “But I am a little surprised.  Neither of you are scared of me?”

                “Should we be?” returned Mafria with a puzzled expression.  Steve’s eyes clouded a bit before he jerked his head to some of the lingering bystanders in the distance.

                “Some say I’m dangerous and violently out-of-control,” Steve stated, echoing the earlier words.  The two women gave Captain America a disbelieving look.

                “Dangerous and violently out-of-control people do not spend an hour reading a story to a little girl to make her happy,” pointed out Bea.

                Mafria then hesitantly asked, “If you do not mind, Master Rogers….could perhaps, Bea and I listen in on this story next time?  It sounded so enchanting.  I have never heard a tale such as this before of any sort in my life!”

                Captain America blinked before he then gave a genuine smile, his eyes for once losing their dull shade and clearing a bit with emotion.

                “You may.  And call me Steve,” he requested as he nodded.

                “Hold.  Elder Ori, are you saying that the entire ‘Wrinkle in Time’ stories have originated from Steven Rogers?  One of the most beloved tales and classics of all times?  The stories that many Hobbits, Dwarves, Men, and Elves have heard during their respective childhoods?” Old Merry Brandybuck asked with growing amazement, leaning forward in his chair and with wide eyes.

                Ori smiled as he nodded while his son (watching from the background) felt a surge of pride and reverence for Captain America at this confirmation.  Nearby, the reception of younglings whispered and murmured with venerated exhilaration and respect at this discovery.

                “I must admit I am a tiny bit jealous of Lady Tilda.  Imagine!  To hear Steven Rogers himself read out loud to you is an honored privilege,” one young Elf sighed with wonder.  She could almost picture staring into those eyes of the lightest sky-blue…

                Ori continued as he sipped his tea.

                “One week after Thor and Steven’s arrivals, I managed to go out to the Royal Courtyards during the full moon, and imagine my surprise when I discovered that I was not the only one who had the sudden inspiration to draw…”

                Ori felt that this evening could not be any more perfect for an outdoor visit as he climbed up the stairs to the massive enclosures, high above and cleverly built within a small plateau with balconies and patios of marble and granite.

                The moon illuminated the entire Lonely Mountain with bright touches of silver, making it unnecessary to use a torch.  Fireflies from Bilbo’s budding garden were lazily hovering throughout, enjoying the fresh and cool air of the night while competing against the plethora of diamonds shining against the black velvet.  The city of Dale in the distance could be easily seen with its numerous kitchen fires and lanterns in the distance, so clear and pristine and warm without any fog or mist to obscure the view.  Not to mention that there was a soft buffet of cool air billowing softly all around like rose petals against skin, refreshing, luxurious, and…

                Ori paused as he saw a lone figure sitting on one of the stone benches, staring out at the open landscape.  To the Dwarf’s surprise, the stranger was sketching into a small pad of paper with a strange pencil, actually observing at the gigantic rock statue of Thráin the First that was cleverly carved within the neighboring hills.  Ori couldn’t help but be interested and curious.  Out of all his experiences, he was the only one who enjoyed art to such a level, and upon closer look, the muscular Man was wearing brown slacks and a white, sleeveless cotton shirt, allowing Ori to see his impressive arms and broad shoulders.

                Unfortunately, Ori made a small noise as his boot clopped lightly onto the stone balcony which immediately invoked a reaction from Captain America.  Instinctively, Steven quickly dropped his pad and pencil before he grabbed his metal red and blue shield that he kept at his feet.  Leaping into a battle stance with bent knees and feet braced, Steve arched back his arm and prepared to hurl his weapon directly at his opponent.

                Ori actually screamed as he dropped his notepad and quill and covered his head to duck.  That yelp of fright snapped Steven Rogers out of his trance right before he could throw his shield.  His eyes widened as he realized he came very close to beheading Ori right then and there.

                “Oh God…” panted Steven with horror, white in the face.

                Ori didn’t even hear Steve’s lament as he babbled with his arms covering his head, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!  I did not know anyone else was up in the Courtyards!  I did not mean any harm!”

                Steve dropped the shield from his numb hand and fingers, quivering and trying his best to not to hyperventilate as images and horrific memories of Hydra soldiers, the Red Skull, explosions, and the Winter Solder came flooding into his head like a tsunami, unstoppable, inexorable, and overwhelming all his senses, no matter how hard Steven tried to willfully block them out.

                He could almost see Bucky’s face, cold, emotionless, telling him that Steve was his mission and how he would finish it…

                “I…I’m sorry!” Steve panicked, holding his head in his hands to quell the budding migraine, “I didn’t mean to – it was an accident - !”

                Ori blinked as he lowered his arms, staring at the Captain with a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

                Simply put, Steve looked lost.

                “I…I’ll leave…” Steve quickly said, unable to look Ori into the eyes as he hurriedly gathered his shield and retreated quickly, almost a blur.  The flummoxed Ori didn’t even have time to utter a word of protest before he was alone on the courtyard amid the glowing fireflies.

                Sighing, the dwarf scribe still decided to sit down on the bench to sketch when he noticed the ratty notepad lying on the dirt pathway.  It must have been Steven’s, hurriedly forgotten during the Avenger’s panic attack.  Intrigued, Ori picked it up, admiring the soft leather cover before noting the inscription written in pen amid the worn surface, faded but still legible:

                Happy Birthday, My Shoe-Shining Punk

                Puzzled, Ori curiously then opened the journal before he flipped through it.

                The Royal Scribe then gasped as he looked upon the black and white drawings.

                Filling the book were charcoal images of various drawings of such artistic aptitude and talent that it was almost as if the images could shift and turn alive, like moving pictures.  The shading, the lines, the details: each of them were so fine as if made with the sharpest quill and so smooth and painstakingly elucidated with attentive care.  Ori himself had witnessed diagrams in the library of Erebor and Rivendell during the trek to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, but these sketches were so mind-blowingly grand and astounding that they put the illustrators of Elves and Dwarves to shame.  Ori could easily see being able to sell such incredible pieces of art for high prices, and Ori felt a small urge to buy Steven’s notebook from the Captain himself as he felt he could stare at such graphics for hours and hours.

                A drawing of Peggy Carter, walking in a stunning dress and lipstick, smirking a seductive smile that made Ori actually blink as if she was suggestively calling to Ori with a “come-hither” tone…

                A drawing of the State Fair at Steeplechase Park in New York, complete with the Ferris Wheel, the Cyclone roller coaster, the Grand Ballroom with guests sipping soda and dancing within that made Ori want to run into the crowd of music and laughter like an excited Dwarfling…

                A drawing of a Curtiss P-36 Hawk aircraft, soaring high above farmlands and grasslands and amid the clouds during the midday.  Ori was amazed at the sight of a flying metal ship; he could have never imagined such a thing in all of his wildest dreams.  Even riding on the Giant Eagles was superbly humbling…

                “Please…” a hesitant voice spoke through the Dwarf’s musings, and Ori looked up to see a rather stricken Captain America, looking rather dismayed and apprehensive at the sight of his sketchpad being in the hands of a stranger.  Steve spoke again.

                “Please, that means a lot to me.  Don’t - ”

                “These are breathtakingly beautiful…” Ori murmured as he flipped through pages of downtown Brooklyn with actual men and women walking on the sidewalks, doves resting on a budding tree bough, an M4A1 tank used during World War Two, a picture of a handsome young man in military uniform with a cocky smirk, “They’re so precise, so well-detailed!  I could never get anything this exquisite and life-like with my quill and ink.  And…whoever is this?”

                Steve managed to school his face into a blank expression and suppress his inward panic as he gently took back the drawing pad, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s portrait. Ori then decided to make things clear before Steven decided to bolt as he held up his hands, beseeching.

                “Master Rogers, Captain America, please stay.  Please!  You do not know how wonderful it is to find someone else who thoroughly enjoys art and drawing!  Please, do not leave!  I wish to know more, about your world, about the world you lived in and what these drawings are based on!  It looks so wondrous, so amazing!” Ori pleaded.

                If Steve wasn’t surprised out of his trepidation before, he certainly was now as he blinked owlishly at Ori.

                “I nearly killed you,” Steve pointed out, mortified.

                Ori’s eyes softened as he smiled, “After surviving an encounter with a furnace with wings and an entire army of Orcs and giant spiders and Trolls that put me on a cooking spit, I daresay it isn’t the first near-death experience in my life.”

                Now Steven looked even more puzzled.

                Hesitantly, with much prodding from Ori, Steven finally sat down on the stone bench next to the Dwarf before Ori took out his journal and handed it to Steve.  The Man was touched at the simple gesture as he opened Ori’s daybook to see a plethora of inked images, each drawn with great love and meticulous care.  The Captain then could see the quality and rustic charm of all the sketches and portraits, the passion and the desire to memorialize it for generations to come.  Although a good portion of the diagrams were of a bald-headed and scarred Dwarf with a bushy beard and wielding twin axes…

                Steve blinked at the half-finished drawing of himself and Thor sparring days ago.

                This Dwarf wasn’t such a bad artist himself.

                “I love your art!” gushed Ori, hands clasped in front of him eagerly, “And you have no idea of how much of a pleasant surprise it is to see such a strong and powerful warrior being so imaginative and creative!  It’s just…so incomprehensible!  Unfathomable!  Most warriors would rather walk barefoot through the fires of Mordor than admit to seek comfort in aesthetic beauty!”

                “Really?” Steve drawled, one eyebrow raised, but he was smirking good-naturedly to show he took no offense.  Blushing, Ori winced, realizing what that sounded like.  Still, the scribe could not help but wonder.

                “Do the Men in your world see value in drawings like yours?”

                “Some do…” admitted Steven quietly, “Don’t you Dwarves?  I’ve seen some of the architecture of the Lonely Mountain and the craftsmanship of the swords and weaponry and gold plates and jewelry.”

                “That’s different…” admitted Ori, looking down on the ground in thought.

                Ori then flashed back to his earlier argument with Dwalin and how much his fiancé was so reluctant and loathed to see anything pleasing about his craft and his desire to sketch his portrait and the Royal Library.

                “I was always a bit of an odd one…” Ori murmured after a bit.  By the stone and forge, to this day, despite being one of Thorin Oakenshield’s fabled Company, quite a few of the Dwarven Nobles still turned their noses up at him for his unknown family name, of his position as a Royal Scribe and Librarian, of how his craft of writing and drawings were hardly respectable compared to metal-working or mining…

                There was a minute of deep silence where Ori simply did not know what else to say, and frankly, he was slightly embarrassed if perhaps he revealed a bit too much in personal matters and made it awkward.

                Then to his surprise, Steve handed Ori a small photograph he took out of his wallet.

                “What do you see?” Steve asked gently.

                Ori took a good look close-up before his eyebrows went up in amazement.

                It was an image of a young Man in his underwear, posing for the Army photograph, a child really, with the youth pale-skinned and malnourished, underweight with little muscle and so thin that even Ori could see the ribs outlined against the skin of his chest.  The adolescent was frail, and it would have not been much of a stretch that a strong gust of wind would have easily knocked him down.  By Mahal, even the youngest Dwarfling would have easily overpowered such a weakling without trouble.  But there was no question about the hair, the mouth and chin, the eyes of clear blue staring determinedly…

                “It…that is you!” Ori gasped before he gazed up and down in disbelief at Steven’s muscular body, “But…how?”

                Steve stated with the ease of time and fond memory, “I was sick and weak all my life, but I wanted to serve my country and help fight against the evil that was attacking so many innocent people.  So I volunteered for an experiment, and though I should have been the last candidate to be selected for the procedure, but one scientist said I was the best option.  Because I didn’t want to kill the enemy.  I just wanted to stop bullies, no matter where they were from.  Because the weak respect and value power, but they also value compassion.”

                Ori stared.

                “Doctor Erskine made me promise that no matter what happened after the experiment, that I would not change.  That I would not be a perfect soldier, but a good man.”

                Steven then made his point strongly as his eyes bored into the Ori’s.

                “So you stay as you are,” Steve said intently, “If you’re a good Dwarf with a good heart, then there’s nothing to be embarrassed of.”

                There was a heartened pause between them.

                Ori let out a chuckle as he confessed, “Actually, what I am embarrassed of right now is how simply envious I am over your artistic skills.  Can you image how many of our tales and stories could be enhanced into great works of art with your drawings?  And you cannot simply sketch just the statue of Thráin the First!  You have yet to see the Front Gates, the White Waterfalls that feed to our engineered pipes and cisterns inside, the Rookery where our finest Ravens nest, the Deep Halls, the Throne Room, the indoor stables that house our Rams that pull our chariots!”

                “Really?” Steven asked, raising an eyebrow mischievously, “You offering?”

                “Um…” Ori gulped, blushing as he looked down at his feet.  By Mahal, he was being really presumptuous.  What Captain America must be thinking of him?  There was a gratified chuckle from Steve as he got up from the bench and placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

                “How about this then?” Steve Rogers suggested, his eyes and smile warm and looking more life-like than he did when he first arrived in Middle Earth, “I could always use a guide and a pal to show me around.  If you would be willing to be my chaperone around Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood, I’ll help you out at the library and show you some new tips on how to sketch and draw.”

                “That would be wonderful, Master Rogers!” Ori chimed in before he could stop himself, and he blushed at the sudden outburst, lowering his head and embarrassed.  By Mahal, he put himself as a little too eager there.

                Steve chuckled again tenderly, his eyes twinkling.

                “Glad to hear it.  Let’s shake on it.  And please, call me Steve or Steven.  All my friends do,” and with that, Steve offered out his hand.

                Ori’s expression brightened as he leapt up, eagerly grasped Steve’s hand, and sealed the bargain.

                “It is a pleasure to meet you, Steven!  My name is Ori, Son of Ri!”

                Steve chuckled as he intoned, “Nice to meet you, Ori.”

Art by seadeepspaceontheside

                Unbeknownst to Steven Rogers and Ori, from the background’s shadows, Dwalin was observing this with a dark frown on his face.

                Within the next week, Ori and Steven kept their promises towards each other.

                Steven, as it turned out, was a wonderful help in assisting Ori in arranging and organizing the library.

                As a result of Smaug’s devastation, much of the ruins of the old archives were inaccessible due to the heavy loads of rubble and fallen support beams blocking many of the wings and adjoining rooms.  Few Dwarves could be spared due to the reconstruction efforts of other parts of the Lonely Mountain, and Dwalin, though he assisted for Ori’s sake, could not devote much time due to his guard duties.  Steven however could move aside the numerous boulders and metal wreckage like picking twigs from a forest with no trouble, clearing safe paths for Ori and his assistants in minutes.

                Ori also discovered that Captain America possessed a photographic and eidetic memory.  This was a boon in recalling where many of the ancient tomes resided in the ruined caverns, and the good Avenger brought them all out carefully in massive armloads without even scuffing the covers.  Though the Avenger could not read Khuzdul, he could easily recognize the symbols and order of lettering.  Soon Ori and his staff were facing piles and piles of antiquated and irreplaceable manuscripts and rare, priceless writings that have dated back to the First Age, making Ori simply jubilant over their recovery.  And Steve was efficiently invaluable in setting up shop, building shelves, decorating, moving furniture, and lugging endless volumes.

                Ori got more work done with Steven Rogers in one day than he ever had before with Dwalin.

                Nori stopped by once or twice in the Royal Library, but oddly enough, the only thing the Dwarf Spymaster did was casually lounge around on the sidelines and observe Captain America silently.  Regardless, Ori was relieved Nori wasn’t causing any problems for his new friend.

                And likewise, Ori guided Captain America all around Erebor, showing him every nook and cranny of the grand magnificence of the Lonely Mountain.  Ori led Steve to see the mines, observing the beautiful and sparkling ceilings of stalactite with flecks of quartz and precious jewels embedded in the stone.  Ori showed Steven the Grand Forges (used during the battle with Smaug) and how all the Dwarves transformed ordinary metal and rock into such exquisite jewelry and weaponry of strength and beauty.  Ori and Steven observed all the various landmarks of Erebor, from the tapestries and carvings explaining about Mahal and the first line of Durin to the grand sculptures and stairs and walkways that were hidden artistically and secretively throughout like an endless maze.

                Once in a while, Ori would grab Steven’s hand and escort the Avenger merrily away while chatting, making sure to keep him far from overbearing crowds less it touch on the Captain’s Warrior Sickness.  Steven did not say much, but he actually smiled and chortled a bit during the entertaining moments, his eyes becoming sharper and the bags under his eyes slowly shrinking and fading.

                Many Dwarves (as well as a few Elves and Men) saw them together, and tongues wagged as they often do.  Ori paid them no mind, but for several occurrences, the Dwarf could almost swear he spotted Dwalin staring at them from the distance.  Yet each time Ori took a second look, Dwalin vanished, as if he was never there in the first place.

                One evening, after a grand tour of the Ereborian Bazaar where various goods from fabric to spices to dishware were sold, Ori led Steven down within the confusing and maze-like alleyways before he led the Avenger inside a small edifice, the doorway covered and draped with a magnificent purple cloth with the Ri family name emblazoned upon it.

                Steven blinked as he looked around the chamber.

                It was a cozy tea shop, warm and inviting.

                A wide and elongated marble counter resided at one end with a small kitchen with ovens cleverly built into the stone walls of the Lonely Mountain, radiating pleasant heat from the coals and cooking fires inside.  Also assembled into the walls were metal tins of various tea leaves, dried flowers, and roots with carved labels identifying each of the canisters.  At Steven’s best estimate, there were actually over a hundred different variations of tea on hand and in stock, and to add the rustic charm, there were several wooden racks of fine wine and barrels of ale and mead neatly set up along the wall.  On the other end of the tea shop was a massive stone fireplace and hearth with a nice tidy fire crackling inside.  Next to the fireplace were several exquisite metal teapots, ready for brewing concoctions for various customers.  And in the middle of the shop was a wide and spacious parlor, filled with over twenty tables and chairs and stools of metal, at appropriate sizes to seat Dwarves but comfortable handle the weight of Elves and Men.

                And at the counter was Ori’s oldest brother, Dori, who was instantly joyous upon seeing customers at last.

                “Welcom – oh…” Dori lamely trailed off before he shook off his disappointment and went towards Ori before giving him a massive hug, grunting pleasantly at the cuddle.

                “I missed you…” Ori said sincerely as he broke out of Dori’s embrace before he pulled Steve over by one hand and said eagerly, “Steven, meet my brother, Dori, owner of Erebor’s finest tea shop!”

                “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Dori,” Steven said with a pleasant smile, offering out his hand.  Dori schooled his face into a poised smile as he shook Captain America’s hand, adding a little forceful squeeze on Steven’s fingers.  Steve did his best to not wince and maintain his smile as the pressure around his gloved hand creaked against his joints.

                “The pleasure is mine, Master Rogers,” Dori said a bit too pleasingly.

                “Be nice…” hissed Ori in Khuzdul.  Dori just pretended he didn’t hear Ori’s plea, his teeth gleaming under the light of the overhead lanterns.

                Steve pretended he didn’t feel anything as he cracked his knuckles back in place.  He couldn’t blame Dori, really.  The gray-haired Dwarf reminded him so much of the times Bucky protectively stood up for him when he was a ninety-pound, asthmatic weakling…

                “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Dori asked in an overly sophisticated tone.

                “I wanted to visit and show Steven around, if that’s all right,” Ori said a little hesitantly, which Dori immediately laughed as he patted Ori on the back and guided him to a nearby table.

                “Of course it is all right!  You managed to catch me at a wonderful time!  I have simply been so busy, it’s perfect timing to come when there’s a lull in the customer rush!”

                Steven then noticed the unused dishes and cups and ale mugs behind the counter, all stacked neatly without being washed or utilized even once.  He also spotted that most of the empty tables and chairs had no evidence of recent wiping or dustings, how the rugs on the floor were pristine with no scuff marks from any passerby’s boots, and how the pastries on display that were freshly baked that morning had none missing…

                Ori felt bad for his brother.  Thankfully, Dori owed one-fourteenth of the Ereborian treasury, so money wasn’t a problem and Dori would never be in any financial difficulty.  Notwithstanding, it was a bit soul-crushing to open your dream only to find it did not generate much interest from the populace whatsoever.

                Ori then reached into his pocket and said, “I thought perhaps I can buy myself and Steven a treat and some refreshment.”

                Dori kept up his oblivious and merry façade as he chided, “Now, now, now!  I will not accept money from family, so put that purse away, Ori!  A cup of nutmeg tea for you along with one of Bilbo’s freshly baked scones, just as you like it!  Now, then…Steven, was it?  What would you like to drink?  Some fine wine?  Perhaps a barrel of ale?  Or something stronger and more to the taste of a hardened soldier like yourself to get drunk off of?”

                Ori’s eyes widened slightly as he detected the unsaid accusation in Dori’s suspicious voice.

                Fearful, Ori winced as he then expected Captain America to be offended by such passive hostility and Dori’s mistrustful goading due to his overprotectiveness.

                “Actually…” Steve hesitated before he asked politely, “Would you happen to have any chamomile?  It was one of the few teas my mother gave me when I was little.”

                Dori felt time and space slow down to a crawl as his eyes focused on Steve Rogers, his face going slack.

                There was an uncomfortable silence for over ten seconds before Steve slightly leaned back in wariness.

                “Um…Mister Dori?  Is everything all right?  You’re staring at me.”

                “Guuhhhhh…”

                Dori remained befuddled as he gawped at Steve Rogers with a hilariously flabbergasted and adoring expression, his eyes dreamy along with his absentminded smile.

                The attentive crowd was absolutely mesmerized as they digested this information.

                “Elder Ori,” asked one Elf teen in shock, “Do you mean to tell us that Master Dori fell in love with Steven Rogers as well?”

                “Not in the way you are thinking,” Ori clarified as he sipped his tea.

                “Oh, Steven Rogers is an absolute gentleman!  After you left, he sincerely took an interest in the tea shop and cleaned up after himself and washed his dishes!  And can you imagine what he said when I tried to protest that he was my customer and that I refused any payment from him?  Can you?!” Dori gushed, eyes shining and so giddy, he was like a hyperactive, twitter-pated lass.

                “Twice already, Dori,” Ori muttered as he tried to concentrate on copying the text from one of the fading and dilapidated scrolls into a fresh book, wishing his brother wouldn’t do this in public right in the middle of the Library.  While he was working.

                “He then swore he would not leave a debt unpaid, and that he would be my worker and employee in my tea shop part-time until he and Thor could find a way to generate a way to bring patrons into my establishment!  Oh, Steven is so considerate and thoughtful!  Thor Odinson was correct when he claimed that there would be no other who could match his kindheartedness and honorable principles!  Steven Rogers is absolutely the most perfect Man I have ever had the pleasure to witness and meet!”

                Dori sighed languorously, almost hearing Mahal singing and playing harp-songs praising Captain America and bathing the Avenger in halos of light and fire, like the heroic angel he was.

                Ori got a bit uncomfortable at Dori’s nascent but growing obsession with his new friend.

                He really wouldn’t be surprised if at this point, Steven Rogers could kill the entire Royal Family, shave off the beards of a hundred Dwarves, and Dori would still kiss and worship the ground Steve walked on as if he was the reincarnation of Durin himself.

                Still, perhaps this would not escalate into anything disturbing.

                “Ori…if you recall Thor’s missive Gandalf brought…Steven prefers the company of males as well,” Dori began suggestively.

                And Ori just had to tempt Fate…

                “Not now, Dori,” grumbled Ori as he jabbed his quill into the inkwell.

                “He is in need of a healing relation after his break-up with Bucky…”

                “Dori…” Ori hissed with warning.

                “He is an artist like you.”

                “Dori…”

                “Thor Odinson himself has sworn that Steven is noble and a loyal soldier.  This is a warrior who has the approval of a God from the stars…”

                “Dori…”

                “And you’re already establishing such a fine rapport with such a gallant and principled saint who you have much in common with.  There is already talk about how much at ease you both are with each other.”

                “Dori…”

                “And this courtship with that shit-faced bastard is hardly a year old.  It can be forgivable if we dissolve it.”

                “Dori…” Ori growled, twitching and causing his hand to jerk messily, running the page with a blatant ink-scribble.

                “We can request for Thorin’s audience immediately and have him decree your engagement null and void with everyone’s consent and blessings after we remove that blasphemy from your hair,” continued Dori as he impudently reached for Dwalin’s courting bead from Ori’s braid.  Ori angrily flicked his head out of reach before he rashly rose up from his seat and started walking away.

                “Good-bye, Dori,” Ori said, quickly marching out of the Royal Library (to the amusement of his staff) and speedily strolling back to his apartment.  Dori tallied after his youngest brother to Ori’s irritation.

                “Balin and everyone in the Company would understand.  Everyone makes a few daft mistakes in their youth without thinking things through!”

                “Good-bye, Dori,” Ori snapped impatiently, hoping Dori would take the hint.

                “And it is a perfect match!  Steven would protect and serve you like the Dwarf you deserve to be!  He would treasure you like mithril!  And having a noble Man such as Captain America living in Erebor for all his days would not raise any objections!  Unlike Thor Odinson, Thorin doesn’t hate him!”

                “Good-bye, Dori,” Ori growled, finally relieved that he reached his home.

                “Ori, I beg you to just think about it!” Dori called out, “Instead of being married to a grubby, violent, uncouth philistine such as Fundinson, you could spend your wedded life with an upright Knight of sunny smiles and gentle heart of gold!  Why, Mahal himself would sing his praises and blessings on your wedding day with Steven!”

                Ori slammed the door right in his brother’s face in mid-platitude.

                “I must admit that at the time, I would have preferred it if Dori hated Steven.  At the very least, I would have been spared from his pitiable attempts of trying to have Steven court me,” chuckled Ori, bringing forth a few laughs from the other children.

                “Would that really have been so bad, being married to the great Captain America?” teased one cheeky Hobbit boy.  Ori flicked a tea leaf at the Fauntling with a snap of his fingers.

                “Bite your tongue, you rapscallion,” mocked the old Dwarf.

                One Dale girl commented, “Elder Ori, I am surprised that Master Dori has problems with his business when he first started.  Even now, with Master Dori returned to stone and with his niece running the shop, it is always busy and active with steady customers!  Even Elves from Mirkwood and Rivendell visit the store!”

                “We had Nori to thank for that one…” chuckled Ori as he sipped his tea.

                “Friends and Ladies of Mirkwood, Erebor, and Dale.  Today, we welcome you all for the first ever meeting of the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ Society and thank you all with your grace and presence in attendance for this event!” announced Sigrid of Dale as she banged her gavel on the stone slab, taking care not to damage the table.

                Dori was simply bursting with joy as he and Steven Rogers (wearing an apron and slacks and T-shirt) weaved amongst the throng of females, serving tea, wine, and hot piping scones and muffins.  Dori accepted tips and compliments in stride, feeling elated at how each and every chair and stool in his tea shop was occupied.

                He never had so many customers in his tea shop since its opening!  And given the smiles of satisfaction and delight at the food and drink, it was a safe guess that Dori was going to have a steady stream of patrons in the near future.  Not to mention how much of a profit he was making for this one event alone!

                Steve set a cup of nutmeg tea and a lemon muffin for Ori.  Ori nodded thankfully (and doing his best to not stare at how tight Steven’s shirt was) as he took the meeting minutes for Sigrid.  Fortunately, many of the other customers were more than all right with gawking endlessly at Steven.

                Sigrid then continued as she brought forth a merry Thor Odinson with a mug of ale in his hands, “And to commemorate and inaugurate our first meeting, I proudly present to you our guest of honor: Prince Thor Odinson of Asgard!”

                Thor smiled jovially and boomed a merry greeting, complete in his armor and leggings, though thankfully he was without his trademark red cape.  Putting up a show for the audience amid the applause and cheering, the Asgardian then chugged down his frothy drink in two large gulps with impressive zeal.  He wiped his dribbling chin before he boisterously proclaimed.

                “I like this!  Another!”

                With that, Thor Odinson raised the crafted metal and stone tankard, intending on smashing it to the stone ground.

                “THOR!” barked Steve with warning in a stern tone of voice that would have made any military commander swell with pride.  Thor blinked before he hunched his shoulders under the reprimand, chastised and rebuked and making him so completely out of character (and adorable according to the lovesick fans).  Thor then began again.

                “Er…I mean…Master Dori.  If thou are gracious enough, perhaps I may have another of your fine mead?”

                Steve nodded with approval as a charmed Dori refilled Thor’s drink while Sigrid encouraged the Golden Prince.

                “Son of Odin, perhaps now that you are satisfied with food and drink, a story may suffice for entertainment.  Does a charming Prince like yourself know any good stories or tales of your kingdom of Asgard?”

                Thor took it as a challenge as he good-naturedly boasted, “Do I know any good stories?  Do I know any good stories?!  I, Thor Odinson, a Prince and Warrior who has traveled throughout all the Nine Realms when I was a steward in training?!  Lovely Ladies of Middle Earth, huddle close and I shall tell a tale of most luscious and savory detail, an account of drama and adventure and fun of the time when I along with Síf and the Warriors Three traveled to Vanaheim to help battle against Mogul of the Mystic Mountain!”

                “I swear by Eru Ilúvatar I could stay here and listen all evening long…” sighed Tauriel as she rested her face against one hand and made herself comfortable with her mug of oolong tea with honey.

                In the interim, Mafria and Bea of Dale came hurrying along down the alleyways of the Ereborian Bazaar and marketplace, rushing carefully along as they tried to find their way through the numerous torches lined up.

                “Hurry, we are late!” Mafria pleaded.

                “Well, I daresay it is hardly my fault that one Dwarf Guard had that honest-to-goodness fit when we asked for directions to Master Dori’s teahouse!  Honestly, if he did not spend so long crying ‘why me?’ over and over again, we’d be at the fan meeting by now!” Bea grumbled.

                “Are you two ladies of Dale here for the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ assembly, by any chance?” a lazy voice drawled from the sidelines, and both Mafria and Bea turned to see the two Dwarves, Nori and Bifur, lethargically smoking while resting on metal stools outside Dori’s shop.  Bifur jerked a thumb wordlessly towards the entrance where Mafria and Bea could hear Thor’s strident voice echoing from within.

                “Thank you, Master Bifur!” Bea exclaimed with relief, but before she and Mafria could enter, Nori blocked their path with the handle of his mace.

                “You are not allowed to enter the meeting unless you are full-fledged members.  The cost for participation into the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ association will cost five gold coins per person to be recognized as full affiliates for life,” Nori highlighted as he blew out a smoke ring.

                Mafira frowned as she crossed her arms and asked, “And, pray tell why exactly should we pay such a fee, Master Nori?”

                Nori grinned before Bifur brought up two metal souvenirs and two wooden figures carved out of white pine with a flourish of his hands.

                The metal souvenirs were tiny, miniature replicas of Thor Odinson’s hammer, Mjolnir, formed lovingly by the Dwarf and displaying remarkable detail and craftsmanship, down to the miniscule carvings on the hammer heads and tiny leather handles and straps at the ends.  The mockup hammers were exquisite, gleaming under the torchlight, and lightweight yet solidly welded.

                Meanwhile, the two wooden action figures were actually models of Thor Odinson himself, meticulously showing his broad chest and shoulders and frame while inventively allowing his hands and legs to move and twist around like a puppet.  Bifur carved each of them magnificently and faultlessly, down to the chain-mail and cape and the bearded cocky grin on Thor’s handsome and ribald face.  He even added the metal helmet with wings.

                Nori cockily bragged, “Because if you join, each member gets a certificate of authenticity of membership and a contract stating that they have willingly joined the association out of their admiration for our visiting Asgardian.  And as reward, they will also receive these small toys crafted by us Dwarves ourselves as part of their initiation, which is included in the fees that I have specified earlier.”

                Bea and Mafria cooed and made squeals of delight over the merchandise before the two women handed their payments and accepted the certificates and figurines before rushing inside.  Nori gleefully added the money to the small chest resting between himself and Bifur, already filled to the brim with coin.

                Bifur signed in Iglishmêk, Should we feel ashamed that we are making money like this?

                “No,” drawled Nori apathetically, stretching.

                Bifur nodded as he signed back, Simply making sure.

                “I daresay that explains quite a bit…” one Dale teenager pointed out, only to have his Dwarf friend cheerfully roll his eyes.

                “Please, Master Nori isn’t the type of Dwarf to pass up an opportunity to make some coin.”

                Ori’s voice got a bit somber as he continued, “Unfortunately, such happy times were interrupted by the constant attacks of the Orcs and the Goblins.  If anything, the repetition of the incursions increased significantly after the arrival of Thor and Captain America.  Though many blamed the two Avengers initially for the sudden upsurge in the forays in Dale, Mirkwood, and Erebor, Thor managed to use the power of Mjolnir to summon a large enough thunderstorm to strike down even their largest Cave Trolls as an effort to lessen their numbers and force them to retreat.  However, on the very first renewal of the assaults, Bilbo was kidnapped from Dale during the confusion and with him, two dear friends who did their best to intervene…”

                “Get off him!” yelled Bain as one of the Men from Dale dragged the trussed-up Gimli roughly across the dirt.  The young teenage Dwarf was busy cursing in a mixture of Khuzdul and Westron as he tried to free himself.  But it was no use; the ropes binding his feet, knees, and wrists behind his back were too tight and too secure, nearly cutting into his skin.

                Unable to fight back, Gimli did the next best thing as he lunged forward and sunk his teeth into one of his captor’s forearms, biting hard enough to hear a satisfying crack.  The vagrant roared in pain from the fracture before he dropped the Dwarf, but Gimli later paid for his audacity as a second aggressor solidly kicked Gimli in the stomach.  Encouraged, two more of the kidnappers started wailing on the bound Gimli while Bilbo and Bain looked on helplessly.

                “Stop!  He’s just a child!” cried out Bilbo in anger, only to be cut off forcefully as a hairy and bearded Man looped his arm around Bilbo’s neck in a rough chokehold.  Bilbo sputtered and gasped as he twisted and bucked hard to breathe, but the fellow’s arm was rough was corded muscle from manual labor as he whispered menacingly in Bilbo’s ear.

                “Quiet, Consort of Thorin Oakenshield, or you may find yourself in a similar predicament for different reasons,” the thug scorned, his breath foul and grimy as rancid meat.  However, the point was well established as the abductor’s other hand sickeningly caressed the inside of Bilbo’s thigh.  Bilbo twitched, his eyes going wide as he fought to not whine with revulsion as the Man’s fingers inched closer and closer to his crotch.

                Thankfully, Prince Bain managed to interfere by swiveling around suddenly and planting his bound feet directly at the goon’s head, causing him to grunt and topple backwards as he released Bilbo.  Now enraged, the hefty strongman immediately got back up and forcefully tackled the adolescent hard on the dirt, ready to deliver physical retribution.

                Just as the ruckus was about to escalate...

                “Hold, Kardolus!” yelled a familiar and shrill voice as a figure stepped out in the shadows, “That is enough!  Enough I say!  He wants them unharmed for now!”

                Bilbo and Bain’s eyes widened in shock as Alfrid Lickspittle, the second-in-command (and rear-kissing sycophant) to the former Master of Laketown, stepped out of the shadows, his weasel-like face still frozen in the unpleasant sneer as he barked his orders.

                And to Bilbo’s confusion, the mercenaries were actually listening to him.

                “Piss off, Lickspittle!” snarled the Man sitting down on Gimli with a fist cocked back (Kardolus if Bilbo recalled correctly), “You walk a thin line already!”

                “And if you want revenge on Thorin Oakenshield and Bard, you will do as I say!  Are you willing to lose what we were promised?”

                “Bollocks!  We have no guarantee on those oaths!” countered another thug.

                “And exactly how are your lives any better before you joined on this scheme?  You would all still be grumbling and playing with your petty fantasies of payback if it were not for me,” sneered Alfrid condescendingly in a sing-song voice.

                Though each and every one of the kidnappers in the group actually has the enticing thought about punching the twerp, they remained silent as Kardolus begrudgingly got off the thrashing Gimli and none-too-gently threw him alongside the tied-up Bain and Bilbo.

                “Master Tam, I assume you can still fire your crossbow with your uninjured arm?” Alfrid asked.

                “Yes,” grunted the swarthy strongman that Gimli bit earlier as his chums helped tie a makeshift splint around his bleeding appendage to lessen the hairline fracture in the bone.

                The former servant of the Master of Laketown turned to one of the kidnappers and demanded, “We’re missing one.  Purius, where is Vail?”

                One burly and hairy-chested fishmonger pointed a livid finger at Bilbo and hissed, “The blasted Hobbit killed him!  Bilbo Baggins stabbed him with his damned blade before we managed to bind him!”

                Bilbo couldn’t help but smirk a bit in satisfaction, instantly sending the kidnappers’ ire to new heights.

                Surprisingly, without mockery, Alfrid nodded with some sympathy and said, “I will argue for additional restitution to be given to his widow and child.  He won’t be forgotten.”

                Alfrid ambled up to the bound figures of the hostages.  Though bruised, none of them were seriously injured and everything was going as planned.  Bilbo remained silent with narrowed eyes, but Bain couldn’t help but give in to his frustration.

                “Still sucking on the Master of Laketown?  Oh dear me, my mistake.  I mean the former Master of Laketown,” Bain mouthed off sardonically with a disdainful leer.

                Alfrid’s face twitched.

                Crack!

                Gimli swore in Khuzdul before yelling out exactly what he’d do if his hands were free while Bilbo worriedly looked over Bain, with the teen’s cheek now bright red from Alfrid’s slap across his face.  Needing the last word, Alfrid reached over and ruthlessly pulled at Bain’s hair with one hand, forcing the Prince to look in his eyes.

                “Your father should have died instead, brat.  But that mistake will be rectified,” Alfrid disparaged.  Bain would have gladly spat in Alfrid’s face if it wasn’t for the fact that the other abductors were giving the three hostage vengeful looks and the kidnapper named Tam looked like he still wished to use them as targets for his crossbow.

                Bilbo’s brow furrowed in thought; if the Master of Laketown was dead, then who was Alfrid taking orders from?

                “Let’s get a move on,” one burly Man named Iken barked, “Saffor and Corin have erased our trail but - ”

                That was all the kidnapper had time to say before a familiar metal disc came flying out of nowhere, completely taking everyone by sheer surprise, before it collided with the hoodlum’s jaw solidly.  Iken crumpled to the ground, unconscious without a sound as the flying shield, as if guided by magic, ricocheted off the mercenary and bounced off a multitude of objects and directions all around.

                Wham!

                Another of the captors toppled over, unconscious, as the shield collided with the back on his head.  The fat gorilla collapsed flaccidly, face first into the dirt and blood starting to soak his hair.

                Smash!

                The assailant named Tam screamed as the shield bounced off a rock and a neighboring tree before finally smashing the wooden crossbow he was holding in his hands, reducing the weapon into a mass of splintered wood and fracturing most of Tam’s left carpal bones upon impact.

                Captain America then sprang out of his hiding place, acrobatically flipping in mid-air and catching the shield in his arm before landing in the middle of the Dale conspirators.  He was dressed in his red, white, and blue uniform, complete with the boot, gloves, and helmet.  Normally, such a sight of a bizarrely dressed warrior would have caused the kidnappers to laugh derisively if they weren’t furiously vengeful for the sneak attack.

                Alfrid (not surprisingly) frenziedly ducked for cover among the nearby bushes.

                Two brawny Men named Wart and Hargean immediately rushed forward with swords drawn, roaring, but to everyone’s amazement, Steven quickly dispatched them easily with an uppercut and several kicks.  Wart and Hargean now were lying on the floor, faces smeared with blood and the metal blades of their swords actually snapped in half, and for some odd reason, Wart could actually hear chirping birds in his head as everything went blurry.

                There was a sudden wail of alarm by Bilbo as Bilbo cried out, “Captain!”

                Steve raised his shield automatically, only to find to his dismay that three of the kidnappers, Corin, Saffor, and Kardolus, were now holding Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli in front of them as safeguards.  And each of the outlaws held a sharp yet rudimentary dagger with dark metal blades to their hostage’s throats.  And with their hands tied behind their backs, Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli all had little choice but to give in as the outlaws forced them in front, gripping their heads and ready to slash their throats in a final, murderous stroke.

                “One move and they all die, you Freak!” snarled Corin as he yanked on Bain’s hair forcefully, causing the adolescent to cry out in pain as the dagger went closer to his neck.  Steve hardly looked deterred, but as he cocked his arm back, Alfrid then piped with a sneer as he stumbled forward out of his hiding place.

                “Those knives are poisoned, Captain.  One cut is all it will take…”

                Steve’s eyes narrowed in thought, trying to see if there was any indication on Alfrid’s conceited expression to indicate that he was lying.  All the other thugs however displayed parallel superior sneers of self-assurance, and a few of them looked as if they wanted a chance to kill Steven right then and there.  Alfrid held out a hand and barked out warningly.

                “No!  The Freak would be more useful alive than dead if we can!”

                “And if that is not a viable option?” growled one kidnapper as he aimed a crossbow bolt at Steve Roger’s head.

                Steve’s mouth thinned before he made his decision.

                Steve dropped his shield, letting the metal disc clang loudly to the dirt before he raised his hands into the air slowly.

                “I surrender,” Captain America announced, his voice flat.

                Bilbo felt his heart sink to his stomach while Gimli couldn’t help but blurt out in shock.

                “Adad was right!  You are spineless!”

                From above, hidden amongst the thick foliage, the Raven named Roäc watched this with his beady eyes…

                There was a pause before one of the Fauntlings piped up incredulously, “He just gave up?”

                His neighbor, one of the Elf children from Mirkwood, rolled her eyes before she pointed out, “Honestly, are you that dense?  Think about it for a minute…”

                “They are coming,” growled the kidnapper named Kallon as he dismounted from his horse the instant he entered the concealed encampment, “Both King Thorin and King Bard along with a small entourage of Dwarves, Men, and even the Mirkwood Elf, Prince Legolas, is escorting them in the hunting party.  They are approaching fast, no matter how much distance we have gained.”

                “The Elf may make things complicated…” pointed out Wart (whose bruised face was now patched up and messily bandaged), “His hearing and eyes are sharp and could easily spot us before we can snipe them from a distance.  And regardless of how well we laid out the false trails, the Mirkwood soldiers are impossible to fool.”

                Kallon shook his head as he exclaimed, “No, it is far worse than that!  The damned Asgardian God who carries the magical hammer is also with them!  Thor Odinson is flying in the skies right now with his weapon, the same damned hammer used in the Battle of the Five Armies!”

                “Bollocks!” yelped the kidnapper named Iken (despite his broken and bloody jaw) in dread.

                “Enough!” snapped Alfrid, “Thor Odinson won’t be able to spot us easily here, not with cover of the trees and the lack of the fire to give away our position.  And besides, we have his dear friend as a hostage along with the others.”

                Alfrid leered at the figures of Bilbo Baggins, Bain, Gimli, and Steven Rogers, all of them sitting on the dirt, spaced apart, and bound securely with their hands behind their backs and their feet secured together.  Although in Steve Rogers’ case (and with the kidnappers not taking any chances), the Avenger was actually tied with stout and thick chains of metal wrapped around his legs and broad chest and with iron manacles handcuffing his wrists and ankles.  And despite their shoddy workmanship, they were strong enough to even withstand Steve’s strength…

                Gimli blinked as he took a closer look of the chains and shackles.

                He wasn’t imagining things.  The chains were not made by the Men of Dale…

                “The main targets will be Thorin Oakenshield and Bard,” Alfrid continued, “Use the specially made crossbow bolts tipped with the Orc poisons as well as the satchels of burning oil.  With so much brush all around us, it would be relatively simple to distract and burn them from anticipating so many sharpshooters.  Shoot to kill, but even a single flesh wound will be the end of the two Kings.  Once they are either dead or wounded, use the cover of the flames and set the rest of the forest on fire as we make our escape in the confusion.  We will flee immediately.  There is no need to continue to stay and linger for more fighting against warriors we have no chance against.”

                Distressed and terrified that he would lose his father, Bain screamed as loud as he could, “DA!  DAAAA!”

                Incensed, the captor named Tam hurriedly kicked out and smashed the heel of his boot into Bain’s face, instantly splitting the boy’s lip as he was struck down, now lying weakly on his side and spluttering out blood.

                Bilbo inwardly swore at Bain’s bad timing.

                Alfrid then took out a dagger and cut several strips of cloth from his cloak before he tossed it at several of the mercenaries, snarling, “Gag all of them!”

                The abductors immediately carried out their task as they set themselves on Bain first.  Bain tried to yell again as a last resort, hoping his screams could carry, but it was cut short as Wart forcefully shoved the cloth into the Prince’s mouth.  Snarling, young Gimli, despite being bound, managed to thrust himself into Wart’s side with a painful head-butt as an effort to defend Bain, causing them to fall and stumble.  Enraged, Iken and Purius pinned Gimli to the ground, allowing themselves the chance to clout and punch the Dwarfling’s body excruciatingly as another Man quickly tied the rag over Gimli’s lips.

                “We should kill you for that, Dwarf!” hissed the mercenary as he knotted the gag tightly around Gimli’s head as Gimli writhed and bucked wildly.  Enraged at his helplessness, Gimli did the next best thing as he then rammed his forehead upwards into the Man’s nose.  There was a cry of pain followed by some foul swearing as his captor now had a massive river of blood gushing out of his broken snout.  Gimli didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy his victory as the other Men kicked and stomped hard on the Dwarf several times, causing bruises and nearly breaking his ribs and dislocating Gimli’s shoulders before he was tossed next to the trussed up Bain.

                “Here, Brym…” Purius murmured as he handed his fellow conspirator Bilbo’s stolen handkerchief.  Brym nodded as he gingerly pinched his nose with the soft silk to staunch the bleeding before the Man glared hatefully at Glóin’s son.

                “When I kill your father, Dwarf, I’ll shave his head and cheeks bare…” promised Brym.  Gimli, red in the face, tried to utter a curse, but it was now hopeless.  The rough fabric wedged between his teeth muffled his voice so effectively that the crackling noises from the campfire easily drowned out Gimli’s attempts to talk.

                Bain let out a stifled sob of dread from underneath his gag.

                As both Bain and Gimli were being silenced, Bilbo couldn’t help but whimper, but a calm and quiet whisper then drifted to the Hobbit.

                “It’s all right, Bilbo.  It’s all right.  Don’t cry.”

                Bilbo turned to Steven Rogers, who just smiled and winked at him.  Even though their situation was precarious, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a small bloom of relief and trust at Steven’s face, at the way he was so calm, composed, and certain regardless of being manacled hand and foot.

                After settling with Gimli, the Men then focused on Bilbo and Steve before they collectively blanched, pausing.  Though the Hobbit was non-threatening enough, Steve Rogers was sitting next to the Bilbo as complacent and easy-going as one could possibly be, the Man’s face blank and vacant.

                And for some reason, that got all the hairs on each of the mercenaries’ necks rising in terror and alarm.

                “Uh…why don’t you gag him?  Please.  I insist,” suggested Hargean as he hurriedly handed the rag to Purius.

                “I got the Hobbit,” one Man automatically chimed as he strode over to Bilbo.  Bilbo did his best to fight back as the hoodlum grappled with him, writhing helplessly.

                “You gag him,” Purius hurriedly announced as he shoved the rag to Corin who looked as if he was asked to march willingly into the open mouth of a hungry Troll.

                “How about you, Tam?  You can gag Master Rogers.”

                “My fingers are broken thanks to that Freak’s shield!  Why don’t you?!  You’re holding the cloth!”

                “Uh…I’m not that good at knots.  How about you, Brym?  You still got both of your hands.”

                “How about Graak?  He’s already there.”

                “I’m busy gagging the Hobbit,” brusquely retorted Graak as he finally managed to secure the rag over Bilbo’s mouth despite Bilbo squirming and fighting back as hard as he possibly could.

                “Then just gag the Captain when you’re done.”

                “It’s going to take a while,” muttered Graak as he tightened the knot, making Bilbo groan out in pain as the cloth pressed hard against his lips and teeth, “Need to make sure the Royal Consort can’t yell for help.”

                “So just hurry up and then work on the Freak then!”

                “I need to make sure it’s tied right.  Why don’t you ask Iken do it?”

                “I have a broken jaw, you lout!” snapped Iken as best as he could with his numb mouth and mandible.

                “You still have both of your hands, Iken, so quit making excuses.”

                “Ask Kallon!”

                “How about you, Kallon?”

                “…I have a cramp.  Ask Wart to do it.”

                “I’m actually a little lightheaded,” groaned Wart as he weakly sat down next to the fire, “Must be something I ate.  Saffor, you can gag Master Rogers.”

                “Uh…you do it.  I am exhausted.”

                “No, you do it!”

                “Scared, are you?”

                “What does that make you, then?”

                “I am merely being cautious.  You do it.”

                “You do it!  I outrank you!”

                “No, you don’t!”

                “Well, I should.”

                “Graak, you gag the Freak!”

                “Busy checking on the others hostages.  I need to make sure these brats stay quiet,” muttered Graak as he was now already behind Bain and tightening the cloth gag around Bain’s mouth with the boy trying the thrash and struggle.

                “Just have Tam do it!”

                “Are you deaf?!  I just said my fingers have been broken from the Freak’s shield breaking my crossbow!  Brym, you gag him!”

                “Can’t!  Need to teach this fool of a baby Dwarf a lesson for breaking my nose,” Brym sneered as he was now straddling Gimli on his stomach.  Gimli tried to buck and squirm his captor off, but Brym then took out a small knife and brought it to the hair on the Dwarfling’s chin.

                “It is a wee little beard.  I daresay it is not a big loss anyway, you little imp,” the Man jeered as he cruelly sliced through the baby red curls.  Despite the rag in his mouth, Gimli then started to cry out muffled sobs of anguish as if he was being tortured which completely broke Bilbo’s heart and led to Bain vainly making inaudible groans as pleas for Brym to stop.

                “Purius, you gag him!”

                “No, you!”

                “Well, somebody gag the Freak!”

                “Is it even necessary considering how loud we are quarreling right now?  Thorin Oakenshield and Bard are certainly going to hear us at this rate.”

                “Oh do shut up, Corin!  No one likes a know-it-all!  So quit being a spineless coward and gag Master Rogers!”

                “You gag him!”

                “You gag him!”

                “I daresay it shall not be me!”

                “Well it certainly won’t be me!”

                “Somebody do the blasted task!”

                “OH FOR THE SAKE OF ERU ILÚVATAR!” screeched Alfrid in a tone that was quite similar to a squealing of a fat pig as he snatched the ripped fabric from his Corin’s hands, “I’ll gag the so-called ‘dangerous’ Captain America!  Give me that!”

                Muttering about incompetency, Alfrid marched over and knelt down in front of Steve Rogers as the sniveling weasel grumbled, “Weak as water, all of those louts.  Being afraid of a muscle-bound, brain-dead ox…”

                Steve Roger’s eyes then glinted.

                Meanwhile…

                “I heard him!” Bard insisted with foreboding apprehension, “I know I heard my son!”

                “Do not call back!” Kíli susurrated, “We cannot give ourselves away!”

                “We are close…” Legolas murmured softly, barely allowing the others in the expedition to overhear as he sniffed at the dirt clod in his hands, “However, these ruffians are quite skilled.  I would have never guessed that Men would be able to be creative enough to disguise their tracks using a Warg pelt.  It did an admirable job hiding the odor of their horses and footprints.”

                “So it is Men?” Bofur asked, frowning and looking uncharacteristically angry.

                “Yes, and not only did they drag a Warg hide to backtrack and throw us off, I surmise that they actually covered the hooves of their steeds with strips of Warg fur before going to the rock beds close to the river so that they would not leave any prints.”

                Legolas frowned before he admitted with some concern.

                “This is…uncharacteristically shrewd.  I think we may be dealing with a hidden party, a puppet-master like the Necromancer during the Battle of the Five Armies.  Orcs and Goblins are not this calculating and astute, and there is no way Men could have recently gained a fresh Warg pelt from recent invasions without attracting any attention.”

                “Wait, that does not make much sense.  I thought Gandalf, Radagast, and Lady Galadriel killed the Necromancer back at Dol Guldur last year during the Battle of the Five Armies,” Óin pointed out with surprise as he turned to the Gray Wizard.  The Istari shook his head in response.

                “Sauron fled to the East where Saruman is still searching for him to this day,” Gandalf explained, “There has been no positive word that he has been found and dealt with, but if he has clandestinely arrived back to haunt Erebor and Dale, Saruman would have immediately informed all of us.”

                “Maybe Saruman is wrong.  It could be possible he is mistaken,” suggested Kíli, only to earn a baleful glare from Gandalf.

                “But…it could signify we are dealing with a new evil, someone just as influential.  Enough to summon the Orcs and entice our own people to turn against us,” Nori frowned, seeing the peril.

                “Which may indicate that we could be going into a trap.  The fact that we are among trees makes me wary…” growled Thorin, trying his best to not imagine all the horrors Bilbo must be facing.

                “I do not care…” growled Bard, “I will fight the Necromancer myself if it means saving my son.”

                “I as well,” growled Glóin.

                “I cannot believe we have to save that useless Captain America along with the others,” griped one of the Men chosen by King Bard in the rescue party, “I thought he was supposed to be a warrior, not a helpless damsel!”

                Dwalin, who was silent next to his King, was inwardly gloating.  As petty as it sounded, he was quite pleased with this predicament, already envisioning how humiliated and ashamed Steve Rogers would be once word got out that he was nothing more than a fake and a useless, helpless coward.  Dwalin wondered if he should refrain from rubbing it too much Ori’s face how his new friend wasn’t that fantastic and as always, Thor Odinson was a complete fool…

                Oh Master Dwalin, you have saved my life, groveled a prostate Steve Rogers in the Dwarf’s imagination.

                Oh Master Dwalin, I am a coward who truly knows nothing of what it means to be a soldier.

                Oh Master Dwalin, I am simply an artistic sham, a con, a fraud that is not even creditable to lick the dirt off Master Ori’s boots.

                Such inevitable confessions actually could make Dwalin dance a jig.

                To everyone’s surprise, off in the distance, there was a plethora of screaming and shouting of surprise and pain as a jolly ruckus started in the remote backdrop, faint sounds of metal clanging against metal and solid punches resonating amid the trees.

                “What in the name of Mahal?!” hissed Thorin in confusion, “Is that brainless Son of Odin charging in already?!  He’ll give away our cover!”

                Thor then chose at that moment to descend down from the skies, landing heavily as a boulder on the dirt next to Thorin Oakenshield with Mjolnir in hand.  In fright, Thorin Oakenshield jumped about a foot into the air and yelped (yelped, not screamed, no matter what Legolas claimed otherwise).

                “Nay, it is not I, Thorin of Oak’s Shield,” grinned Thor, “But I daresay that the situation has already been well handled.”

                There was a sudden crashing through the brushwood and copse in front of them, and immediately, they all drew their weapons, but Gandalf held up a hand.

                “Hold.  There is no need,” he intoned strongly, using his staff to block his comrades from attacking.

                Instantaneously, a panicking horse barreled through, narrowly missing them as it rushed past.  And on the horse’s back was none other than…

                “RUN AWAY!  RUN AWAY!” screamed Alfrid Lickspittle, doing his best to maintain on the sadly despite his dislocated shoulder and broken arm.  Unfortunately, his words were also mostly unintelligible due to his broken nose and his mouth being full of blood (as well as the fact that he was now missing the majority of his teeth).

                “Was…that Alfrid Lickspittle?  From the Master of Laketown?” Bofur could not help but blurt out in confusion.

                “After him!” yelled Bard, but immediately, a single lone raven of Erebor flew over their heads as it cawed out.

                “No need,” croaked Roäc, “Master Rogers sent me to follow him and I shall report my findings as quickly as I can.  You best see to the children and Master Bilbo.”

                “Winged rat!  You are not allowed to take orders from anyone outside the Royal Family!” Thorin bellowed.

                “Master Rogers at the very least remembers his manners and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with each request, your Majesty…” Roäc shot back as he disappeared amongst the trees.

                Bard did not know it was even possible for birds to sound sarcastic.

                Yet he quickly brushed it off as he tore through the forest, sprinting forward and with his sword drawn, despite the objections from several of his comrades.  They all blitzed into the clearing to see to their complete surprise Steve Rogers kneeling down in front of Bain as he helped remove his bonds and gag.  Bilbo was comforting a distraught Gimli.

                All around the four hostages, scattered and strewn about helter-skelter over the bushes and ground were the congregation of kidnappers that carried out Alfrid’s abduction.  Many were unconscious with broken noses, shattered kneecaps, and broken bones displaying their limbs at wince-worthy and sickening angles.  One Man was groaning and hanging upside down considering that Steven hurled him upwards into a far tree, head-first.  The ones that were cognizant were moaning in pain amid bloody mouths, missing teeth, and swollen bruises.

                “My face…” lamented Kallon, the entire left side of his countenance purple and inflamed from when Steven whipped him directly in the head with his chains.

                “My legs…” sniveled Saffor, given the fact that thanks to a quick stomp, Steve effectively crippled him by breaking his femur bone as easily as one could squash a berry.

                The goon named Wart couldn’t even talk; when Steven delivered the haymaker into his throat, the Avengers effectively crushed his larynx.  However, the tears and mucus running down his eyes and nose was more than explanatory enough.

                “Did we miss something?” blinked Kíli dumbly, seeing how each and every one of the remaining captors and criminals were immobilized and no longer a danger.

                At the same time, Bard was tearfully hugging his son while Thorin Oakenshield did the same with Bilbo.

                “Bilbo…” Thorin whispered huskily as he kissed his Hobbit over and over, peppering Bilbo’s face and mouth, passionately, madly, appreciatively as he drew Bilbo close against his broad chest, “Beloved.  Âzyungâl .  Mizimelûh.  Givashel.  Ûrzudel.”

                Bilbo giggled with relief as he enjoyed the touching closeness.  And because Thor was behind him, he didn’t see Thor’s flicker of irritation on his face when Thorin discreetly gave an obscene and rude Dwarvish hand gesture behind Bilbo’s back directly at the Asgardian.

                Meanwhile, both Óin and Glóin were kneeling in front of the distressed and devastated Gimli.  Both of the Dwarves paled as they saw Gimli raise his tear-stained face as they spotted the small tuft of red hair cupped in his palms and how Gimli’s chin was now cropped short with a few stubs sticking out from the cleft.  It was no bigger than a dandelion puff, but the Dwarfling was currently overcome with grief as if he lost an arm.

                “…they cut off my beard,” whimpered Gimli, trembling and still in shock.

                All the Dwarves hearing this turned white, blanching in the face and eyes wide with scandal.  Prince Bain could not help himself as he quickly enveloped his friend with a hug, whispering meaningless words of solace.

                Glóin, however, was now completely enraged, his face a shining ruby red as he hefted his axe.

Abruptly, the Dwarf banker made his way towards the whimpering Brym, murder in his blazing eyes and too livid to even utter a word.  The Man, upon seeing the homicidal look in the Dwarf’s eyes, scooted as best as he could despite his fractured leg, beseeching piteously.

                Then to everyone’s surprise, before Glóin could cleave the kidnapper’s head off, Captain America jumped in front of Brym, blocking the Dwarf’s path and actually protecting the injured criminal.

                Steve’s face was stern and hard as he uttered one word.

                “No.”

                It was now difficult to say which one Glóin felt more ire and rage towards.

                “Move, Captain,” Glóin growled, feral.  Thor made a motion to intervene, but one silent glance from Steve made the Asgardian stop in his tracks.

                “No,” Steve repeated, bracing his feet and centering his balance, his hand gripped on his shield.

                “You dare side with this scum?!  The same ones who kidnapped Bilbo and my child?!”

                “He’s hurt and not a danger to anyone currently.”

                “He shaved my son’s beard!  His beard!  He deserves to die!”

                “Let the Kings and a jury decide that.  Not you.”

                Bilbo couldn’t help but be dumbstruck by Steven’s statement, and judging by the looks of Legolas, Bard, and Bofur, he wasn’t the only one.  Glóin hissed his next two words with acidic murder, his face almost purplish with wrath.

                “Step.  Aside.”

                “No.”

                “If you refuse to move - !”

                “You’ll kill me?” finished Captain America before he tossed his shield away to the side, having it clang against the ground, before Steven opened his arms wide.

                “Do it.”

                There was a shocked silence with everyone staring wordlessly before Glóin roared and charged forward, axe high over his head.  Thor was about to rush out and stop when Glóin managed to stop himself at the very last second and in frustration, he slammed the head of his axe directly in the dirt a foot away from Steven’s feet.

                Thor let out a small sigh in respite.

                Breathing heavily, Glóin gave Captain America the foulest and most intense death glare as the livid Dwarf looked like he was going to swear and curse every single four-lettered oath known to Middle Earth.  Remarkably, and with great restraint, Glóin managed to hold his anger in.

                The banker spat with dripping loathing, “You best keep your distance from me during your visit, Captain.”

                Steven nodded wearily.

                There was a tense and awkward silence before the stillness was broken by Gimli’s soft whimpering.

                Before Glóin could turn around to comfort his son, to his shocked indignation, Steven Rogers was now kneeling in front of the sobbing Gimli, talking soothingly.  Glóin marched forward, about to tell Steven Rogers off and to tell him to stay away from his son before Bilbo strongly blocked Glóin’s path, shaking his head.

                “Let him speak,” Bilbo said, pleading, “He did save Gimli, Glóin.”

                Glóin looked tempted to shove Bilbo out of his way, but for the grace of everyone around, he backed down, glaring poisonously.

                “Gimli?  Let me see,” Steven intoned gently.

                Gimli continued to cry silently, head bowed and numbly looking at the remnants of his beard cradled in his palms.

                Steven’s voice became softer, understanding and compassionate, like a warm blanket on a chilly night or like an older brother comforting his younger sibling with hopeful promises and a sugar cookie.

                “Gimli?  Let me see,” Steve said again.

                The Dwarf lad weakly raised his head and met Steven’s eyes that reflected the sky, and Steve took great show in observing Gimli’s chin before he declared strongly.

                “It’s not that bad.  See?  There’s still some hair left…”

                “There…there is?” sniffed Gimli, wiping his eyes furiously.

                “See?  Feel this?” Steven asked again as he brushed a finger against the remaining tufts of hair stuck on Gimli’s chin.  Gimli couldn’t help but nod in relief.

                “It’s OK to cry,” Captain America said, “This was a crime that no child should go through.  But you’re alive.  Bain’s alive.  Bilbo’s alive.  And you can be reunited with your family, and your mother who’s worried sick about you and who loves you, beard or not.  And before you know it, your beard will grow back, thicker and bushier than before.  Don’t you know that if you cut hair, it grows back faster?”

                “Really?” sniffed Gimli.

                “Really,” Steve grinned before he pointed at his bare cheeks and chin, “See?  It’s already bigger than mine.”

                Gimli couldn’t help but smile.

                “Treetops and timbers, you are no respectable Captain at all!” snapped Legolas, fuming, “You let one get away!  Which means that there is a chance we did not truly eliminate this threat and only gave it a chance to try again!”

                Thorin and a few of the Dwarves also looked like they were going to chew Steven Rogers out as well when the Avenger raised a hand.

                “No, he won’t,” Steve said, “I had one of the Ereborian ravens follow Mister Lickspittle.  Roäc, I believe, is tailing him from the skies above, and he’ll come back and report his location to us when Alfrid goes to the place he feels the safest when he sees we’re not chasing after him.”

                “Where?  His home?” drawled one of the Men condescendingly, not seeing the significance, but then Nori and Dwalin realized the answer simultaneously.

                “No, his Master!” Nori exclaimed, “If you make a snake bleed, it will lead you back to its nest!”

                “Where we’ll find the one masterminding this entire plot,” Bofur pointed out.

                “But what if that fails?  Or what if there appears to be more than one manipulator behind this scheme?” one of the loyal Dale soldiers pointed out.  Steve grinned before he nodded at Thor.

                “Thor, can you send a thunderbolt near the horses?  To scare them off?”

                Puzzled, Thor merely complied and raised Mjolnir up over his head.  Immediately, a stray bolt of white lightning rumbled from the dark sky above before striking the dirt a few feet away in front of the steeds.  Shrieking and neighing with panic, all of the mounts bolted, charging through the brush and foliage as they fled together as a group.

                “What…what was that for?” Bain asked.

                “Fact: horses will always travel back to the nearest stable if they’re lost of rider-less.  So thanks to scaring them off, these guys will head back to the last place where they were presumably bought or kept, which means it had to be a stable or a town.  Which means that it’s the last place these kidnappers stayed at for supplies and food and board.  If we follow the horses - ”

                “We then discover where these ruffians stayed at and can discover more clues about their plans!  That’s bloody brilliant!” exclaimed Bard with excitement.

                There was an eager murmur of chatter between many of the rescue party, including Bilbo and Bain with Thor clapping Steve on the shoulder for his strategy.

                “Steven, my shield-brother, that was indeed a cunning plan!” the Asgardian cheered as he congratulated the Captain.

                “By my beard, any chance we can have Steven Rogers be the new Captain of the Guards at the Mountain?” Nori sneered infuriatingly.  The only thing that prevented Dwalin from beheading the Spymaster right then and there was the fact that Ori would have been devastated over his brother’s death.

                “So, it is over then?” asked Legolas, “Clearly, this is everyone involves with the abduction.”

                “No, it is not,” Steve announced firmly as he gravely picked up the chains Alfrid and the snatchers sued to bind his hand and feet and held them out to Nori and Bofur to analyze, “The kidnappers used these to incapacitate me when I was taken hostage.  Do you recognize it?”

                There was a loud and simultaneous inhalation of surprise from all the Dwarves as they looked at the bloody chains.

                “These are Dwarvish make!” Bofur yelped, the blow of the revelation leaving him light-headed.

                “And they’re unmarked…” Nori stated, carefully handling the manacles as he scrutinized the metal beadily.

                “I do not understand,” Legolas stated as he shook his head.

                Bofur explained, “Dwarves would never allow Men to steal their crafts and works!  We guard them over carefully with zeal, and no Man from Dale could sneak in and filch them from the forges in the mountain!  But if we do sell them as goods for the market, all Dwarves always mark their products with their family name as a way to bring honor and recognition!”

                “So if these chains are Dwarven made, but if they are blank and unmarked, that means then that they were made specifically for the intention to not be traced,” one of the Dale guards reasoned, starting to catch on.

                “And these were not made in the Great Forges of Erebor.  Not only does the metal feel and smell differently based on the fires and heat used, but it would be nigh impossible for a Dwarf to make unmarked goods without drawing suspicion from myself or my Network.  But there is no doubt about it: there are both Men and Dwarves working with the Orcs and Goblins,” Nori stated.

                “Then this conspiracy goes deeper than we expected…” Óin murmured.

                “As soon as we question all of them and force them along with Alfrid to talk, we can plan accordingly then.  I will not let these scoundrels attack my family,” Thorin growled with furious promise.

                There was a contemplative silence before Bilbo’s voice then piped up.

                “Wait, I thought Dwarvish locks were nigh unlockable.  Steven, how - ?”

                “Oh, that reminds me…” Steven grinned as he handed Gandlaf the magical lockpick he secretly kept in his glove, “Thank you, Mister Gandalf.  You were right.  It does work on any lock.”

                Thorin fumed as Gandalf preened.  Dratted wizard!

                “…why did you take pains to avoid killing Alfrid and the kidnappers?” Bilbo asked.

                Steve’s eyes flickered with a bit of anger as he replied stoutly, “I don’t want to kill anyone, Mister Baggins.  But I have no tolerance for bullies who threaten children.”

                This brought a few scoffs and snorts, especially from Dwalin and Legolas as they rolled their eyes at the idealism.  Glóin looked like he still wanted to spit directly in Captain America’s face.

                Nevertheless, Bilbo blinked, as if seeing Steve Rogers in a new light before he smiled.

                “I think you can stop being so formal and call me, ‘Bilbo’, Captain Rogers,” the Hobbit smiled amiably, “It’s the least I can do considering you saved my life.”

                “And our sons,” Bard jumped in, offering a hand out to Steven, “You rescued Bain, Young Gimli, and very well may have prevented further deaths.  If it is in my power, I can grant you any wish as my way of showing gratitude.”

                “Call me Steve, both of you, then.  And allow me to continue assisting Erebor, Mirkwood, and Dale in any way I can during my stay here in your world.  I cannot sit idly by and do nothing else I’ll go crazy from the cabin fever,” Captain America smiled warmly at last as he grasped Bard’s hand and shook it strongly.

                “Consider it done,” Bard said with fondness, wincing at the strength of Steve’s handshake.

                Both Gimli and Bain rushed forward and hugged Steve around his waist, prompting the Avenger to stoop down and return the favor with bone-crushing embraces, chuckling as they thanked him endlessly.  Bilbo then used the moment as an opportunity to grasp Steve’s face before he stood on tiptoes and kissed Steve on the forehead.

                Steve blinked before he blushed like an embarrassed child and hunched his shoulders a bit in touched shyness, making him completely adorable, like an awkward Labrador.

                Bilbo laughed softly, feeling silly at being so wary of Steven in the first place.

                Thorin twitched, suddenly feeling the urge to punch Steve Rogers directly in the face.

                Thor whined, pouting in the background with wide puppy eyes, his bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

                “Brother Bilbo, is there no kiss for me as well?”

                Thorin’s hand immediately grasped Orcrist’s handle before he could even think it, his teeth grinding against each other.

                “Perhaps another time,” promised Bilbo, hoping that he could stave off any potential fighting between Thorin and Thor (he was quick to notice the jealous rage on his husband’s face).

                Gimli was ashamed as he apologized, “I am sorry I called you ‘spineless’ earlier.”

                Steven grinned cheekily as he then ruffled Gimli’s head and red hair, dismissing easily, “Hey, I’ve been called worse.  But, apology accepted.”

                “You’re a good man, Steven,” Bilbo intoned.

                “You saved all of us,” Bain said gratefully, shuddering.

                “A true hero!” Gimli declared.

                “You’re a fiercer fighter than our guards!” Bofur exclaimed, “The Orcs won’t know what hit them with you and Thor on our side, fighting on our behalfs!”

                “We misjudged you, Master Rogers,” Bard declared as he bowed in reverent esteem towards Captain America, and likewise, all the other soldiers of Dale along Bain followed suit.

                “AAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHH!” howled Dwalin in the background.

                Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!  Wham!

                “Da…” Bain asked hesitantly with perplexity, “Why is Master Dwalin screaming and beating his head against the tree?”

                “Just ignore him, son,” Bard deflected smoothly as he draped an arm over his son’s shoulders.

                “And so, it was a happy reunion for all,” Ori continued, amid the cheers and clapping of his enthusiastic audience, “Within two weeks, a trial was held for the kidnappers, and they along with Alfrid were found guilty before a jury of civilians from Dale and Erebor before their execution.  Steven Rogers was held in high esteem afterwards with King Bard’s endless gratitude, and the Captain’s role and reputation escalated from there, with Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli being the first and foremost of his staunchest supporters.”

                “And what about Alfrid and the kidnappers?” one of the Elves asked, “What of their employers?  Were they part of a grander conspiracy?”

                “I shall save that story for another time,” Ori said with finality, noting how late it was and how many of the children were starting to yawn and one or two even began to doze a bit.

                “Elder Ori, is it true that before Alfrid Lickspittle was beheaded, Steven Rogers performed the humiliating maneuver known as the ‘wedgie’ on him?” one Dale teenager asked, leering.  Ori’s response was curt, but with a smile.

                “No comment.”

Chapter Text

                “What story will you tell us today, Elder Ori?” one Elf child asked politely as she and the other Hobbit, Dwarf, and Elvish children settled themselves in front of the aged Dwarf scribe as he settled down in his comfy armchair.  Feebly, Ori smiled as he accepted a cup of oolong tea from his aged son before asking the loaded question.

                “Which story would you like me to tell?”

                As usual, this brought forth a barrage of requests.

                “Tell us the tale of when Master Samwise Gamgee helped Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg kill Shelob and became the fourth member of the Warriors Three!” one Dwarfling cheered excitedly.

                “Um…shouldn’t it be ‘Warriors Four’?” one Hobbit boy pointed out.

                “They refused to change the name for some reason,” shrugged the Dwarf.

                “How about the time when Prince Bain and Master Gimli tried to make their own wings to mimic Captain Falcon and accidentally awoke the King of Bats?” one Dale teenager piped up.

                “We have not heard to the tale of when Prince Boromir and Prince Faramir traveled back in time to assist Lady Peggy Carter.  That could be a nice, long tale…”

                “No!  Tell us the time when Lady Simmons and Sir Fitz healed the axe wound in Master Bifur’s head and saved his mind!” another Dwarf said.

                “What about the time when Deadpool the Mercenary fell in love with Aragorn and kidnapped him for a romantic getaway?” one Dale adolescent asked, which brought a few confused stares from her neighbors.

                “Um…you must have meant Deadpool the Mercenary kidnapping Queen Arwen, correct?” one Dwarfling corrected hesitantly.

                “Trust me on this...”

                “How about when Dormammu invaded Middle Earth?” one brave Elf suggested, only to be met by exclamations of horror and shocked rejections from his various comrades.  Even Ori and his son flinched at that request despite their brutal experiences during the Battle of the Five Armies and the War of the Ring.

                “Blimey!  Are you insane?!  How could you ask for such a thing?!  I still have nightmares over that incident!  Be thankful Mithrandir isn’t here to hear you ask for that!  He’d have a fit!  I’ll say!” chorused various youngsters in different volumes.

                “I’m in the mood for a funny one.  Ooh!  Tell us the time when Master Drax accidentally became the Mayor of Hobbiton!” one Hobbit girl yelled out.

                “Hold.  Didn’t Master Drax only last for one day as the Mayor of Hobbiton?” one Elf asked, frowning.

                “That’s what makes it funny,” cheekily returned the Fauntling with a smile.

                “No, continue the tale last week of Thor and Captain America settling into Erebor!” one Dale girl piped up, and surprisingly, this was met with quick agreement.

                “Oh, yes!  Okay.  That would be a good one!  I am interested, myself.  All right.  It would be satisfactory, I daresay.”

                Ori’s son, standing in the background, smiled upon hearing this.

                Ori sipped his tea as he murmured, “I never thought I would see the day when you children unanimously agree on a story…”

                After several moments of composing himself and gathering his thoughts, the wrinkled and senescent Dwarf began his tale.

                “Despite all the possible leads with the kidnapping of Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli, to our massive disappointment, nothing was concrete.  Alfrid Lickspittle contacted the Orcs and Goblins via messenger birds, and he never met his employer face to face.  The Men were those from Laketown who either were in massive debt or blamed King Thorin and King Bard for Smaug’s devastation that killed their families and loved ones.  However, they paid with standard gold from Dale and Erebor, none of the inhabitants from the nearby towns could recall anything odd about them, and they split into several groups and traveled with numerous trade caravans to not arouse any suspicion.  Needless to say, despite intense interrogation by Gandalf and our leaders, we learned nothing extraordinary or revealing.  Nori and his Spy Network as well as Tauriel and Legolas’ investigations in the forests yielded little about any Dwarves or even Elves who may have sided with Sauron, and after Alfrid’s execution, we had very little to go on in our search.  Adding in more incursions with the Goblins and Orcs, it was depressing all around.”

                Despite his advanced age, Ori’s eyes then gleamed naughtily like an eager child’s.

                “However, this depression did not last long once both Thor and Captain America were on the battlefield…”

                “By Eru, there’s a second group of Goblins!  With Cave Trolls!  We are being flanked from behind!” yelled Prince Legolas as he spied a second wave of the Orc army blitzing them from the rear as an ingenious pincer movement.  Now they were being crushed on both sides.  Kíli immediately joined the Elf Prince in letting lose a volley of arrows, each one a direct hit, as more and more of the unified armies of Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood joined in.  Fíli went pale as he saw over ten Cave Trolls with thick slabs of rocks tied to theirs as makeshift battering rams and helmets charging towards them up the rocky hills.  Out in the open without any fortification…
                They were in trouble.

                Not even Gandalf could easily kill this many…

                However, to everyone’s surprise, two figures swiftly pushed passed and flung themselves towards the rear battalion, with Captain America calling over his shoulder, “Keep fighting on the front!  Focus on the first legion!  Gandalf, watch our backs for any stragglers!”

                Kíli blurted out, aghast at the supreme idiocy, “Are you both insane?!  You cannot take this army by yourselves, you - !”

                Yet what the dark-haired Dwarf was going to say got lost as Kíli trailed off as he, Legolas, and quite a few of their comrades simply gaped, agog and with wide eyes.

                The wave of Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls had no chance.

                Leaping high in midair, Thor lifted Mjolnir over his head and summoned a supreme mass of black storm clouds before a barrage of hot, white lightning bolts rained down and showered the entire legion, electrocuting them instantly.  Though all the Cave Trolls were protected thanks to the rock headdresses warding off the brunt of the thunderbolts, they were severely blinded and burned as they screamed in pain and stumbled drunkenly, massive blisters raised on their grimy hides.  Many of the Goblins and Orcs were not as fortunate as the fields were now littered with charred corpses, smoldering vile wafts of smoke and stiff with rigor mortis.

                Snarling, several Orcs aimed their arrows at the airborne Thor, ready to strike him with their Morgul arrows, but Steve hurled his shield with a quick flick of his arm.  Speedily, the shield struck each of the bows, splitting them in half and rendering them useless as it bounced from Orc to Orc, leaving the enemy unable to fire their weapons.  One Orc general drew out his sword as he commanded the few surviving Orcs.

                “Fight the miscreant hand to hand!  He has no sword!  Overwhelm him!” the Orc barked in Black Speech.

                The Orcs charged, but to their complete surprise, Captain America quickly dispatched all of them, punching, kicking, and no matter how violently and aggressively the Orcs tried to hack and slash with their swords, they could not land a single blow on the evasive Avenger.  Within the span of a minute, Steve stood, panting amid a circle of unconscious enemies, his shield bloodstained.  The rest of the Orcs and Goblins were incapacitated with broken necks, arms, and legs, and even the Orc general was lying senseless on his back, his blood-covered skull and face caved in and crushed badly.

                The Cave Trolls were rather irritated as they roared and charged with heads lowered, exposing the humongous bricks tied to their skulls.  Forming a line, the Trolls blitzed forward towards Steven, intent on trampling the puny Man in a blink of an eye.  Instead of retreating, Steve bent down on one knee and raised his shield over his head.

                Without prompt and in tandem, Thor barreled down towards the Captain with the glowing Mjolnir over his head and in both hands.  With a mighty swing, Thor struck the shield just as Trolls were about to eviscerate them.

                POOOM!

                A massive wave of force, caused when the hammer met vibranium, instantly erupted and was powerful enough to cause all the Trolls to immediately stop dead in their tracks and falter, shrieking in pain from the fact that the resulting sonic boom shattered their eardrums.

                Taking advantage of the diversion, Steven flung his shield, and like magic, the metal discus bounced back and forth Trolls’ legs in a crazy array of curves and trajectories that bounced off the enemies’ kneecaps and shins, shattering bone and cartilage.  Taken by surprise, the Cave Trolls stumbled to their hands and knees, allowing Steve to gymnastically climb and somersault upwards on their arms and backs until he was flying on their shoulders, delivering punches and kicks to the sensitive spots in their heads and necks.  At the same time, Thor began crippling and killing Trolls left and right, swinging Mjolnir wildly and with one Troll having its head brutally ripped off from an enthusiastic uppercut.

                “They are truly unstoppable,” commented one Mirkwood soldier, his jaw dropping in a rare feat of astonishment, taken aback for the first time in decades.

                “They are truly terrifying warriors…” murmured King Bard, blinking and slightly intimidated.

                “They are truly amazing…” murmured Fíli, awestruck.

                “They are not that amazing,” grumbled Thorin out of spite.

                “LEAVE SOME FOR THE REST OF US, YOU BLOODY HOGS!” Dwalin snapped as he yanked his axe Grasper out of a dead Orc’s skull.  Bifur couldn’t help but give the Ereborian Guard a deadpanned look as he signed with one hand.

                By all means, feel free to fight one of the Trolls.  We shall stay behind and make sure that you receive a nice funeral, Bifur sarcastically motioned.

                “Oh shut up!” snapped Dwalin, red in the face.

                Meanwhile, a few of the Cave Trolls ingeniously tackled the Asgardian as one, pinning him to the ground with their meaty hands and forcing Thor down to the ground away from Mjolnir.

                “We got the bloke now!” crowed out one Troll in victory.

                “Mash ‘em to paste!” yelled another behemoth as he applied more pressure on Thor’s body, causing Thor to hiss and wince in agony.

                “Thor!” yelled out Fíli as Steve did his best to rush forward to help his fellow Avenger.  Unfortunately, Captain America was viciously sidetracked as two of the remaining Trolls lashed out and tried to crush him with their fists and attempts to stomp on him.  Retreating hurriedly, Steve had no choice but battle for his life against his opponents as the Trolls were about pulverize their victim.

                Remarkably, Thor managed to remain defiant, blood pouring out of his mouth.

                “I am Thor, son of Odin, Prince of Asgard…” Thor rasped, “And as long as I have breath in me, I shall never give in to - ”

                Thanks to a rather painful clout from an oversized fist, the rest of what Thor was going to say was lost with a phlegmatic cough before Thor (to everyone’s surprise), chuckled.          

                “…and I have lost what I am trying to say.  NOW BILBO!” Thor roared.

                The Cave Trolls were completely taken by surprise as Bilbo Baggins emerged out of thin air with his ring right behind them.  Grasping Mjolnir from the ground by its handle and with one mighty swing, Bilbo sent three Trolls flying immediately with a powerful burst of thunder and lightning, instantly frying the behemoths as they sailed in a high arc over everyone’s heads before crashing solidly into Mirkwood forest in the far distance, splintering trees and young boughs upon impact as they tumbled to a stop in the stone and dirt, making a nasty and deep skid mark.

                King Thraunduil, who was riding on his Elk, was absolutely apoplectic.

                “MASTER BAGGINS!” the Mirkwood King screeched, one eye twitching at the extensive damage to his precious grove.  Gulping, Bilbo meekly winced and shrugged.

                Apparently, Thranduil was still sore about the entire incident with Azog’s corpse and his throne room a year ago…

                Thorin looked just as angry as he barked while stabbing a Goblin in the chest with Orcrist, “Bilbo, what in the name of Mahal are you doing here?!  You are supposed to be back in the Mountain!”

                “And if you think I would listen to that demand after you nearly died last year, you clearly need to have your head examined by Óin!” Bilbo snapped as he hefted Mjolnir, causing a burst of white-hot electricity to flash from the metal head before sending a wave of lightning upon the front faction of the enemy, frying them all in the flash and allowing Thorin and his friends a bit of a respite.

                Thor, now free sat up quickly before reaching out with one outstretched hand.  Instantly and on cue, Mjolnir flew out on Bilbo’s hands and into Thor’s palms.  Roaring, Thor raised the hammer over his head before slamming it to the ground.

                Incredibly, there was a sudden upsurge in the dirt as a compressed wave of sound erupted from the floor and sent the Trolls stumbling to their feet or falling backwards on their rumps.  This immediately allowed Captain America, Gandalf, Legolas, Tauriel, and Fíli to take advantage of the distraction and attack the fallen Trolls with a combination of shield slashes, sword jabs, throwing knives, and arrows.

                “Thor, batter up!” Steven bellowed the code word at the top of his lungs, instantly getting the Asgardian’s attention as Thor quickly got on his feet before grasping his hammer with both hands.  With a heave of his arm, Steve flung his metal shield at Thor who then smug with Mjolnir at the last minute.

                With a clap of thunder and a flash of light, Thor struck the shield with his hammer, causing it to fly out before it flew as a straight trajectory, moving down four Cave Trolls’ heads in a blink of an eye as it zoomed past, the sharp discuss tearing through bone and flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter.  And to the crowd’s amazement, the shield effortless and skillfully brushed past underneath the Troll’s rock helmets, cleaving right underneath the vulnerable areas of their craniums.  Now missing a significant portion of their noggins and gruesomely decapitated and scalped, the four behemoths toppled over and died before their hit the dirt, leaking blood out of their wounds, glazed eyes, noses, and gaping jaws.

                “And here I thought that these two were absolutely useless…” Dáin admitted in reverent awe as he hefted his Warhammer and swung at an Orc’s midsection, shattering the spinal cord in one thump.

                “Damn!  There is one remaining!” cursed Legolas as he and Tauriel and Fíli managed to stab all of their blades in unison directly into the back of another prostrate Troll’s neck, right where the spinal column met the skull.  Thor immediately met the roaring surviving giant, twirling Mjolnir in his hand by the leather strap.

                “Have at thee, loathsome wretch!” challenged Thor, smiling with anticipation.

                “NOT TOWARDS MY KINGDOM!” roared King Thranduil, frothing at the mouth and one eye twitching, “HAVE THOR ODINSON AIM SOMEWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN MIRKWOOD OR DALE OR THE LONELY MOUNTAIN!”

                Snorting with annoyance, Thor then quickly sidestepped, swiveling his position and narrowly dodging the Troll’s lumbering feet as the Trolls tried to tackle him.  With exaggerated care, Thor sidestepped behind the Cave Troll before delivering the hammer upwards in a ferocious swing.

                BAM!

                The Troll died without even making a grunt as it rocketed upwards the sky, as swiftly as an arrow as it soared higher and higher, disappearing in the far horizon and soon invisible even to the Elves’ eyesight.  Thor gave Thranduil a rather exasperated scoff as he drawled, “There.  Are thou satisfied?”

                Thranduil returned with a dark glare of his own, and even Legolas looked like he was just eager for a brawl with the Asgardian.

                “Thor…” chided Bilbo behind the Asgardian with a no-nonsense tone.

                Thor hunched his shoulders a bit, chastised before he then amended in a more cordial tone, bowing, “My apologies for being terse, King Thranduil, especially after the hospitality you have shown us.  I take back by words and I shall remember to be considerate and considerate of your concerns and issues in the immediate future, King of Mirkwood.”

                The Elf monarch appeared mollified while Legolas still had a sour expression on his face.  Regardless, what Thor cared about the most was the look of pleased satisfaction on both Bilbo and Steven’s faces, glad for the apology and proper etiquette.

                Thorin just grumbled under his breath, not liking the sunny smile on Bilbo’s face, “Rear-kissing, sycophantic fop…”

                Let us hope that the flying Troll does not hit anything, signed a concerned Bifur, getting back to the situation at hand as he removed his spear from the back of an Orc.

                Kíli scoffed as he shot and felled another Goblin, a direct hit in its eye, “Oh come now!  With so much empty space, what is the likelihood that the Troll will actually cause any significant damage?”

                “Wait…” murmured a bright Hobbit Fauntling, already piecing the time-frame together, “Wasn’t this how Minas Tirith got that hole in the Citadel?”

                “The White Tower was never the same since,” admitted Ori, which brought about a round of giggling and laughter.

                “Is this why we’re banned from the Kingdom of Gondor?” asked a human boy.

                “Among other reasons…” the old Dwarf sighed.

                He decided to not go into the time of how much Denethor the Second went into a hysterical fit of rage when he caught the alien Groot humping the sacred White Tree like a dog in heat.

                “It is right in this area,” Nori reported as he jabbed a specific spot in the Gray Mountains, “The ravens spotted stragglers from the last incursion at Dale retreating to this spot.”

                “Any signs of settlements or bases?  Any indications of where they are camping such as campfires or cleared areas of vegetation?” Thor asked, his eyes studying the map astutely.

                “None.  It is as if they have vanished into thin air.  And considering that the Goblins cannot tolerate sunlight, it could be possible that they have taken tunnels leading them underground.  Radagast the Brown has received reports from the moles and the swiftlets about irrational movement and minor tremors within their caves and burrows,” Gandalf intoned.

                “Wait…” pointed out one of the Men from Dale, “Could it possible that the Orcs are using the tunnels of the Earth Eaters?  Because this sounds suspiciously like when they took us by surprise at the Battle of the Five Armies.”

                “Then perhaps we should immediately search for a tunnel and traverse down until we find their center of operations and take them by surprise,” suggested Dwalin, “We cannot just remain above and wait for them to strike.  Each confrontation gets bolder and bolder, and waiting just risks allowing the Orcs and Goblins to wear us out until they eventually succeed in complete and total destruction.”

                “No,” one of the Elven commanders of Mirkwood shot down gently, “Underground in tight quarters with the ability to cooperate and work in the shadows gives the Goblins the advantage.  Marching groups of our soldiers into the proverbial lion’s mouth would be tantamount to a suicide mission.”

                “There is no advantage in lingering for the next raid!” snapped Thorin.

                “I will not risk my Men in something foolhardy,” Bard said with steel.

                After a minute of dead and tense silence in which Bilbo was worried if there was going to be a full-fledged screaming argument complete with threats and thrown objects and punching, Prince Fíli then asked surprisingly, “Captain America, what do you think?”

                Steven Rogers’s blue pupils sharpened under the light of the candles, the bags in his skin less pronounced as he stated, “There’s definitely a higher agenda behind all this.  The kidnapping of Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli along with the small suggestions of conspiracy proves this.  King Thorin and Mister Dwalin are correct that the longer we wait, we risk the spies and traitors amongst the Dwarves, Men, and Elves thinking of new ways to exploit our weaknesses in Dale and Erebor.”

                “Surely you jest,” Legolas jumped in with disdain, “There has never been an Elf who would willingly side with the race of Morgoth!”

                “I meant no offense, Prince Legolas, and my apologies if the sentence came out as that.  But we can’t make assumptions, your Highness, especially with so much at stake.  However, I agree with King Thranduil that going underground would be too risky, and we can’t fit an entire army in such small quarters.  We could try following Nori’s example of his Ereborian Spy Network: create a small group of specialized individuals to slowly sneak around Middle Earth, try to capture some Orcs and Goblins hostage for information, as well as be our commandos for this war.”

                “Commandos?” echoed Fíli, tilting his head in confusion at the unfamiliar term.

                “A group of soldiers acting as an elite, specialized unit for reconnaissance and raiding and combat.  The combined armies from all three kingdoms can act as the sledgehammer, but we need a small group of people who can act as a scalpel…er, as a knife for something quick and seamless without drawing attention.  Thor and I volunteer to form such a unit and select a few characters for the cause, whether they be Elf, Man, Dwarf, or Hobbit.  In fact, I think Bilbo might be a big help.”

                Steven sent a small grin to Bilbo, who was pleased that unlike many of the residents, the good Captain kept him and his race in mind (not to mention that Steve never referred to Bilbo as a “Halfling”).  Thorin however appeared displeased as he growled protectively, “No.  I forbid allowing you to send Bilbo on such foolhardy missions.”

                “Should it not be Brother Bilbo’s choice?” Thor asked, cocking his head to the side in puzzlement, “And I have faith in his abilities; Mjolnir would not choose one to wield it unless he or she had a true heart of a warrior.  And did you not yourself send your Beloved on a quest to face Smaug the dragon alone?”

                Thorin’s mouth set to a humiliated, tight-lipped line amid his flushed cheeks of anger, doing his best to not glance at Bilbo’s smug grin.

                “Whatever are you planning?” Lord Dáin asked suspiciously.

                “I have the beginnings of an idea…” Steve said slowly, rubbing his chin, “But it requires us exploring the tunnels of these Earth Eaters as well as some stealth and metal.  Mister Nori, is there a way we can acquire a large amount of silver and copper and form it into miniature rods and nails, hard enough to embed into the ground?  And without anyone noticing?  If my plan works, we’re going to need enough to supply an army.”

                Nori just wordlessly nodded, not sure what Captain America was thinking.  In fact, all of the Dwarves along with Bard and his advisors were looking at Steven as if he suggested that they all wear frilly dresses and dance around the battlefield, his vague idea queer and seemingly pathetic.

                “This is ridiculous,” grumbled Legolas in Silvan to his fellow Mirkwood soldiers (to the agreement of the males and the annoyance of the females), “Our kin and the Dwarves and Men are resident natives to this land and its blights.  And yet we are expected to hold our tongues and let a showboating God and a sanctimonious, holier-than-thou Captain lead us and pretend they think they know best?  By the Valar, I simply cannot stand such gall!  I certainly hope that these two invaders realize that it is our homes and our battles and our lives that are most at risk!”

                “Prince Legolas?” Steve’s voice broke from the background.

                “What?” Legolas snapped in Westron, and if there was an impatient and waspish tone in his voice, Steve pretended to not discern it.

                “There are reports from the ravens of a battalion of Orcs and Wargs with several Cave Trolls are approaching Mirkwood.  Thor and I were wondering if you could lead us and give us direction?  We will be under your command and what you feel is best for this mission.  It will also be a good way to see if we can spot any tunnels underground.”

                Legolas (as well as the other Elves) blinked.

                “…what?” Legolas asked rather awkwardly.  Steve shrugged good-naturedly, like an easy-going child.

                “Thor and I don’t know the lands and forests as well as you do, and it’s your kingdom that will be at risk the most at this point.  We don’t know everything about Middle Earth, and you do, so to be the most effective in this fight, we’ll follow your lead and suggestions in order to protect Mirkwood.”

                “Indeed!” laughed Thor as he painfully clapped Legolas on his shoulder in jest, “With your guidance, your Highness, we shall overcome this pestilence of Goblins and foul creatures easily!  What is your order, Commander?”

                There was an awkward silence (with the Dwarves being actually astonished at how straightforwardly Thor and Steven relinquished authority) before a rather humiliated Legolas jerked his head.

                “Follow us as we ride towards Mirkwood.  We shall brief you both on the way.”

                Captain America and Thor both nodded as they all left the meeting room together, and Legolas did his best to not fume under the smug looks from the other Elves in his vicinity (especially from the female footsoldiers).

                “Go ahead, my Prince,” Tauriel drawled in Silvan, “I believe you were saying something rather funny…”

                “Oh be quiet,” grumbled Legolas.

                “Hold, Elder Ori!” piped up a confused Hobbit girl, “Since when could Steve Rogers and Thor breathe in Mirkwood without keeling over from the smell?”

                “This was years before the Hulk’s violent diarrhea incident,” clarified the Dwarf, smiling and clearly not bothered at the interrupting question.

                “Oh…” realized the Fauntling.  Many of the Elf children in the room were grumbling and grimacing at the reminder.  Several were still a bit charitable, however.

                “To be fair, no one, not even Captain America or Thor, knew that Orc poison had that effect on Master Banner,” one Elf highlighted.

                “And on the bright side, the resulting odor did drive away all of the spiders and Orc scum from our haven,” another commented.

                “I’d rather have the spiders back,” grumbled a third Elf, pouting.

                “Actually, now that I think about it, has King Thranduil ever forgiven the Hulk and Master Banner for the incident?” one Dale boy asked, sucking on a finger.

                All the Elf children answered in unison.

                “No.”

                “‘Itt iss Eevill…’”

                “‘What is going to happen?’”

                “‘Wee wwill cconnttinnue tto ffightt!’…”

                “‘And we’re not alone, you know, children,’ came Mrs Whatsit, the comforter.  ‘…some of the best fighters have come from your own planet…’”

                “‘Who have our fighters been?’ Calvin asked.”

                “‘Oh, you must know them, dear,’ Mrs Whatsit said.  Mrs Who’s spectacles shone out at them triumphantly.”

                “‘And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’”

                Steven never faltered in the entertainment as he continued the tale of Meg, Calvin, and Charles Wallace learning of the universal battle of the darkness in the cosmos to a rapt and hushed audience.  He looked completely at peace, sitting comfortably on a wooden stool as he read from the old book in his hands, and every once in a while, popping one of Bilbo’s succulent cheese scones from a nearby plate into his mouth for a quick snack.  This time, Tilda was not alone, for she was joined with all the other children from Dale, the women Mafria and Bea, the she-Elf Tauriel, Bilbo, Ori, Prince Bain, and Gimli.  All of them were clustered close together and sitting on the ground or on blankets, paying close attention and hanging on to each and every word.  And it was such an enchanting and dreamlike time, their imaginations soaring as they could actually picture themselves being on the starry belt of the constellation, Orion.

                Ori wished he could have a treasured copy of “A Wrinkle in Time” to keep in the Royal Library for everyone to read as he attentively devoured each word of the story.

                Meanwhile, during Steven’s narration, Bain leaned over closer to Gimli and whispered softly in his friend’s ear.  Gimli had more or less recovered from his kidnapping, and though he felt gingerly brushing his fingers absentmindedly against his chin where his beard used to be, the Dwarfling more or less accepted the loss.

                “I thought you said your Da forbade you from being anywhere near the vicinity of Master Rogers during his stay in Erebor,” Prince Bain said softly.  Gimli smirked.

                “Amad straightened him out, so I am free to do whatever I shall please within proper behavior with the good Captain,” the Dwarfling murmured back.  Bain pondered this before he slyly grinned.

                “‘Straightened him out’ or straightened him out with his axe?”

                “Interpret it however you will,” Gimli said cheekily, clearly not the least bit sorry at disobeying Glóin.

                “Many people soon grew to value Steven Rogers’ company, and ever since proving their proficiency and expertise on the frontline, they gained more and more respect and admiration from various people in all three provinces.  It wasn’t long before Bard, Balin, and even Thranduil took Thor and Steven’s viewpoints in consideration regarding warfare and ideas of fortifying our defenses.  It was also shortly thereafter that Bilbo Baggins grew close to the Captain,” Ori recalled wistfully, stroking his patchy, gray beard.

                “Because of his personality?” one Dwarfling asked.

                “Because of Master Baggins’ role as Consort of the Mountain?” a Dale girl asked.

                “Actually, it was for a completely unexpected reason…” chuckled the aged Dwarf.

                “This is cream of summer squash soup, topped with basil and chives from my own garden…” Bilbo bragged with pride as he set down a large earthenware bowl in from of Captain America with a dollop of white cream in the center of orange consommé.

                “Thank you, Mister Baggins,” Steve uttered gratefully as he ravenously devoured the contents, relishing the texture and balance of salt and the hint of black pepper and wine.  As he scrapped his dish, Bilbo kept bringing out more and more food.

                “A nice Spring Salad, complete with our homegrown lettuce, blackberries, tomato, baby carrots, wild greens, red onions, beets, radishes, and toasted hazelnuts with my homemade light dill vinaigrette dressing that has won the Shire Salad Contests three years running,” Bilbo chimed in as he set down a large dish whose surface area was wider than Bombur.

                “Fresh onion and leek pasties, brushed with oil and tarragon and with a glass of mint lemonade,” Bilbo crowed as he set down four sumptuous baked pasties with golden brown crusts and dribbling with dark mushroom gravy in the sides.

                “Ale battered fried fish, fresh from our rivers, in a beer and cornmeal crust with roasted rosemary potatoes and a glass of cranberry wine from Dale,” Bilbo cheered as he set down a large dish with five large trout covered with a thick flour shell of golden yellow, fragrant and sinfully greasy, on top of a mountain of potato wedges.

                As Steven devoured and ate, Bilbo chuckled at the Captain eating with proper respectability, using his knife, fork, and napkin (a nice change from the usual burping contests and all of his Dwarves eating nosily and with their hands and tossing dishes and whatnot).  As Bilbo served Steven a frothy mug of steaming goat milk, flavored with raw sugar, honey, hazelnut syrup and drizzled with orange zest, Steve couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in a teasing manner.

                “Bilbo, I cannot thank you enough for this feast.  I would have paid a fortune if it meant getting home-cooked meals like this when Buck-…when Bucky and I were growing up.  But you have most profound and deepest gratitude, if it means anything.  However, are you trying to fatten me up?”

                Bilbo blushed and bowed his head before docilely playing his fingers and admitted, “Maybe?”

                To the Hobbit’s relief, instead of being offended, Steven laughed.  Actually laughed, feeling lighter in months and with such a carefree and joyous baritone.

                “You can try…” Steve Rogers ribbed as he finished licking the salty grease from his fingers, “Due to the serum in my body, I need to eat nine times a day in order to function.”

                “Well, you have no idea how welcome it is to finally have one who can eat and follow mealtimes like a proper Hobbit in the Shire!” huffed Bilbo pleasantly before he gestured to the newly planted pear and fig trees and all the baskets of wild peanuts and carrots Steve harvested within the hour, “And this meal is my way of thanking you for helping me with the Royal Gardens.  I daresay I have gotten more done with you in one day than I ever have with an army of Dwarves in several!”

                “Just wait ‘til what I can show you what you can do with the peanuts we brought in,” Steven chuckled before he eyes lit up like a child’s, eagerly salivating, “Is…is that…?”

                “Apple pie, all for you, laced with cinnamon, sugar, and crystallized maple sap on top with a side of fresh clotted cream…” Bilbo bragged as he set the fragrant treat on the table.

                “Thank you…” moaned Steve heavily as he immediately dug into his favorite childhood dessert.

                “YOU!” snarled a furious voice, and both Bilbo and Steen looked up to see a quivering Thorin Oakenshield, tight-lipped and immensely furious as he was holding a giant, golden serving platter.  Upon a closer look, Bilbo noticed it was Thorin’s personal serving plate, emblazoned with his name in Khuzdul and studded with jewels in the rim…

                “Whatever is the matter, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, confused as he and Steven stared at the fuming Dwarf King.  Thorin looked at Captain America with a cold and dangerous sneer.

                “Enjoying our food and fare, Master Rogers?” Thorin growled.  Steven maintained a neutral expression as he nodded.

                “I am, thank you,” the Avenger intoned, only to be met with a violent shout from Thorin.

                “Is it not enough that you must force my Beloved to cook for you every day, but that you must purloin my own meals as well, Captain?!” Thorin roared.  Bilbo huffed indignantly in Steven’s defense as he shot up from his seat, cheeks flushed and his hands on his hips.

                “Thorin, now really!  Apologize to Steven!  He has done nothing wrong!  I am cooking and serving him specially made meals in the garden today as a way of saying thank you for all his help in assisting me with the carrot harvest and planting the fruit trees!  See all the new groves and bushels of cleaned vegetables?  Steven worked so hard to assist me since early this morning!  The very work you yourself had been promising to personally perform for the past three weeks!” Bilbo admonished with an appalled and admonishing tone.

                “…I said I would get around to it,” grumbled Thorin, angry but now a little deflated.

                “Oh, Thorin…” sighed Bilbo, feeling his indignity lessen as he went over and gently caressed his husband’s face in his hands, “Captain America is our guest, and he is helping us in the best way we can.  Please apologize and treat him with respect, love.”

                “It is all right, Mister Bilbo,” Steven declared lightly from the background as he scraped the crumbs from the pie tin, “He does not need to apologize if he does not want to.”

                “Especially since you stole my lunch!” Thorin snapped, which drew looks of confusion from both Bilbo and Steven.

                “Huh?” blurted out a puzzled Steve.  Bilbo frowned even more in bewilderment.

                The Hobbit shook his head as the misperception as he stated, “Thorin, I left you a very generous lunch of fresh roast mutton sandwiches earlier today, your absolute favorite!  In the kitchens because I knew you were going to be tardy due to the council meeting with the envoy from the Stonefoot Lords.  On the same serving tray that I always have before.”

                “It was missing!” Thorin snapped, teeth bared and brandishing said serving platter directly in front of Bilbo’s view, “Instead of being able to reward myself after four hours of grueling negotiations, arguments, and urges to decapitate two Lords if they made one more whiny demand, I stumble into the Royal Kitchens only to find my personal plate bare except a few scant crumbs and dribbles of gravy!  And I have quite a good suspicion on whom would be a potential enough of a glutton to do such a selfish and insolent act!”

                “It wasn’t me,” Steven immediately denied, raising his hands in a deferential manner.

                “Captain America is telling the truth, Thorin,” Bilbo interjected, “He spent all morning in the Royal Gardens, and he has not left the premises even once.  Not to mention that I specifically laid aside the mutton for you after I prepared Steven’s spread, and he was nowhere near the galleys when I left.”

                “Well who else could it be then?!” snapped Thorin.

                And as if one cue…

                “Brother Bilbo!” cheered a hearty Thor Odinson, strolling into the garden and demolishing the remains of a familiar lunch, “I was told I shall find you and Steven here!  I wished to thank you for such a marvelous repast you have provided for me in the kitchen!  That roast mutton was absolutely delectable, far worthier than all of the meals of the Royal Chefs in Asgard!”

                Thor then noisily sucked the gravy from his fingers as the last of Thorin’s sandwiches went down his throat.

                Thorin’s vision bleed crimson as his fingers tightened on the serving tray so forcefully, the skin on his knuckles turned white…

                “And that is how the Fight of the Missing Mutton and the Broken Rosebushes between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson began…” finished Ori, the elderly Dwarf doing his best to not chuckle at the memory of both Thorin and Thor needing to go to Óin to have rose thorns removed from their arms and backsides (with Bilbo rebuking them all throughout).

                Thankfully, the entire audience was more than willing to guffaw and laugh, some with tears streaming down their eyes.

                “I always wondered where Master Thorin got that trophy hanging over the Royal Bedrooms,” one Hobbit teenager piped up.

                “Trophy?  What trophy?” asked a breathless Elf, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes.

                The Fauntling grinned as he clarified, “Above the doorways of Thorin Oakenshield’s former chambers is the golden dinner platter Elder Ori just mentioned in his story.  Except that now it has a big indentation in the center with the impression of Thor’s face embedded into the metal…”

                It was packed that night in Dori’s teahouse, with Dori and Steven running back and forth serving tea and fresh baked pastries while Thor was about to finish his tale of how he and the Warriors Three founght against Ulik the Rock Troll in the realm known as Alfheim.  Still, Ori appreciated how even amid the hubbub and numerous customers, Steve still managed to focus his undivided attention on him without hesitation.

                “Steve…” Ori asked timidly, nervously turning his empty teacup around and around in his hands at the booth.  Steve Rogers set down his empty tray of dirty dishes and mugs near the sink before he turned to the Dwarf scribe, his blue eyes now clearer than they ever been when he first arrived to Middle Earth.

                In the background, Dwalin was furiously summoning every bit of willpower into his glare from the other side of the room, aiming his hate directly at Steven who was currently getting a little too close to Ori to his liking.

                “You know, you could try being friends with Steven, like young Ori,” chided Gandalf who somehow wandered next to Dwalin, “Steven would be a wonderful comrade to you if you let him.”

                “One more word out of you, and I’ll throw your hat into the fireplace…” snarled Dwalin.

                Much to the burly Dwarf’s ire, Gandalf just smiled as he stated unflappably, “Many have tried…”

                Meanwhile, over to Ori and Steven, Ori suddenly felt his apprehension and anxiety take hold of his senses.

                “Yes, Ori?” Steve asked with a smile as he deliberated on Ori.

                “I…I…I wanted…”

                Ori swallowed thickly, unable to meet the kind-hearted soldier in the eyes, his resolve cracking.

                Steve cocked his head to the side a bit, smiling and making a soft, “Hm?”

                “I want a refill of nutmeg tea, if you please,” Ori finished lamely, his throat tightening and his cheeks flushed as he shoved his tea cup forward as a distraction.  With his head bowed down low, Ori didn’t spot Steve looking concerned at his friend.

                Steven got the feeling that the Dwarf scribe wasn’t going to ask about tea, and he leaned over closer to the suddenly speechless Dwarf.

                “Ori - ” began Steven, only to suddenly jerk his head up at the shout of his name from Thor.

                “Brother Steven!” bellowed Thor magnanimously, beckoning the Captain with a wave of his hand amid the adoring and dreamy-eyed fangirls as he walked over, “Come hither and share a tale or two with our lovely and eager ladies of this realm!  Tell us a story, an anecdote of your past!  Your early days as a Private of the army, or the time you battled against the Red Skull!  When Tony Stark assembled the Avengers during the Chitauri invasion!  Perhaps…”

                Thor paused as he delicately slung a gentle arm around Steven’s shoulders comfortingly.

                “Perhaps…the tale of Bucky Barnes and the battle with Hydra and Winter Soldier,” Thor whispered, concerned and a bit hesitant.

                He was really poking the caged and sleeping dragon with that last request.

                Steven’s violent reaction was not the slightest bit unexpected as Steve’s face melted in fury and violently shoved Thor away (which, given Thor’s muscular build, only managed to move the Asgardian a couple of inches).  Steve was horrified and outraged at Thor’s audacity, and the only reason he didn’t start pummeling Thor right there was the hurt, puppy-dog look on the crestfallen Thor’s face.

                “Steven…” Thor pleaded in a whisper.

                The audience of ladies as well as Dori were stunned into silence at the look of hurt and raw pain on Steven’s face as the entire tea house grew still, tense and apprehensive.  Even Dwalin was taken aback by the look of raw agony in Steven’s glistening eyes.  Steve began to hyperventilate, red in the face and his heart pounding hard against his ribcage.

                He wanted to run.

                He needed to flee.

                He needed to scream, to fight, to rage his ire and resentment against the unfairness of the situation against him and Bucky, to punch something until his strength left him.

                Until Steve Rogers felt small but cool and soothing fingers wrap around his clenched fist.  He looked down to see the sympathetic and tenderhearted Ori rub Steven’s hand before guiding the reluctant Avenger to the empty stool next to him.  Trembling, Steve felt his eyes burn with tears of pain and frustration as he uncertainly looked up, expecting condemnation.

                Thankfully, all the female Elves, Women, and Dwarrowdams looked on without fear or disapproval, blank expressions with concern and puzzlement in their eyes.  Even Dwalin shielded his glare temporarily, confused.

                It was so difficult to breathe, to keep himself from crying out in agony, to even not wince at the torrential downpour of memories suddenly flooding his mind, tormenting him with the Winter Soldier’s soulless face over and over again contrasting against Bucky’s haunted eyes of guilt and blame and self-loathing.

                “Steven, you have carried a burden of guilt and loss long enough.  Anger and bitterness and denial just latches the pain even more tightly,” Gandalf spoke softly as he laid a hand on Steven’s slumped shoulder, and for some odd reason, Captain America could feel a tingling sense of warmth and assurance seeping into his numb body.

                “Let it go, Steven…” Gandalf instructed.

                “I…I can’t…” whispered the Captain, looking like he wanted to just break down right then and there.

                “You can,” Thor said gently from behind Gandalf, strong and confident.

                “I can’t…” hissed Steven, his voice cracking.

                “You can, Master Rogers.  You are a warrior…” Dori whispered from the sidelines.  Thankfully, the audience remained silent as their held their collective breath.

                “I can’t…” Steven said in the closest thing to a whimper.

                Then, to everyone’s shock, unable to see the good Captain break, Ori then did a very daring thing that absolutely caused Dwalin’s eyes to widen with outrage.

                Steven felt Ori gently reach up and grasp both sides of Steven’s jaw and face with his padded mittens before guiding the Captain’s blue eyes into Ori’s brown ones.  Even though he was seated on the stout metal stool, Steven was to bend down a bit in order for the Dwarf scribe to comfortable reach him.

                “Tell us a story, Steven,” Ori asked gently, “Tell us a story.”

                Steve Rogers blinked.

                “Tell us a story, Steven, one word at a time,” Ori requested, “Once you start at the beginning, it gets easier from there.  Tell us a story, Steven, please.  How did it start, that day before the war with Hydra?”

                Steve winced, but he didn’t say anything.  Ori then chuckled as he made a joke.

                “Is it like the Murray children with Mrs. Whatsit?  Was it ‘a dark a stormy night’?”

                Steven shakily chuckled before to everyone’s surprise, he smiled sadly back at the joke.

                “More like a bright and early morning for running…”

                With that, and a shaky breath, to Thor and Gandalf’s immediate joy and relief, Steven told his story.

                It was hard, harder than anything Steven had done before in his life (and compared to the battle with Red Skull, Steve would have gladly preferred that confrontation a thousand times).  But to his surprise, Ori was correct in his assessment.  Each word was a heavy stone, a burden that surprisingly released its ropes and tethers with each spoken syllable, and Steven found words were gaining traction, getting stronger, calmer, thawing the icy clench in his heart and gut.

                He spoke how he ran into Sam ‘Falcon’ Wilson when jogging around the National Mall in Washington and how he gained a wonderful ally and friend and fellow veteran before Natasha escorted Steve for that infamous mission to the captured battleship.

                Steven then recalled the conflict he had with his Commander and how General Fury wanted to use the ships for Project Insight, with Steven furiously protesting his ethics on freedom versus fear and his refusal to compromise.  Only to have Fury get assassinated by the Winter Soldier later and for the two-faced Alexander Pierce to step in power.

                The Captain then felt his heart break and his voice go hoarse as he then narrated how he, Black Widow, and Sam fought against Winter Soldier on the bridge and how Steven realized with horror that the assassin of Hydra, who they had just learned infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. under their very noses, was Steven’s childhood friend and past lover, Bucky Barnes, his pal who shared his soul and heart and fondest and deepest memories with.

                And finally, the Avenger recounted how in the final battle of the Helicarrier, Steve stopped the computer program from committing massive deaths and tried saving Bucky, only to fall into the Potomac River below and recalling the last scene of Bucky’s metal arm pulling him out of the depths below.  Even though they were later reunited, Bucky spurned him out of loathing and self-disgust for the deed Hydra forced him to commit.

                And when Steven was finished, it was many hours past midnight and not too far away from the dawn…

                “And with that, Bucky left me,” Steve croaked, his throat dry and his mouth full of ashes, no longer quivering, “And ever since then, despite Sam and I tracking him with all available resources, he simply vanished, and I never saw him again.  And that’s why Thor brought me here, to recover and heal.”

                There was a moment of silence before someone started sniffing, and to his amazement, Steven looked up to see a rather mindboggling and touching sight.

                All throughout Dori’s teahouse, each and every one of the females were misty-eyed or crying silently, rivers of tears pouring down their cheeks and covering their mouths or wiping their eyes.  The Elves themselves, usually so stoic, were distraught and could not even imagine the horrors Captain America went through.  Dori blew his runny nose into a handkerchief while even Gandalf took off his hat as a sign of respectful emotion towards the Avenger.

                The only one who wasn’t teary-eyed was Dwalin, still frowning heavily to himself.

                Ori kept wiping his eyes with his mitten-covered hand while holding delicately on Steven’s clenched fist; even though he heard the gist of the story from Thor’s letter to Gandalf, it was a completely humbling and distressing thing to hear the account in such detail.   But Steven appreciated how the Dwarf scribe never faltered in holding his hand as a gesture of comfort.

                Thor, his eyes shining, then ambled forward before he looped one arm around Steven’s shoulders and kissed Steven’s temple, his breath warm and heavy.

                “Well done, brother,” Thor whispered.

                “That is so heartbreaking!” wailed Bea.

                “It is absolutely tragic!” sniffed Mafria, wiping her eyes.

                “Oh Steven, you poor thing…” cooed Sigrid.

                “And think of what the poor Master Bucky Barnes is going through!” one Dwarrowdam choked out as she blew her nose into a handkerchief.

                “Send me to your world if you can, Captain America,” swore Tauriel fiercely, standing up from her seat, “And I swear by all of the Valar that I will hunt down Hydra and every twisted being associated with it to the end of their days for the crimes they have committed against you and your friend!”

                “Truly, you are a Man of utmost honor and loyalty,” declared a female Elf as she shakily smiled and raised her glass as a toast to Captain America.

                “A fine warrior!  And a finer friend!” chimed in Dís as she stood up and raised her glass of wine as well, prompting several others to do the same.  Embarrassed and now red-faced, Steve tried to dissuade the crowd of fans adoring him.

                “Please, don’t say such things,” Steve tried to dissuade, “I am merely a soldier, nothing truly spectacular.”

                Dori pretended to not hear Steven as he raised his tea cup to the air, declaring, “To Steven Rogers, a brave fighter and a fine Man of principle!  May the Valar bless him and his friends for their continued service and dedication and heroism!”

                “To Steven Rogers!” cheered the crowd as they raised a toast to the air (Dwalin did not join in).  Thor laughed as he joined in while Gandalf rubbed Steven’s shoulder like a caring grandfather.  Ori giggled before he comfortingly stroked Steven’s callused knuckles.

                “How do you feel?” Ori asked.

                “Numb…and empty,” Steven replied as an afterthought.

                “That is good,” mused Gandalf as he donned his hat again, “That is very good.  Because now that your soul is empty, then now is the time you can fill it back up.”

                “With what?”

                “With what matters,” Gandalf highlighted with a smile.

                And with that, Gandalf left the tea shop.  Steven spent several seconds blinking before he turned to Thor.

                “Is Mister Gandalf always like this?” Steven asked incredulously.

                “Well, he’s rarely this lucid,” Thor teased with a smirk.

                “Thank you for sharing your story,” Ori whispered to Steven.

                At this, Steve smiled, his eyes now a bit clearer and shining.

                “And thank you for listening, you little punk,” Steven chuckled before he roughly and emotionally bent down and gave Ori a massive hug, pressing the Dwarf scribe against his chest, his touch saying thanks and appreciation more than words could ever comprehend.

                Dwalin, unable to stomach it any further, stuck his finger down his throat and started retching.

                “Whatever is the matter with Master Dwalin?” blinked Tauriel.  Dori rolled his eyes.

                “Ignore the heathen,” Dori replied.

                Ori however could not help but be a little concerned…

                “Master Dwalin was not really approaching this entire matter with the correct amount of tact and logic, I daresay…” one young Dwarf piped up from the audience.  Elder Ori sighed as he finished his tea.

                “I assume he was taking cues from our emotionally constipated Thorin Oakenshield,” the old Dwarf surmised sadly, “Dwalin in no way wanted to spend time with Captain America for he disliked him as an outsider and possible rival far too much.  Dwalin wasn’t the type to sit down and talk about his feelings and worries for he was raised to be as silent and stubborn as stone and detached, good behavior for a Captain of the Ereborian Guards but not good behavior as a husband and towards a healthy relationship.  Plus, to talk about possible feelings of attraction to Steven would have given credence to his awkward fears and insecurities which was something he did not wish to endure.  However, as much as he choose to stay away from Steven, he could not forbid me from seeing him, not without hurting my feelings or dismantling all the hard work that went in in helping Steven heal from the attacks of the Hydra organization.”

                One male Elf child piped up, bemused, “If Master Dwalin is your fiancé, then he is perfectly in the right to forbid you from seeing Steven Rogers if he chooses to.  If he was that angry about it, he could simply march up and order you to stop seeing Steven Rogers any further.”

                This earned him a sea of glares as the majority of the children in the audience, human, Elf, Dwarf, and Hobbit alike, turned and stared daggers at the lone Elf child.  A bit taken aback, the young Elf leaned back warily and asked ignorantly, “Whatever did I say?”

                “Really?” one Dale girl asked rhetorically in disgust.

                “Dwalin, I hope I did not wake you…” Ori whispered as he stripped his wool tunic and took of his boots.  Though there was only the lingering embers and dying coals of the fireplace for light, Ori could still make out the outline of Dwalin’s hairy body on his side of the bed, waiting patiently for his fiancé.

                It was well past midnight, but Ori was so touched that Dwalin waited for him as Dwalin patted the empty spot on the feather mattress, the covers and blankets drawn back as an open invitation.

                “You did not, ‘ibin abnâmul,” Dwalin rumbled fondly as Ori unbuckled his pants.

                “How was your day?” Ori asked as he shed his undergarments.

                Dwalin was less in the mood for talk and more in the mood to physically hold and snuggle his little scribe.

                “The recruits have been less incompetent in their training, and besides a few Orc skirmishes, thankfully, it’s been quiet around Dale and the mountain.  Granted, Nori is still helping Thor Odinson with finding the Earth Eater tunnels,” Dwalin rumbled as he enjoyed the sight of the naked scribe, now fully devoid of any clothing.  Hopefully, Ori notice that the fact that Dwalin did not return the question would be a big hint…

                “Oh, today was absolutely fantastic!” Ori whispered excitedly as he smoothly slid into the sheets and quilt, “Steven dug up a rather ancient set of scrolls that were written by Gamil Zirak!  Can you imagine that?!  They were partly buried in rubble and so fragile they could have easily disintegrated, but thankfully, Steven came up with the most brilliant idea - !”

                No such luck.

                “Beloved, I have the early shift tomorrow,” interrupted Dwalin brusquely, “Please stop and let us sleep.”

                Ori was a bit bothered by the abrupt dismissal of Dwalin’s tone, but he chalked it up to fatigue and sleepiness.

                “I’m sorry…” Ori whispered as he cuddled under the quilt and blankets, shying away a bit from his fiancé, but suddenly, and to Ori’s relief, Dwalin’s grunted before a muscular arm snared Ori and drew the Dwarf scribe against the guard’s chest.  Ori smiled in relief as he nuzzled against Dwalin’s bare skin and chest fur before he settled for the night, warm against Dwalin’s body and the covers.

                Dwalin, however, did not sleep immediately until well after Ori drowsed off.

                He recalled Steven’s interactions with Ori on the courtyard and how they instantly hit it off.  How much it nagged him disconcertingly.

                Upon reflex, Dwalin squeezed Ori a little closer and tighter against his body.

                “I take it Master Dwalin was quite insecure around Steven Rogers’s presence…” a Dale boy supplied innocently.  Elder Ori smiled thinly.

                “He wasn’t the only one,” the aged Dwarf said.

                “On your left!” Steve called out politely from behind, and Legolas turned over his shoulder to see Captain America running at full gallop, in a tight gray T-shirt and black running pants and sneakers, breezing past him.  Legolas couldn’t help but blink at the speed the Man was going as Steven continued his jogging regimen around the Lonely Mountain, striding through the rocky and uneven path as easily as a leaf falling from a branch.

                Legolas gritted his teeth, already irritated at the sight of the Avenger.  Despite the soreness in his body, the Mirkwood Prince dashed forward in a sprint, attempting to catch up and overtake Steven and hopefully wipe that superior smirk off that stupid face of his!

                Unfortunately, despite Legolas’ best efforts, Steve did not even slow down in the slightest as he soon gained further and further distance in the lead, leaving the exhausted Legolas behind.  Within minutes, and to the Mirkwood Elf’s outrage, Steven disappeared from view as he continued to race over the cliffs and out of sight.

                Legolas, already red-faced and wearied, forced himself to carry on, griping and grumbling all the way.  In the Elf’s mind, this was absolutely ridiculous and humiliating.  He was a Prince and an Elf, far superior in vitality and agility and strength than the race of Men!  He should be the one running circles around Steven Rogers!

                All right, so perhaps Legolas went a bit overboard in exercising all night with training and drills and swords-play without even a small nap, and despite his build and natural abilities, he was still aching all over.  Still, if perhaps he could even mimic the build and musculature of that damned Captain America and Thor Odinson, then perhaps Tauriel would be flattered and touched at his dedicated efforts and finally snap out of her disillusioned fantasy with that the Ereborian Prince before running back to Mirkwood with her soft and scented hand in his…

                “Oi!  Tree-Shagger!” called out a familiar voice.

                Legolas winced; speaking of whom…

                Prince Kíli of Erebor, despite being complete worn out and his entire body glistening with sweat, managed to catch a second wind as he jogged up towards Legolas on his short legs, now able to run side by side with her fellow monarch.  To Legolas’ disgust, Kíli was barechested and wearing only simple breeches and boots, the thick pelt of hair matted and tangled wetly against his skin.

                “Why Master Legolas, what brings you here amid our treasured mountain at this early hour?” Kíli teased, “Hoping to spy on us or are you hoping to finally get a good look of our precious resident, Captain Steven the Pest?  Well, I always said annoyances tend to flock together - ”

                “Speaking of annoyances, would you kindly refrain from assaulting my sense of sight and smell and quickly run away in the opposite direction?” Legolas said acidly.

                “My mountain, my kingdom, and you’re the guest here.  You cannot order me around in my home,” shot back Kíli with the same facetious humor he and Fíli were best at.  Legolas narrowed his eyes and briefly considered throwing Kíli off a cliff before deciding it was more trouble than it was worth.  Stoutly and stubbornly, the Mirkwood Prince kept jogging, hoping the Dwarf would take the silent treatment as a hint as he puffed and panted his way upwards a steep climb in the path, beads of sweat starting to sting his eyes.

                “So why are you here, oh fair Prince of Leaves and Mulch?  Did you perhaps wander and get lost?  In which case, your forest is to the Western South of Erebor, that way,” teased Kíli as he jerked his thumb to the direction of the trees of Mirkwood still visible on the horizon.

                “None of your business, Dwarf!” spat Legolas.  Kíli then realized that Legolas must have had the same idea he did.

                “Are you exercising?  Hoping to emulate our Saint Steven?” Kíli jeered shamelessly.  Legolas felt one corner of his jaw twitch and tighten.

                “No.”

                Much to Legolas’ detriment, he (like many others) had forgotten that Prince Kíli was actually smarter than he let on, especially when the dark-haired Dwarf then deduced the sluggishness in Legolas’s legs, the way he kept wincing, the fact that he could hear the Elf breath heavily as if exhausted, and how he noticed that Legolas refused to swing his arms as he trotted as if incredibly sore…

                Kíli sneered.

                “I knew it!” Kíli crowed, despite his throbbing sides, “You were lifting weights and doing push-up drills exactly like me!”

                “No, Dwarf.  For your information, I was not doing push-ups,” Legolas snapped back frostily.

                Pull-ups were not the same thing as push-ups.

                Kíli continued as if he did not hear Legolas’ answer.

                “Well, although I can admire and respect an Elf trying to finally do something in improving one’s body and looks despite being satisfied with the gaunt, slender, scraggy look you Tree-Shaggers have held for centuries, it will take far more than running up and down a mountain to perform that miracle.”

                Legolas was now beginning to regret not tossing the Prince off the mountain.

                “Just as much of a miracle it is to see Tauriel prefer a smelly Dwarf over her own people,” shot back Legolas snidely.  That did the trick as Kíli’s face and eyes lost their playful look and hardened to cold rock.  Yet to Legolas’ surprise, Kíli did not attack or verbally retort back.

                For over ten minutes, both the Mirkwood Prince and the Ereborian Prince jogged side by side, the only noise between them were the shortened huffing and puffing from their tired lungs.  Still, even Kíli could tell that Legolas was considerate enough to slow his pace enough so that the Dwarf could lope alongside.

                “…Tauriel misses you,” Kíli grumbled, breathing hard and his face hot with a combination of exhaustion and embarrassment, “She told me how much it pains her that you seem colder ever since the Battle of the Five Armies.”

                Legolas’ face soured as if he ingested an entire lemon soaked in brine and vinegar.

                “You miss her too, don’t you?” Kíli pressed, “You were her friend for years and years!  If you miss her too, go talk with her!  Rekindle what you lost and fix your comradeship.”

                “Will you grant her your permission and authorization to talk to me?” the Elf shot back.

                Kíli actually looked affronted as he clarified, “I will not tell Tauriel what to do.  She is an Elf with her own mind and body and is free to make her own choices, as any Dwarf would gladly respect.  Besides…if I forbade her, she would castrate me.”

                “Not a bad idea, if I may comment,” Legolas smirked as the trail suddenly sloped downhill, giving them both a small respite as their eased their screaming muscles of their legs thanks to gravity.

                “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I would like to call a truce, Prince Legolas,” Kíli offered between pants.

                Legolas gave the dark-haired Dwarf a narrowed, side-eyed look of suspicion, but upon seeing nothing underhanded, the Elf muttered, “We are no longer at war, Dwar-…Prince Kíli.”

                Kíli rolled his eyes good-naturedly, despite the ache in his side.

                “Fine, Tree-Shagger, then perhaps as friends.”

                Legolas shot an irritated glare.  Kíli raised his sore arms as a placating, submissive gesture.

                “No, I am completely serious.  We’re now neighbors, both our kingdoms are under attack by the Orcs and Goblins, and I do not wish to continue the whole Elf-Dwarf rivalry.  There will come a time in the future that we shall have to depend on each other for our unified survival.  And if either of us becomes seriously damaged, I do not think that Tauriel would be happy with that.  She does care about both of us…just in different ways,” Kíli pointed out between pants.

                Legolas raised an eyebrow at Kíli’s surprising introspective wisdom.

                “Did you have Mithrandir coach you on that?” Legolas asked snidely.

                “Believe it or not, I am not as dimwitted as everyone thinks I am,” Kíli shot back.

                “By the trees, I would have never guessed!  You certainly could have fooled me, Dwarf!” gasped Legolas melodramatically between pants, giving a facetious look of shock.

                “We shouldn’t be hating each other, you know.  We should be hating Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers.”

                Legolas did his best to not smile at that sentence.

                “By Eru, a miracle has occurred,” Legolas drawled.

                “And whatever is that?”

                “A day when I finally agree with a Dwarf.”

                “So does that make us friends, Tree-Shagger?” drawled Kíli tauntingly.

                “Hardly, Dwarf.  I’d rather kiss a Warg…although you certainly smell like one,” Legolas shot back (although without the bite of malice, surprisingly).

                “Surely you jest!  ‘Tis the excellent musk of a Dwarf’s fine beard and chest fur!”

                “Which perhaps indicates that you never bathe, unlike most flea-ridden mongrels who actually swim in the river once a year.”

                “At least we do not have ticks and wood lice!”

                “Primarily because they cannot stand the way you reek.”

                “Far more pleasant and superior than all the frilly, choking perfumes of flowers and wood.”

                “Please.  Even the most stubborn horsetail is a heavenly vision compared to your face.”

                “Then that probably explains why you cannot pack muscles and always display such scrawny and pinched builds with your given diet of said flowers and grass.  I daresay the only beings that have less weight than you Elves are skeletons, and even that is debatable!”

                “And damage my skin and complexion with all those greasy fats and meats you barbarians pass off as food?  Please.  I would rather eat dirt.”

                “I thought you Tree-Shaggers already do.”

                “At least we do not wallow and roll around in manure with the other livestock!”

                “Daisy muncher.”

                “Swine sucker.”

                “Fragile grass blade.”

                “Short tree stump.”

                “Underweight, jealous dewberry!”

                “Stubby, freeloading cad!”

                “On your left!” cried out Steven Rogers as he barreled past the bickering Dwarf and Elf, taking them both completely by surprise as he ran past them.  In fact, they were so stunned that the actually faltered and stopped jogging momentarily.

                “Did…did that ponce just pass us?!  Again?!” Kíli gasped, his voice slightly higher due to the rude surprise.  Legolas gritted his teeth.

                “It shall be a cold, snowy day in Mordor!” the Elf Prince snarled as he and Kíli took off in a dead sprint, despite the throbbing aches in their legs and chests and lungs as they dashed off after the jogging Steve Rogers, intent on tackling him and beating him bloody.

                “Shall we take a wild guess in the dark and assume that Prince Legolas and Prince Kíli failed in their endeavors?” asked one young Dwarrowdam after hearing this.  Elder Ori’s face grew mischievously smug.

                “However did you deduce that?” Ori asked with whimsical surprise.

                There were times Prince Fíli wished he could get the contraption of what Thor and Steven described in their world as a “camera” just so he could treasure certain events in their hectic lives.

                Having a sweaty Steven Rogers carrying a thoroughly spent and bushed Kíli and Legolas over his shoulders like limp sacks of grain was certainly one of them.  Both of the Princes were so worn-out and sore from their attempted exercise regimen, they did not even have the strength to crawl back to their homes.

                Of course, having the object of their collective ire carry them back home did not do any favors to their pride.

                “Thank you for watching out for my brother and the Prince Tree-Shagger,” grinned Fíli, clearly enjoying this.

                “It wasn’t a problem, Mister Fíli,” Steven replied with concern, “Although you better help me put them both in a hot water bath quickly.  Otherwise, their muscles will lock and stiffen up from the cramps due to the overexertion.”

                “Hate…you…so…much…” panted Kíli, humiliated and teetering on the brink of passing out.

                “We’ll get him tomorrow…” grumbled Legolas wearily over Steven’s shoulder.

                After a minute of pausing to relish the heat of the fireplace and his tea sinking into his bones, Ori looked over the crowd of patient faces as he continued.

                “The problem with Steven and Thor being in Middle Earth is that despite their polite consideration in to not step on any proverbial toes and easy going nature in trying to be friendly and open, it did little to ease the growing feelings of impatience and envy amongst the male Menfolk, Dwarves, and Elves.  In fact, it only encouraged them to try and find ways to make the two Avengers look bad…”

                “Hello, Master Rogers,” grinned Kíli evilly as he smugly sat down at the round, wooden table along with Dwalin, Legolas, and a group of Dwalin’s guards from Erebor.  Sigrid and Fíli, both of whom were having a laugh and a cheery discussion with the barmaids, Mafria and Bea, looked up in alarm at the congregation strategically surrounding Steven at his seat.  Mafria appeared as if she wanted to get her boss and the head manager of the tavern in case of trouble, but a shake of Steven’s head stopped her.

                Steven prepared himself at once as he nodded with a poker face, “Hello, and nice to see you all.  Are you here to join me for dinner?”

                “More like a contest of wills, laddie!” one of the Dwarven guards crowed uproariously as Dwalin clicked his fingers over to Mafria and Bea before lugging out a huge sack of gold Ereborian coin, the shining metal currency catching the light of the torches.

                “Ladies, several barrels of your finest mead or ale, if you please.  We require your fine wares for our drinking contest, as a way to welcome dear Master Rogers to our fair cities, and to give the Captain who slayed over ten Cave Trolls a fine celebration!”

                “Kíli, what are you doing?!” hissed Fíli with all the ferocity he could summon in a whisper in Khuzdul.

                “Oh come now, brother, it’s all in good fun!  Nothing is wrong with a simple drinking contest amongst friends, among fellow allies and males.  It is a way to bond as comrades, is it not?” Kíli said in Khuzdul, his smile absolutely toothy.

                Fíli had a sinking feeling that this proposed drinking contest was going to be anything but a friendly competition.

                Mafria bit her lip as she looked at the bag of coin.  True, Dale could always use more funds, and Dwalin and his guards had just paid enough change to keep the bar and restaurant in the black for the next month or so.  Still, she seemed extremely reluctant to even participate.

                Steve Rogers saw her hesitation, ran through the possible scenarios before he sighed, giving in.

                “It’s all right, Miss Mafria.  Take the money and fulfill Mister Dwalin’s request.”

                Mafria nodded as she gingerly took the pouch of money and went to go get enough tankards of ale for Steven and the assembled group.

                Surreptitiously, Dwalin, Kíli, and Prince Legolas shared a smug look.

                What a dupe.

                Steven may theoretically be able to match up to a Dwarf’s tolerance to alcohol, but there was absolutely no way in Middle Earth and the Arda that he would get the best of Legolas, an Elf who could drink an entire box of the finest and purest wine without any side effects.

                “Bottoms up, lad!  Let us celebrate our union!” Dwalin said with a subtle sneer as Bea and Mafria diffidently served them all frothy glasses of Dale beer, and though Steve’s face was unsure and blank, he chugged down his glass along with the rest of the Dwarves and lone Elf.

                “He can drink!  Get another round!” shouted Palli the Ereborian guard.

                There was a unanimous cheer as Dwalin, Kíli, and Legolas began prodding Steven Rogers once again.

                Contemplatively silent for a few minutes amid the spectacle and the growing attention of all the bar patrons, Sigrid bit her lip as she turned to Fíli.

                “This isn’t going to end well, is it?” she sighed.

                Fíli’s mouth set to a grimace before he admitted, “No.”

                “So who won?” blinked Hobbit girl.

                “Well, after three hours into the contest…” groaned Ori, rolling his eyes.

                “He’s right there, Master Thor,” Sigrid sighed, not really surprised at the sight of the fallen Dwarves and Legolas, all of them incredibly drunk and inebriated.  Fíli, like a true older brother (albeit a bit exasperated) was holding Kíli’s hair as Kíli continued to vomit sickly into an empty barrel.

                Except for a few stragglers who were eager to see how this tournament was going to end, most of the pub was now currently empty due to it being past Dale’s curfew (as a precaution from the Orcs and Goblins) and close to the witching hour.  Legolas and the other guards however were all strewn about the wooden, grimy floor all around the table where Steven and Dwalin were still seated.  Most of the Dwarves were in various staging of intoxication or passed out, snoring loudly and drooling.  The Mirkwood Prince however was still cognizant, breathing heavily to force the feelings of nausea to subside as each cell in his body felt like it was aflame and his skull feeling as if one split his head open and poured hot, molten metal within.

                Thor blinked as he looked at the pile of senseless bodies speckled around the stall before glancing circumspectly at Steven Rogers and a quivering Dwalin still seated at the table, both with a small shot glass of hard fire-whiskey liquor in front of them.  Wobbly and with great difficulty, Dwalin slurred his words as drool dripped down his beard.

                “You…first…you fop…” stuttered Thorin’s second-in-command, eyes dazed and glassy.

                Steve winced but he obediently took the shot glass and knocked back his head, gulping down the spirituous bit of malt in one swallow.  After a few seconds and with great calm, Steven gently set down the shot glass without any noticeable side effects.  Frowning, Dwalin gripped his glass roughly before taking several deep breaths to steady himself.  After a few seconds, the Ereborian Captain chugged the serving of whiskey in one go, exactly like Steven.  Roughly slamming the glass down on the wooden table (and cracking it), Dwalin woozily stood up and pointed at Captain America triumphantly.

                “Hah!” the Dwarf crowed, only to quickly spasm, teeter, and collapse solidly onto the ground like a falling tree, now completely unable to remain upright and get his bearings.

                “I daresay we can finally call an end to this flagrant display of alcohol and testosterone,” Bea the Dale maiden commented from the sidelines.

                “I’ll collect the glasses,” moaned Mafria as the loiterers exchanged money, winners being declared on their impromptu betting.

                “Dare I ask whatever had occurred, Brother Steven?” Thor queried hesitantly as he slowly sat down next to his fellow Avenger.  Steven grimaced as he explained with a laborious lament.

                “First, it was just several glasses of ale.  Then after four barrels and most of the Dwarvish Guards getting too drunk to continue, Prince Legolas then demanded for several bottles of the best Dorwinion wine.  Then after both Kíli and Legolas got too sick, Dwalin declared that he would no longer go easy on me and requested the oldest bottle of whiskey the tavern had on hand to conclude the drinking contest once and for all,” sighed Steven.  It was evident that he did not particularly enjoy this entire debacle.

                Thor required a minute to process what he was told before his brow wrinkled in confusion.

                “Why did you not tell Master Dwalin you cannot get drunk?  Due to the serum in your body?” Thor asked, confused.

                “I don’t want to make this any more cruel than it already is,” groaned Steven as Dwalin then took that exact moment to throw up and vomit violently onto the floor.

                “Master Dwalin, just so you know, we’re charging you extra for the clean-up duty,” Mafria piped up from the background, wrinkling her nose.

                The children in the audience were rapt with attention.  This was getting good…

                “Naturally, this incident did little to Dwalin’s pride as Steven’s reputation and stories of his character grew and grew…” Ori said with a smile.

                “Wherever is Ori?!  Is he here?!” Dwalin demanded as he strode into Balin’s apartment, not even bothering with a greeting or permission to enter as he rudely barreled through the doorway.  Balin rolled his eyes, already feeling the headache coming on.

                “No, he is not here,” Balin told his younger brother, “He is actually busy with his duties tonight.”

                Dwalin was floored as he protested, “But…but I made surprise plans to have a romantic and private evening with him!  I went through the trouble of rearranging the roster of guard duty with Palli and Grugim so that I could have the night free!”

                “Did you inform Ori of these plans?” Balin intoned, deadpanned.  The withering glare from Dwalin was just as sarcastic.

                “No, because then that quite opposes the definition of a ‘surprise’, dear Brother…” retorted Dwalin just as snidely before he continued.

                “Well, do you have any idea where he is?!  I checked the Royal Library and our quarters, and he is nowhere to be found!”

                “Actually, I do know.  He is over with Bilbo, Steven, and a few others at Dori’s teahouse near the marketplace,” Balin said calmly and matter of fact.  He tried to not show any annoyance at the budding look of rage on Dwalin’s face; he just had his furniture rearranged just as he liked it.

                “Ori had better not be at that damned ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ society meeting again…” growled Dwalin murderously, incensed at the thought of Stevn Rogers having another opportunity of hugging his Beloved.

                Balin smiled as he assured, “Oh, certainly not!  I can say with absolute certainty that Ori is not attending the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ gathering.  I swear my beard on it.”

                In the intervening time, back at Dori’s teahouse…

                “Friend of Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood, I welcome you all to the first meeting of the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ Society!” declared Dori as he banged his gavel against the podium to the packed café filled to the brim with clienteles.

                This time, Steven was absolutely forbidden to serve the throng of admirers and patrons in Dori’s establishment.  Dori, along with Bilbo, Prince Bain, and Gimli, had set up a modest repast of hot raisin scones, cheese biscuits, and apple cake along with milk and loads of freshly-brewed tea, hot and cold, beforehand as a makeshift banquet for the attendees of the newly founded organization.  Steve, despite his protests, was seated with Thor, Ori, and the Dwarf Bofur to ensure he was comfortable as the guest of honor while Ori took the meeting minutes.

                Steven would have been comfortable if not for the fact the vast majority of the female Women, Elves, and Dwarrowdams were all wearing replicas of his Captain America helmet.  Complete with the eyeholes and the buckled, leather chin-straps, even Thor had to admit that the accuracy and likeliness to Steven’s actual head armor was uncanny.  Whomever were Nori’s contacts, they did an outstanding job of shaping the metal, overlaying the plates in layers, getting the paint colors and stars exactly correct, and designing various sizes to fit every possible magnitude.

                Chortling, even Gimli and Prince Bain were donning their Captain America head-wear without shame as they joked around and served the customers (and Ori had the nagging feeling that this explained why Glóin earlier in the day was shrilly screaming something about castrating Steven Rogers in Khuzdul from his home).

                “Thor, take that off.  You look ridiculous…” Steven chided with discomfiture at Thor as the Asgardian himself was wearing a red, white, and blue helmet, looking rather out of place and childish, like a boy playing dress-up in his father’s suit.  Thor, to his credit, was completely blatant and jovial.

                “This is a day for celebration and honoring your good name, Brother Steven!  I am honored and privileged to don a symbol of your nobility and vocation!” Thor exclaimed as Dori called for silence from the chattering mob.

                “And now, good Ladies and Gentlemen, let us christen this historic event with the society’s official theme song!” announced Dori as he nodded to Bofur as the miner began to play a familiar ditty on his flute.

                Steve’s eyes widened.

                “…theme song?” the Avenger croaked with humorous dread.

                Everyone in the tea house, from Bilbo and Gimli to the reserved Tauriel, began singing enthusiastically in various pitches and harmonies as Bofur, with his eyes twinkling at Steven, carried the jaunty tune.

                “Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American Way?  Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right night and day?  Who will campaign door-to-door for America, carry the flag shore to shore for America, from Hoboken to Spokane, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan!” everyone in the tea shop chorused.  Steven felt his face turn scarlet as he groaned and hid his face behind his hands, resting his elbows on the table.

                “You taught them the lyrics?!” choked Steve at Thor, not sure if he was going to die of embarrassment or whether to escape and crawl under the nearest rock for the next month in shame.  Thor laughed good-naturedly while Ori patted the mortified Steven Rogers on the hand in commiseration.

                “Tony Stark thought it would be funny!” Thor boomed.

                “It’s not that bad of a tune, Steven…” Ori tried to cheerfully placate.

                “It’s far better than ‘The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins’ that was created in my honor after the Battle of Five Armies,” agreed Bilbo.

                Steven just groaned as he buried his face into his arms, slamming his head softly on the table in mortification.

                Somewhere, Steven knew Tony was pointing and cackling with glee at this entire scenario…

                Meanwhile, walking at a brisk pace through the empty Ereborian bazaar and marketplace…

                “I must admit, it was far easier to enter the Lonely Mountain this time,” Mafria said with relief as she and Bea made a beeline towards Dori’s tea shop.

                “Well, at least the Dwarf Guard this time was very easy-going,” Bea said with a smile, “I love how he just simply said ‘I’ll just assume you’re with the damned fan-club like everyone else’ and just breezed us past through the Gates.  Ah!  Here we…are?”

                The Dale girl trailed off as she and Mafria stopped at the front of Dori’s tea shop, only to find the two Dwarves, Bifur and Nori blocking the entrance.  Deep inside, the two Dale inhabitants could hear good-natured singing and jubilant laughter from within the warm café.

                “Hold…” smirked Nori, rubbing the thumb and forefingers of one hand out in plain view of the two women, “You are both rather late for the meeting.”

                “Cleaning the mess from Dwalin’s drinking contest with Captain America and trying to remove vomit from wood takes time, Master Nori,” Bea dryly stated.

                Nori couldn’t help but smile as he complimented, “I like you two lasses.  Unfortunately, you are not yet full-fledged members of the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ fanclub.  As such, in order to enter and participate in the organization, you both need to pay a membership fee of ten gold coins apiece.”

                “Why does it cost twice the amount to join this society as opposed to the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ club?!  That is hardly fair!” Mafria protested hotly, clearly in disagreement.

                It was then that Bifur brought out the objects in his hands in front of the two Dale women.

                In his hands were two facsimiles of Captain America’s helmet, complete in red, white, and blue colors and exactly like the costumed mockups that were being sported by all the people inside Dori’s tea house.

                Yet the next objects absolutely melted Bea and Mafria’s hearts.  Bifur was parading two cloth dolls of Steven Rogers, complete in his uniform and even with a miniature metal shield stitched securely to his one arm.  The dolls were soft, fluffy, stuffed with the finest cotton with small, black button eyes peeking out cheerily from the doll’s chubby face.  The puppets were also donning the Captain America uniforms, sown and basted meticulously and complete even with small gloves and boots made out of stained deer hide.  It was impossible to see such a toy and not cuddle and fawn over it.

                “Because if you pay the entry fee, you will receive these two helmets as a symbol of your membership into the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ club, and these dollies, made with stunning and quality care - ” Nori began, only to be cut off hurriedly by an eager Bea.

                “Oh, do shut up and take our money, Master Nori!” Bea snapped as she and Mafria thrust their coins impatiently into the Dwarf Spymaster’s hands and snatched the costume helmets and Captain America figurines before rushing inside Dori’s teahouse, joining in with the others.  Nori just smirked as he added the currency to another overflowing wooden chest, already packed to the brim with money.  Bifur smiled behind his beard.

                Bifur signed, “Is this the last available box we had?”

                Nori preened as he declared, “Yes.  By Mahal, we are going through them amazingly quickly, but you won’t find me complaining.  See if Bofur can make us another set of ten.”

Chapter Text

                “So…” sighed Ori as his son handed his frail father a soothing cup of rosehip tea one chilly evening the following week, “Need I even ask?”

                This immediately brought forth a barrage of requests from the eager Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, and Human children as the audience immediately piped up with shouts and pleas.

                “Tell us the story of when Jubilee of the X-Men and Primula Brandybuck exhibited that disastrous Middle Earth fashion show in Rivendell!” one female Elf child called out.

                “Let’s not.  Elladan and Elrohir made me swear to not retell that story under the punishment of death considering the years of therapy required to undo the damage Jubilee and Primula had transgressed upon them,” Ori retorted with a smile, and none of the children could determine if the old sage was being serious or not.

                A human toddler no older than six years of age yelled pleadingly, “Oh, Elder Ori!  Please tell the tale of when Spider-Man and Radagast the Brown rescued Babar, the Prince of the Oliphaunts, and defeated the Cult of Tol-in-Gaurhoth!”

                “No, I have a better one!” piped up a Dwarf child, “Tell us of the time the Fantastic Four along with Celeborn prevented the resurrection of Ancalagon!”

                “Why must there always be stories of war and fighting?” one Fauntling argued, “We should tell a peaceful story!  Like when Master Hamfast and Squirrel Girl became friends of the Haradrim because they saved them from starvation!”

                “How about when the Ghost Rider and Master Frodo Baggins helped each other heal after the War of the Ring?  That is a rather uplifting story, if I do say so myself,” one Dale boy asked, only for his fellow Hobbit friends to shoot down with some reluctance.

                “Let us not.  Something about the Ghost Rider rather…unnerves us Hobbits,” one male Fauntling confessed with a grimace.

                “Why?  The Ghost Rider is as much of a revered Ring Bearer as Frodo!”

                “And you never once wondered why that would be the case?”

                “If I may have a suggestion…” a deep voice rang out, and this temporarily silenced all the young beings as they turned to see Ori’s son who was respectfully standing next to his father with arms crossed and a smile.

                Ori’s son then politely said, “I would like it if Adad would continue the story about Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson during their stay in Erebor.  If it is quite all right with you all.”

                This immediately brought gracious cheers and words of encouragement.

                “Of course, you may!  All right!  That is all well and good, Master Son of Ri!  We would never refuse you, a Captain of the Guards!  We don’t mind!  I personally would like to hear the continuation!  Elder Ori, we’d love to hear more about Captain America and Thor Odinson!”

                Ori smiled at his eldest before he then asked, “Where did I leave off last week?”

                One teenager from Dale politely called out, “You ended it when it was revealed that Master Nori and Master Bifur earned quite a bit of coin due to the attendance of the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ fanclubs!”

                “Ah, yes…”

                Ori chuckled with fond memory over his brother’s money-making schemes as he continued, “It was soon discovered that Steve Rogers was actually a decent cook himself, something that would have been deemed unconventional and irregular for most warriors.  However, that only increased his appeal amongst his friends and Dori’s growing patrons…”

                “This is absolutely sublime…” moaned a female Elf in delight as she devoured her treat heartily.

                “I have never have tasted something as succulent as this before in my entire life,” Sigrid sighed as she washed down her biscuit with a good mouthful of lavender tea.

                Glóin’s wife, Täli, was truly in a new level of transcendence as she declared, “More!  I simply must buy more, Master Rogers!”

                “As soon as we get the next batch out of the oven, Lady Täli,” Dori promised as he set down a piping plate to Radagast, the Brown Wizard (who eagerly shared his biscuits with the family of hedgehogs nestled in his cloak).

                In the background, Beorn the Bear Man and Thor Odinson were lightly wrestling over the last piece on the platter between them, teeth bared and eyes flashing.

                “It’s mine…” growled Beorn.

                “Not without a fight, glutton,” Thor rumbled hazardously.

                Bombur decidedly settled the matter for the Skinchanger and the Asgardian.

                “Thank you!  Quite generous of you both!” piped up Bombur as he snatched the lone sandwich right from underneath both Thor and Beorn’s noses before popping it into his mouth.

                Dori didn’t even bat an eye as Bombur screamed bloody murder as he dashed out of the teahouse as expeditiously as he possibly could, with Beorn and Thor close on his heels and ready to tear the obese Royal Cook to pieces.

                Bea the Dale barmaid blinked; for a fat Dwarf, Bombur could certainly run when he wanted to.  She remarked, “Should we help him?”

                “He’ll survive…” Dori said offhandedly.

                Tilda was less eloquent as she messily got jam and crumbs around her mouth, relishing the creamy and sticky flavor between her teeth as she murmured, “It’s delicious.”

                “Master Rogers, whatever do you call this intriguing concoction?” called out Mafria over the intense bustle and chatter of Dori’s packed teahouse, filled to the brim with female patrons and customers from Mirkwood, Dale, and Erebor.

                Steven smiled as he looked up from his mixing bowl.

                “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and peanut butter cookies…er, biscuits,” the Avenger supplied as he scraped a portion of the freshly made peanut butter into another bowl of flour and eggs, ready to form new pastries for the oven.

                This new snack was an immense hit, to say the least.

                Everyone simply could not get enough of it.

                Even Bilbo, Prince Fíli, Prince Bain, Ori, Bifur, and young Gimli were seated amid the crowded shop, savoring and praising the way how the salty peanut butter complemented the blackberry and cherry jams of the Shire between buttered pieces of thick, soft bread, how the taste of peanut was so thoroughly immersed itself throughout the entire confection in every crumb, and how refreshing the treats were when washed down with Dori’s homemade tea or a glass of cool milk…

                “Quite a successful achievement, if I do say so myself, Master Dori…” chuckled Gandalf, who was seated with Tauriel, Bea, and Hilna (Bombur’s wife) as they feasted on a platter of peanut butter cookies between the four of them.  Dori’s face was pink with bliss and thrilled elation as he weaved amongst the tables.  Even with quite a few customers eating while standing up due to the shortage of floor space and chairs, Dori was triumphant at the requests for more of Steven Roger’s cooking.

                “Thank you, Master Gandalf,” preened Dori with joy, so enthusiastically excited, “With the profits we are making, I am looking to expand the shop into the vacant cavern nearby as well as hire several of Bombur’s fellow cooks part-time!  And it is all thanks to Steven Rogers!”

                “Please don’t make a big deal out of it, Mister Dori,” Steve tried to sideline, his shoulders moving briskly as he mixed the dough with a crude whisk he requested to be specially made from the Great Forges, “I’m just repaying my debt to you for the kindness you have shown me.  Nothing more.  This entire accomplishment’s is only due to your teas and Bilbo’s baked goods.  I’m just helping out.”

                “Now, now, now, no need to be cripplingly modest, Master Steven!  It is I who owes you so much for keeping my dear tea shop alive!” Dori laughed, clapping Steve solidly on the back and causing the Avenger to wince a bit in pain.  Dori’s eyes then glinted with playful mischief as he then made his next daring move.

                “You know, my young brother Ori has been flourishing under your company,” Dori suggested meaningfully as he leaned closer to Steve, “Perhaps you too have noticed his growing feelings for such a brave and gallant artist as yourself?”

                Steven’s eyes widened as he then hurriedly ducked his head, concentrating on mixing the batter, but Dori was pleased to see the flush of red creeping in the Man’s cheeks and neck.  Dori already started envisioning how fetching Steven would look in the Dwarven ceremonial robe of brown and gray furs to contrast his blue eyes as he joined in matrimony with his youngest brother.

                Ori groaned.

                “Dori, stop!  I have Dwalin!” wailed Ori, already feeling completely mortified and humiliated.

                “Ori is merely just being a bit foolish,” Dori covered smoothly, “Nothing is definite yet.”

                “Mister Dori, we need to get the next batch of peanut butter ready for more sandwiches.  We’re running low on bread and butter too.  Also, could you check on the cookies in the oven?  We need the trays for this batter I’m mixing,” Steve sidetracked smoothly as a distraction.  Dori didn’t seem the least disappointed in the lack of Steven’s response as he twittered on his way to the pantry for another loaf of bread.

                “Oh, Steven!  You have worked so hard to bring me so much for my establishment!  I wish you would let me pay you for your services!  It is only fair and right!” Dori gushed, but Steven shook his head as he added more flour to his mixing bowl.

                “No, I will not accept any sort of payment.  I repeat, I just am doing this to not only repay you for the kindness you have shown me, but because your store is important to you and to Ori.  You are his brother, after all.”

                “Nonsense!” protested Dori as he sliced bread so quickly, Ori was worried about his brother slicing his fingers at the same time, “You are a respected and trusted worker in my shop!  I always pay my workers!”

                “I object!  You are not paying me at all!” whined Nori from the background, serving tea and cookies, and looking completely dour and resentful as he plodded around bad-naturedly in his frilly, white, lace apron (adding to the humiliation).

                Dori looked completely unabashed.

                “You are my brother.  Of course I am not paying you to work in my shop.  Especially considering you are merely remunerating for all the times you have given Ori and I grief with your past offenses with the law.”

                “You are one to talk, brother, since you failed to lecture me about law abiding when my ‘offenses’ brought food for our table, clothes on our backs, and paper and quill and ink for Ori!”

                “The tables in the back need more jam and cream.  Also, some of the dirty dishes are piling up on the floor.  Now, chop-chop!” Dori said in a condescending and dismissive tone of voice as he shooed Nori away, enjoying the look of humiliated anger on his younger sibling’s face.

                Grumbling, Nori haphazardly collected all the dishes after rudely plonking down bowls of jam and cream for various female customers before running back towards the kitchen in a temperamental manner.

                Unfortunately, it looked like Nori wasn’t even watching where he was going as he was headed directly into Steven Rogers who was carrying a full bowl of peanut butter cookie mixture at the same instant.

                Wham!

                Steve let out a noise of surprise as Nori, in his hurry to rush from the tables to the wooden tub of dirty dishes, accidentally collided directly into Steve with his full burden.  Cups and saucers and plates dropped to the stone floor as well as the mixing bowl Steve was holding, shattering into miniscule porcelain fragments as Nori flailed and fell backwards upon the impact.  Only for Steve to gently grab the Spymaster by the waist.

                “You OK, Mister Nori?” Steve asked.

                “Only my pride.  Thank you,” grumbled Nori as he hurriedly pushed himself out of Captain America’s arms and brushed himself off, glad that there was no damage to his clothes (never mind the broken china on the floor).  But then Dori’s lament of horror made Nori look up and wince at the sight of Steven’s shirt and pants.

                Steven’s T-shirt and the crotch area of his slacks were absolutely ruined, smeared with a mixture of peanut butter dough, cream, jam, and leftover tea from Nori’s dirty dishes.  Though thankfully Steven wasn’t cut or bruised in the slightest, his clothes were utterly ruined and stained.  There were various exclamations of gasps of shock and scandal as Bilbo hurriedly came up to Steven and tried to mop up his stomach with his napkin.  Unfortunately, the mess was too thick and goopy to fully remove.  Not to mention that Steven was not wearing anything else.

                “Why did you not don an apron?” Bilbo asked as a melodramatically wailing Dori hurried over with a tea towel.

                “There weren’t any!  They were all gone when I started my shift!  And then we got so busy and packed in the teahouse, I didn’t have any time to find any more!” Steve heatedly explained as he shed off his T-shirt, showing his bare chest muscles, abs, and rosy skin, many of which drew hushed intakes of breath and delighted squeals from the female patrons of the teahouse.

                Nori snapped his fingers as he declared his mistake.

                “Oh by Mahal, I forgot!” Nori realized out loud, “I was going to do the laundry piles from Dori’s tea shop, but I needed to carry out one of the Spymaster missions Thorin gave me last night.  Quite sorry about that, Steven, lad.”

                “You imbecile!” roared Dori as he took Nori by the ear with one hand and twisted hard, “Look at the mess you’ve made on my floor and on dear Steven, you careless, irresponsible oaf!  Why do I even - ?!”

                “Ow!  Gerroff me you crazy - !” swore Nori in pain as he tried to writhe out of his brother’s iron grip.

                “Steven, Dori, the biscuits are burning!” Ori called out urgently from the sidelines as wafts of smoke were beginning to percolate in the air, and hurriedly, Steve managed to dash forward towards the ovens and extract the ten trays of cookies from the over as speedily as possible.  Though they were darker than golden brown, thankfully, they were not scorched and still mouthwateringly delicious.  Steve called out as he began piling the fresh cookies into the plates of the demanding customers.

                “Mister Dori, it’s OK!  I still need to make a new batch of batter for the incoming rush!  I can work without a shirt for now!  Just get me a new shirt and an apron later!” Steve commanded with the same authority any Captain would on the battlefield.

                “Let me assist you, Steven,” Bilbo said as he efficiently worked side by side the hulking Man as he went behind the counter.  While this was going on, Nori, rubbing his sore ear, seemed particularly interested in putting as much distance between himself and his fuming brother, with Dori’s eyes like flaming coal and his face flushed in a snarl.

                Nori tried to whistle away any responsibility on his part for the accident as he innocently said, “Er…why don’t I just get a broom and sweep up - ?”

                Dori irately cut him off as he then grabbed a big pile of dirty towels and rags along with Steven’s shirt from the laundry basket and thrust them into Nori’s arms, barking angrily, “You will do no such thing!  You have already cost me enough coin with all the broken dishes and china from your tomfoolery!  And there is no way in Mahal’s Forge that I will entrust you with the task of cleaning up your messes and leave this rug smelling like discarded food!  Take these washings and launder them now!  I expect to see you return here with Steven’s shirt so clean and pressed, it would smell as fresh as a spring breeze!”

                “But that shall take hours!” whined Nori, but Dori would have none of it as he returned with a mop and a bucket of hot, sudsy water.

                “GO!  Before I take this mop to your backside!”

                “Slave driver…” muttered Nori as he trudged away, narrowly avoiding the swipe Dori delivered with the broom handle at his rear end.  However, he slowed down as he passed by the table where Sigrid and a few female Elves were drooling at the sight of Steven’s muscles flexing powerfully as Steve mixed cream, sugar, oil, and peanuts and began grinding them in the giant stone pestle and mortar.

                “As delivered.  My payment, if you please,” Nori whispered without even turned his head.

                Without missing a beat or averting her gaze, a female Elf dropped a bulging sack of money into the Dwarf spymaster’s hand, eagerly hissing, “For the sight of a bare-chested Steven Rogers cooking in the kitchen, it is worth every coin!”

                “Steven eventually caught on to the reason why he was involved with so many minor accidents that ruined his clothing after the fifth time,” the elderly Ori giggled with the other children.

                “How did Captain America take being used as a victim of voyeurism?” a young Dwarf snickered.

                Ori chuckled as he then reported, “Steven actually told Nori to ask Thor Odinson for future stripteases because unlike Steven, Thor would be willing to do them for free.”

                “Here you go, little guys…” murmured Steven Rogers as the mass of hedgehogs eagerly squeaked and chirped at the sight of the kind Captain America, though hulking and so massive comparatively to the small beasts, gently setting down a small plate of apple and carrot slices along with a dish of water.  Radagast the Brown Wizard was at Erebor giving a status update of the Goblin movements from the North, and of course, he was reminded none too gently by Gandalf that his pets were not welcome in the meetings due to being a distraction.

                Steven Rogers then gently announced that Thor could take over for him temporarily while he watched over the little guys in Bilbo’s Royal Garden in the Lonely Mountain, a safe haven if there ever was one.

                This brought many sneers and scoffs of disdain from the male Dwarves (Thorin especially) thinking the Avenger was simply using the animals as an excuse to laze about and skip the consultations.

                Bilbo, however, smiled softly while Radagast eagerly thanked Captain America and praised him like one of the Vala, nearly grateful enough to bend down and kiss Steven’s feet in appreciation.

                Gandalf thankfully stopped his fellow Istari before he could actually go that far.

                Steven chuckled at the sight of the small, prickly mammals clambering over the luscious treats while the hedgehog named Sebastian eagerly and thankfully cooed while rubbing his head against Steven’s thigh and pants leg.

                There was a sudden caw from the side, and Steven looked up to the see Roäc perched on the iron bannister along with twenty other Ereborian Ravens from the rookery.  Steven smiled as he made a polite bow and said, “Good Morning, Roäc.  Thank you for coming by.”

                “‘Tis always a pleasure to deal with a polite and easy-going Man such as yourself,” Roäc said as he preened his feathers of his right wing with his beak as the other crows and blackbirds gazed at Steven eagerly.  The blond Man chuckled as he heaved two small troughs at the foot of the railing, wide enough for all of the avians to comfortably gather around.

                “This is my way of thanking you for helping us track down Alfrid Lickspittle and saving Bain, Gimli, and Bilbo.  Fresh cracked corn mixed with bacon fat and shelled peanuts, fresh from Bilbo’s crop,” Steve said, and all the Ravens eagerly set themselves for a feast as they cawed thanks and praise to the Avenger.  With a mouth full of bacon and corn, Roäc looked up at Steven and solemnly nodded.

                “Master Steven Rogers, few Dwarves outside the Seven Families and even fewer Men treat our flocks with such respect and compassion.  I speak for all of us when I say we would gladly serve and assist you for all your days here in Middle Earth, a soldier who is worthy to be a King.”

                As Steven chuckled at the compliment, watching from an alcove high above another part of the Lonely Mountain was a cross Dwalin, grumbling under his breath as he glared at Captain America.  Balin, who was next to him and had just left the meeting with Gandalf and Radagast minutes earlier, exhaled wearily as he walked next to his brother.

                “Do you not think that perhaps you are boing a bit too pejorative towards Captain America?” Balin asked.

                “He’s nothing but a damned menace…” spat Dwalin, “A scalawag who ursurps and agitates chaos wherever he goes!  Look how easily he turns our own Ravens in his favor!  Everyone loves him!”

                Balin wisely decided to not comment if whether it was the fact that Ori that liked Steven that was so bothersome as he soothed, “Oh come now.  You are just exaggerating.”

                But then even Balin had to blink in surprise as King Thranduil’s giant Elk emerged from the foliage of Bilbo’s gardens, appearing in full view before Steven smiled at the graceful steed.

                “Here you go, some clover and chard and strawberry leaves,” Steven commented as he set down a generous basket of said greens, only to laugh unexpectedly as the Mirkwood Elk gently licked Steve’s cheek and neck as thanks, mooing genially throughout.

                Considering that the Royal Steed of Mirkwood was trained to only trust Thranduil and Legolas…

                Dwalin practically howled to the sky, hands clawing into his head.

                “EVERYONE!”

                “That sort of anger seems to be a bit premature, I daresay…” commented one Elf boy.

                “To be quite honest, it had been building for a while…” Ori returned amiable with a smile wistfully.

                “Steve…” Ori asked, looking up from his quill and paper.

                It was a nice and cool evening, and though there was no moon, the deep dark sky filled with clouds and tinged with red indicated that a rainstorm was fast approaching.  However, Ori loved quiet nights like this, just him and Steve, drawing images of the Front Gates of Erebor, just the two of them.

                No, he would not be scared and chicken out.  Not this time.

                “Yes?  Something on your mind, Ori?” Steve asked, chuckling as he looked up from his sketchpad.

                “I…I…”

                Ori felt his heart pound painfully against his ribs, making it hard to breathe, and poor Ori felt like he was going to hyperventilate if he could ever unclog the psychological blockage from his throat.

                Steve just waited patiently like a saint as he regarded his friend at full attention.

                “I…I was wondering…if perhaps…”

                Ori faltered as he felt his heart was going to explode out of fright and anticipation before failing him.

                “…if perhaps I am drawing this correctly!” Ori hurriedly covered as he lost his nerve, showing his charcoal sketch of the Front Gates to the Avenger.  If Steve was unsatisfied or disappointed with the scribe’s shallow excuse, he did not exhibit such emotions as he leaned over with an approving eye.

                “Not bad…” Steve mused before he did something quite touching (in Ori’s point of view).

                Gently, Steve took out a Winsor and Newton Vine and Willow charcoal stub out of his drawing pouch and handed it to the Dwarf.  Ori was shell-shocked as he silently marveled at the strange invention, the drawing implement that always flew as swiftly as the wind in Steven’s fingers and left behind images of pure, aesthetic beauty.

                Ori would have readily thought that the pencil Steve bequeathed was a holy relic.

                “Use this to smudge the lines a bit so that the shadows will blend more against the nighttime environment.  Just hold it between your thumb and forefinger and have the palm of your hand face the paper,” Steve instructed.

                “Like…like this?” asked Ori as he tried to smudge the charcoal line exactly as Steve did, gingerly holding the pencil as if it were made of fragile glass.  Captain America chuckled as he then did something quite forward which took Ori completely by surprise.

                Steve ambled behind Ori before he gently took Ori’s hands and removed his fingerless mittens, placing the knitted hand-garments on the bench next to them.  And before Ori realized it, the Dwarf Scribe was being enveloped in Steve’s strong arms as Steve placed his hands on top of Ori’s, guiding the Dwarf’s movements in a firm yet instructive manner.  Ori felt his heart beat a bit faster as he felt Steve kneeling behind, looming his face over his shoulder as he gave instructions.

                “Like this, Ori…” Steve intoned gently as he moved Ori’s thumb and hand to create a perfectly smeared mark with the vine charcoal stick.  Ori marveled at how extraordinary Steve’s drawing tools were, not to mention that despite his callused hands and strength, Steve’s hands were so soft and tender…

                Ori felt himself grow hot underneath his collar.

                No, focus on the drawing and the newfound way of using the unique tools.  Do not focus on how Ori could almost feel Steven’s heartbeat given how closely Steve’s hard chest was pressed against his back, how Steven’s skin smelled like the fragrant chestnut soap Bilbo always purchased from the Shire, and how Steven’s breath was warm and sweet as it playfully tickled his cheek and braids like how Dwalin would do so in the early morning as he whispered affectionate nothings in Ori’s ear...

                Oh damn.

                Ori quietly pressed his legs together, hoping Steven didn’t notice.  Thankfully, the Captain didn’t say anything.

                And unbeknownst to either of them, amid the shadows upon in the ramparts above the Front Gates, Dwalin stared at the scene of Steve getting closer to Ori, eyes glittering with absolute rage and his face growing red.

                “Needless to say, things did not get much better between Dwalin and Steven from then on…” sighed Ori as he took a sip of tea.

                “Who in Yavanna’s Green Fields could be so callous enough as to lace your armor with poison oak?” muttered Bilbo to himself as he and Ori fretted over Steve Rogers as he was doing his best not to writhe and scratch at the numerous red welts and rashes covering his entire body from the neck down.

                Steve, Bilbo, and Ori were all alone in the Royal Infirmary of Erebor, doing their best to tend to the Avenger’s condition.  Inopportunely, Óin was nowhere to be found in the Royal Infirmary, apparently temporarily leaving his offices due to an emergency Dwalin summoned him for (according to the note he scribbled behind).  Leaving no one to help them with their predicament.

                Thankfully, Ori recognized several of Óin’s homemade ointments (due to the various maladies they endured on the Quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain from Smuag), and between the Hobbit and Dwarf, they did their best to provide some relief to poor Steven.

                It would have been bearable had the villain not additionally snuck several leaves into the crotch area of Steve’s pants.

                Hence why Steven was completely naked with a small towel to cover his modesty in the middle of Óin’s Royal Infirmary in order to mend his malady as Bilbo and Ori wiped away the poisonous sap with hot water and towels, rubbing medicines on his swelling and bumpy skin.

                Ori did his best to not sneak a peek, trying to be respectful.

                Captain America’s eyes narrowed at Bilbo’s question as the Hobbit and the Dwarf continued to gingerly massage Óin’s soothing herbal pastes on his broad back and legs.

                He had a pretty good idea who was behind this prank…

                Still, there was no point in trying to look for a fight without proof.

                And Steve had to admit it was rather pleasant to have both Bilbo and Ori tend to him, with their hands caressing and working the cool salves into his skin.  He forgot what it was like to be intimate, the calm of having someone you trust to care for you, the sensation of bare skin against skin.  So nice, so light, soft and gentle as Bucky’s hands were when they first made love as Bucky embraced Steve in their dingy Brooklyn apartment under the thin cotton sheet…

                Steve’s eyes flew open and swallowed heavily, trying his best to not give in to the pleasant drumming in his loins upon the memory.

                And in that moment…

                “Steven?” called out Thor’s voice, “I heard from Master Bofur and Bombur that you have been struck ill, and that I could find you in the Royal Infirmary.  Are you all - ?”

                The Asgardian’s voice trailed off as he strode into the sanatorium, stunned as he took in the naked Steven Rogers, flushed and his body peppered with bloody rashes and white ointments, and with Bilbo and Ori tending to him.  Ori had to admit that this was the first time he had ever seen the Prince of Asgard so flummoxed.

                One second passed, then five as Thor just stared.

                Then to everyone’s surprise…

                “Oh, thank Odin Allfather and the Celestials!  I have truly entered the finest rewards of Valhalla!” cried Thor in pleasured thrill, his voice an octave higher and his wide.  Thor’s hands were clasped together in front of him and his blue eyes shone with excitement, a look of uncharacteristic and enthusiastic joy dancing on his face before Thor hurriedly rushed off to the conjoining rooms of the Royal Infirmary.  Despite being out of sight, the three occupants could hear the slight rustling of Thor’s armor and cape within as Thor bungled around.

                Steve, Bilbo, and Ori were temporarily rendered speechless at what just transpired, confused and mystified.  Despite the years of working with Thor in the Avengers Initiative, Steve was still staring blankly, wondering if perhaps Thor has temporarily lost his mind or if Thor was replaced with a doppelganger.

                “Did…did Thor Odinson just squeal like a young Dwarrowdam?” blinked Ori, not sure if his eyes were fooling him.

                “If I had not seen it, I would have never believed it,” Bilbo said, dazed.

                “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” roared a familiar deep voice laced with surprised outrage.  Steven winced as he, Bilbo, and Ori turned towards the doorway of the infirmary to see a red-faced Thorin Oakenshield, bristling and clearly not very happy at the sight that greeted him.

                “I come following that Asgardian idiot and what do I find?!  You best have a non-perverse explanation for this!” roared Thorin.

                Bilbo calmly spoke in a voice that one usually earned when dealing with an emotionally-constipated husband, “Thorin, some scoundrel laced Steven’s armor and battle attire with poison oak, and as a result, Steven is afflicted with the sap.  We are trying to lessen the severity of his rashes.”

                “And pray tell why in the name of Mahal are you two taking the task of rubbing down his naked body?” demanded Thorin, and Bilbo rolled his eyes at the jealous tone.

                “Because Óin is temporarily out of the infirmary.  Dwalin summoned him to set a trainee’s leg that got broken during the guards’ drills.  The Royal Infirmary was abandoned when we tried to take Steven for help with his ailment.”

                Ori then decided to chip in.

                “Thorin, we were merely attempting to help Steve.  As we should help any other friend of Erebor,” Ori said pointedly.

                Normally, Captain America would be a little more polite in such circumstances, but as of now, he could not help but snap a bit impatiently with sarcasm.

                Steve asked, “Your Majesty, would you prefer to take over?  At this point, I wouldn’t mind an Orc if it means getting some relief from this stupid poison oak!”

                Thorin narrowed his eyes at the Captain, but he could admit a bit to himself that perhaps (just perhaps) he jumped to conclusions far too quickly.

                Suddenly, an eager Thor sprang into everyone’s view as he emerged from the neighboring room.  To everybody’s surprise and disbelief (and in Thorin’s case, outraged horror), Thor was now devoid of most clothing except his undergarments (which led little room for imagination for the massive bulge in the crotch area).  Bare-chested and lacking of shirt, armor, and pants, Thor grinned expectantly as he opened his arms wide, as if wanting a hug.

                “Bilbo Baggins, it is now my turn!” Thor declared, “Rub me down next!”

                Thorin let out an anguished howl that sounded quite similar to a strangled donkey.

                Three minutes later…

                “What was that?” Tilda asked as she and her family were eating breakfast in their home in Dale, her hand paused on spooning her sweetened mash to her mouth.

                “An explosion?” Bain blinked after his ears stopped ringing from the detonation, with various murmurs of confusion wafting all around Dale upon response to the sudden blast, “It is quite early in the morning for the Dwarves to use their blasting powders for their mining activities.”

                “…I don’t think it is from the mines,” Sigrid sighed as she watched from the kitchen window.

                “What makes you say that?” Bain asked as he and Tilda joined their elder sister.

                “Smoke from the Dwarves’ blasting powders isn’t colored purple and orange,” Sigrid pointed out as they all witnessed long, snakelike plumes of colored air and ashes billowing out of control from the far side of the Lonely Mountain.  It was almost as vivid as Gandalf’s fireworks as the bright morning sky shone down on the gaping outlet in the rock wall that was clearly alight with flame.

                Although it was nowhere as colorful as the multitude of shouting and cursing echoing throughout the Dwarven Kingdom.

                “Is…is that screaming?” Bain asked, trying to hone in on the angry voice bellowing at the top of their lungs, “It almost sounds like Thorin Oakenshield.”

                “It is Thorin Oakenshield,” confirmed Sigrid, unable to help herself as she smiled wryly, “And I suspect that he and Thor Odinson are having another fight.”

                “And you know this how exactly?  I think King Thorin is speaking in Khuzdul.”

                “Prince Fíli secretly taught me a few words without his Uncle’s knowledge.”

                “Would they happen to be all curse words?”

                “…Maybe.”

                “Is Master Thorin cursing now?” Tilda asked curiously.

                “Quite,” Sigrid said, and all three of them giggled and laughed as the brawl and screaming match continued on in its full and violent glory at Erebor in the distance.

                “Children, come back and eat your oatmeal,” Bard sighed, sidetracking the issue as he looked over today’s itineraries without looking up from the dining table.

                It was far too early in the morning to deal with Thorin Oakenshield’s theatrics …

Art by Seadeepspaceontheside

                “And that was how the Great Infirmary Explosion of Erebor Between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson came to be,” Ori concluded after the gale of laughter and hysterical giggling calmed down.

                “I always wondered how those scorch marks got on the ceiling,” mused one Dwarfling.

                “Who knew that throwing around volatile medicines could have such an incendiary effect when combined?” another Dwarf asked no one in particular.

                “I imagine Master Óin was hardly happy with the situation,” one Dale girl piped up.

                “Thankfully, he reacted well enough and was gracious about the accident,” Ori said, smiling.

                “YOU DESTROYED MY INFIRMARY!” screeched a red-faced Óin in a unbelievably outraged tone, red faced and uncharacteristically furious as he bellowed at the sooty and mulish Thorin Oakenshield who was giving Thor the mother of all death glares as he held a cold compress against his swollen mouth.

                The fact that Thor was melodramatically wailing and whimpering like a kicked puppy and clearly relishing the attention from Bilbo and Ori did not abate Thorin’s vehemence in the slightest.  Like a doting mother, Bilbo murmured soft words of encouragement as he extracted the pieces of glass embedded in Thor’s skin and face (considering Thorin smashed several glass bottles on Thor’s head in the scuffle) and bandaged the Asgardian’s face with ointments and sticky cloths.

                All the meanwhile, Thor was still practically naked in his undergarments and truly savoring Bilbo’s touch.

                In fact, Thor looked so gleeful and appreciative of Bilbo murmuring sweet words while plucking shards with a tweezer, the Asgardian looked like he was about to pick up Bilbo and kiss him fervently right then and there as an extreme case of Nightingale Syndrome.

                Thorin would have tried tackling Thor again if not for Steven Rogers, still naked and infested with poison oak rashes, and with a small towel wrapped around his waist, standing at full attention with arms crossed over his chest and putting himself sternly between Thorin and Thor as a human blockade.

                Leave it to Steve to have enough foresight…

                “YOU DESTROYED MY INFIRMARY!” roared Óin again, this time directly in Thorin’s face as various Dwarven Guards did their best to put out the fire inside, making an assembly-line and passing buckets of water up and down.  Thorin then snapped back, not the least bit happy.

                “Do not raise your voice at me, Master Óin!” shouted back Thorin, “I am your King, and I will be addressed as – ACK!  Gak, gack, acccck!”

                “YOU DESTROYED MY INFIRMARY!” hollered the furious Óin as he was now actually throttling Thorin (to everyone’s outrage and horror), Thorin choking and turning red in the face as he vainly tried to beat the incensed Óin away.  But he was damned to know that for an old Dwarf, Óin has a good amount of solid muscle in his palms and forearms as he persisted in strangling his King (and apparently, Óin was more than willing to forsake his Healer’s Vow for this one exception).

                “Mister Óin!  Stop!  Stop!  You’re making things worse!” Steve interpolated as he rushed forward and tried to break the two Dwarves up, with Óin still have a vise-like grip of steel around Thorin’s throat.

                “Bilbo, aren’t you going to stop this and save Thorin?” Ori asked warily.

                “I daresay Thor’s wounds need to be tended first,” harrumphed Bilbo irately, clearly not the least bit pleased with Thorin’s destructive jealousy and how despicable his attitude was towards Thor and Steven before snapping at his patient, “And wipe that satisfied smirk off your face, Thor Odinson!  If you have not stripped yourself nearly naked and bared your body before everyone, none of this debacle would have ever happened!”

                “…I notice nowhere in your admonishment did you mention that you did not like what you saw,” Thor tried flirting with a sly grin as he wiggled his eyebrows.

                This was met with a gentle slap upside his head via a flustered (and blushing) Bilbo Baggins.

                “Elder Ori, is it true that Master Óin had something to do with King Thorin’s mysterious and repeated case of the runs every night until the Royal Infirmary was fully rebuilt and stocked?” one male Elf child asked, leering and one eyebrow raised.

                “I can neither confirm nor deny,” Ori said roguishly with a subtle wink, invoking the children and youngsters all around him to chuckle.

                “I’m surprised that Master Óin did not throttle Master Dwalin as well when it was revealed he was behind Steven Rogers’ ailment,” pointed out one male Dwarf child.

                “Balin and Thorin decided with a… progressive sentence for him…” Ori said, wincing at the memory as he chose his words selectively.

                “And so, are we all in agreement with the latest and final draft of the fertilizer charter?  Any opposed?” the snooty Elf scholar asked to the audience in a monotonous tone.

                Please let this end soon, Dwalin begged desperately in his mind, internally screaming and doing his best to not bolt out of the meeting room.  One could imagine how much his mind wailed in agony when he learned no alcohol would be served during this conference.

                “Are we all in agreement that elk dung shall not be permitted in said soil except for requisitions to the Shire and to Bilbo Baggins of Erebor?  Any opposed?”

                Please let this end soon, Dwalin begged as he wished he was anywhere else except in Mirkwood.  By the Forge and Anvil of Mahal, he’d even rather be in Mordor than in this damned consultation!

                “Just as a final reminder: the mixture of soil to be delivered to the Shire must be one part clay, three parts wood, three parts loam, one part river sand, two part peat moss, and two parts sawdust?”

                Please let this end soon, Dwalin begged as his fingers flexed desperately to hold Grasper and Keeper, eager to spill blood and decapitate every Man and Elf seated all around the table if it meant getting that blasted Mirkwood ponce to shut up once and for all.

                “Whereas the mixture of soil to be delivered to Dale must be one part clay, three parts wood, one part loam, two parts river sand, three parts peat moss, two parts sawdust, and an additional part of fallen leaf compost.  Have we settled on this being correct?”

                Please let this end soon, Dwalin begged, now anxious and forlornly eager enough to go fight another horde of Cave Trolls, an Army of Goblins, even Azog himself if it meant getting away from all these blasted farm and crop ledgers.

                “Then it is settled,” the Elf academic declared as he shuffled the leaves of parchment and stamped them with the Royal Seal of the Mirkwood Kingdom to finalize and notarize the agreement in full.

                “Thank Mahal…” murmured Dwalin to himself in Khuzdul, ready to bolt out of the sanctuary, screaming.

                After three hours…

                Three very long hours…

                Three very long hours of going after debates, nitpicks, and arguments of which fertilizer would be best to use for shipments of soil and dirt, Dwalin was finally, finally free…

                The arbitrator then took out a new report for the Men, Elves, and lone Dwarf present.

                “Now, for the next item in our agenda: which worm repellant will suit best for the nut and apple crops this year.  We must debate the benefits and disadvantages of mixing lime with black ashes.”

                Dwalin felt his forehead swim in anguish as he ground his teeth together painfully, one side of his jaw tense and rigid with suffering.

                “…I am going to kill my brother and my King after I kill Steven.  They all deserve to die,” Dwalin hissed to himself in Khuzdul, as one corner of his right eye began to twitch ever so slightly, the vein in his forehead throbbing an ugly blue.

                “Ouch,” flinched a Dale girl.

                “…that is quite an infernal punishment,” admitted another female Dwarf.

                Ori sighed at the memory before he continued, “Things steadily declined and got worse from there on.  Due to his humiliation and fear of losing me, Dwalin became more and more obsessed with attempting to triumph over Steven in an effort to demean Captain America…”

                “Captain America!” Dwalin called out loudly for everyone nearby to overhear him as Steve just stepped past the Front Gates of Erebor with Tauriel from their mission in the Earth Eater tunnels.  Both were dusty and covered with dirt and soil from hours of ducking in the shadows and crawling through tight spaces and inserting spikes of silver and copper into the ground (Tauriel still had no idea what Steven Rogers was planning).

                The Mirkwood She-Elf looked a little uneasy, given how Dwalin was seated already in front of a small stone table with stools, surrounded by a bunch of Ereborian Guards, all of them smirking in anticipation.

                Steven thankfully remained neutral as he looked on with a nod of his head.

                “Yes?  What can I do for you, Mister Dwalin?” Steven asked politely.

                “I challenge you to a contest of arm wrestling!  The best of five rounds!” Dwalin dared.

                “I respectfully decline,” Steven replied strongly, and with that he turned and continued walking away.

                The spectators and onlookers blinked, with Dwalin and his guards being the most taken aback by the answer.

                “Scared, are you?” sneered Grugim, one of the Ereborian second-in-commands.

                The entranced audience held their breath, expecting the blond Man to quickly take offense.  But to Tauriel’s pure admiration, Steven turned and looked no more insulted as if one were asking about the weather.

                “If that’s what you think,” Steve said, shrugging easily, before leaving to go give his report and status update to Balin and the Ereborian advisors.

                Dwalin’s annoyance began to rise…

                Three days later…

                “Captain America!” Dwalin called out loudly, his boast echoing throughout the mines and gaining attention of all the workers.  Steve bit back a sigh as he popped out the kinks in his back from pushing the minecart with Bifur and Bofur, all three of them sooty and covered with a sheet of dust and grime from pushing rocks and helping strengthen the support beams of the tunnels to prevent cave-ins.  Not to mention lining all the mines with copper and silver studs.  Both Bofur and Bifur looked incredibly uneasy, and Bofur made a move to get in front of Steven in a protective manner, but the Avenger stopped the Dwarf by laying a gentle hand on Bofur’s shoulder.  Despite being absolutely filthy and dressed in a white, sleeveless shirt and jeans (with his shield still strapped to his back), Steve respectfully stood at full attention as he nodded at Dwalin.

                “Yes?  How may I help you?” Steve asked politely.

                “I challenge you to a mining competition!  Whoever can excavate and quarry the most gold from our Mountain’s tunnels within one hour!” Dwalin ventured conceitedly.

                “I respectfully decline,” Steven responded, and with that he turned and (with a subtle hand-gesture from Bifur that it was all right) made his way towards the path upwards to the surface, eager for a hot bath.

                Dwalin frowned, growling in his throat while the other Dwarves around him rumbled and grumbled condescendingly with insult.  Palli, one of the Ereborian Guards, yelled out in accusation, “Hah!  We knew it!  You are a coward!”

                Another daring Dwarf then called out with malice, “If you walk away, you ponce, then we’ll let everyone in our kingdom know that you’re afraid to meet a challenge from our mighty Captain Dwalin!”

                “No, not afraid,” called Steve, looking over his shoulder, “I just have nothing to prove.  Have a nice day.”

                And with that, he left.

                Bifur and Bofur felt a sinking feeling of unease as Dwalin’s hands clenched into fists around the handle of his pick, his teeth grit.

                Dwalin’s annoyance was now bubbling, percolating to dangerous levels…

                One week later…

                “Captain America!” Dwalin called out loudly right in the middle of the training grounds right as Thor and Steve (both shirtless from sparring and immensely sweaty – much to their female fans’ delight) were about to leave.  Steven exhaled therapeutically from his nose as he turned to the Captain of the Guard, noting that Dwalin looked a bit…desperate and anxious.

                “I, Dwalin, Son of Fundin, and with the blessings of King Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, both request a contest with Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson.  The contest shall be a race with Dwarven chariots pulled by our Ereborian Rams, a race around the Lonely Mountains and the Gray Mountain Ridges.  The test is extended to both of you to try against our Royal Majesty and his trusted Captain as seconds.”

                Though Thor Odinson would have readily and automatically accepted the trial on principle, he slowly looked at Steven, gauging his friend’s response.  Steven shook his head, sending Dwalin’s ire to new heights.

                “I respectfully decline,” Steven said, and with that, both he and Thor left the training grounds.

                Or at least they tried to.

                With a signal from Dwalin, ten Dwarf Guards immediately flanked each other and blocked the exit out of the training grounds in a straight line, tense and ready to draw out their weapons if they had to (although to be fair, one or two of the Dwarves looked fearful enough to wet their pants).

                “We cannot allow you to leave, Master Rogers and Thor Odinson,” declared Grugim stoutly.

                Both Thor and Steven narrowed their eyes.

                The audience watching this had numerous gasps and quiet inhalations of breaths, eyes wide and mouths open.  Mafria and Bea from Dale both were white in the face as they clasped each other’s’ hands tightly.  Ori nearly dropped his sketchbook, and even Nori (who was hiding in the shadows) was stunned, taken aback.

                Fíli was about to intervene when thankfully, with months of practice, Bilbo diplomatically jumped in.

                “Oh, excuse me!” chimed in Bilbo pleasantly, pushing his way and elbowing through the line of stunned Ereborian Guards, “Pardon me!  I say, you simply must brush your teeth!  Excuse me!  Please, I must go through!  Ah, Steven and Thor!  I was hoping I could find you both!  One of the apple trees in the Royal Garden has been uprooted and fallen due to the shallow soil!  Could I perhaps ask for your assistance?  The tree is far too large for a Dwarf!”

                Steve and Thor seamlessly fell into place at the distraction.

                “With pleasure, Brother Bilbo,” Thor bowed, smiling as the Consort of the Mountain led Steven and Thor past the flabbergasted Dwarf guards and out of the training rooms, skillfully helping them exit from Dwalin’s challenge.

                There was a round of muttering from the guards as the Hobbit led them away.

                “I cannot believe this!” growled one Dwarf in Khuzdul.

                “Those fops are hiding behind the Hobbit’s apron strings!” griped another Dwarf.

                Dwalin, cheeks and face burning, looked in betrayed rage at Bilbo’s retreating back as he led Steven and Thor away.  At the same time, Steven clandestinely shot Bilbo a grateful smile.

                “Thank you, Bilbo.”

                “I can talk to Thorin and make Dwalin and his Guards stop this petty feud,” offered Bilbo, only to be shot down with a fierce shake of Steve’s head.

                “That will just encourage them to try harder, and not to mention that I’m already well disliked by a lot of people in Middle Earth.  Having them think that I had to tattle on them towards King Thorin is just going to cause more resentment and anger towards me.  It’s fine.  I can handle this, and it’s not even at the point where it’s going to hurt anyone.”

                “For how long, Steven?” Thor asked with a rare bit of introspection, “You cannot keep avoiding this forever.”

                “And what of the next time Dwalin tries to get his Guards to physically harass you?  What then?” Bilbo demanded.

                “Water off a duck’s back,” Steve shrugged, pretending he didn’t care, “I’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

                Another week later, in the city of Dale, right in the middle of the main square during mid-day…

                “CAPTAIN AMERICA!” Dwalin bellowed loudly, getting the attention of every Man, Woman, and Child in the precinct as they all stopped and stared at the Ereborian Captain, flanked by his troop of Dwarves.  Steven and Thor were both on their way back from a meeting with Bard and several of his advisors, and unfortunately, they had to cross the piazza in order to reach the main exit out of the city.

                Where Dwalin and his Dwarves were waiting for them.

                Steve steeled himself into a neutral expression as he stood at full attention while Thor remained next to him, respectfully silent.  Steve did not even bother asking for what Dwalin wanted, but he did nod his head at the bald, burly Dwarf.

                Dwalin took out his axe, Grasper, and pointed it at Captain America, declaring loudly, “I, Dwalin, Son of Fundin, come with a royal order from King Thorin Durinson himself, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, his Majesty of the Lonely Mountain.  This decree legally requests a contest with Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson in three days’ time in the Front Gates of Erebor of stone-splitting.  In teams of two, with my Majesty and King and Thor Odinson acting as seconds, both Steven Rogers and Dwalin Fundinson shall split boulders of rock with the permitted tools within one hour.  The team that breaks apart the most rocks wins the challenge.”

                “I respectfully decline, Mister Dwalin,” Steven answered, but to his slight surprise, Dwalin’s smile just got even smugger.

                “It’s a Royal Decree, signed and issued by Thorin Durinson himself, dear Captain,” Dwalin pointed out, “I am quite sure that a loyal solder such as yourself can realize that a decree from the King himself cannot be refused.  You and Thor Odinson are staying within Erebor, under the King’s hospitality.  To refuse such a request from the one Dwarf who is gracious and kind enough to open his home for you both to reside within is a grave insult.”

                “Thorin Oakenshield is not my King, Mister Dwalin,” Steven stated matter-of-factly, “He has no jurisdiction nor right to hold me under his order when neither of us have sworn fealty.  I am his guest, not his solder.  I respectfully decline your request, even if it be a decree from your ruler and sovereign, though we apologize in advance for any offense we may cause, for it is nether of our intentions.  Good day.”

                With that, Steven turned to leave, which brought forth a round of furious protest from the other Dwarves escorting Dwalin.

                “We can throw both of you ponces in the dungeons for that insult to our King!” snarled Palli the Dwarf.

                Thor raised an eyebrow as he hefted Mjolnir in his hands.

                Instantly, the skies began to darken, storm clouds magically appearing in a blink of an eye, and there was a distant rumble of thunder from above.

                Quickly, the Dwarves backed off from the unspoken threat, retreating ever so slightly away from the two Avengers.  Sensing danger but still stubborn, a few of the Ereborian Guards continued to hurl threats and slurs at Thor and Steve.

                “Pompous browbeaters!”

                “Impertinent malt-worms!”

                “Clay-brained pigs!”

                “You both are nothing more than cowardly measles not even fit for our ravens to land their droppings on you!”

                “If you both leave, we shall spread the word far and wide throughout all the seven Dwarven Kingdoms of how you both are weaklings and oathbreakers!  You’ll never be able to show your faces here again without our kind viewing you as wishy-washy deserters, you pillocks!” another Dwarf threatened.

                Thor scowled a bit, but Steven gracefully seemed impassive as he looked over his shoulder and allowed one corner of his mouth to turn upwards as a smirk.

                “Ori doesn’t,” Steve said, and with that, he continued to saunter off.

                Dwalin’s face flushed to match with his bloodshot eyes, swelling his chest like a frog as his face turned a sickening and dangerous shade of purple.

                That did it.

                Dwalin then spat with derision, bellowing, “It figures you’d be a coward, Steven Rogers!  THAT MUST BE WHY YOUR PRECIOUS BUCKY GOT DISGUSTED AND LEFT YOU!”

                Steve stiffened, halting in mid-stride.

                Time seemed to stop as all the humans watching this with baited breath went still, motionless and deathly silent.

                Thor immediately took offense as he glared at Dwalin and ambled forward dangerously, roaring, “You dare?!  You dare mock - !”

                Steve’s hand immediately latched on Thor’s shoulder and stopped his advance.  Thor was about to protest when he blinked, seeing the look on Steve’s face.  Indeed, everyone else in the crowd along with Thor felt their voices die in their throats with apprehension as Steve then finally turned around.

                Dwalin couldn’t say that Steve wasn’t hostile.  Though his back was straight as a rod and he stood at full attention, Captain America wasn’t frowning or even turning red.  His face was actually neutral, stony, a perfect poker-expression devoid of the emotion and anger surging inside him.

                However, what stunned Dwalin were Steve Rogers’ eyes.  No longer were they fatigued and lifeless, but blazing, cold as ice, and shining dangerously as they honed in on the Captain of the Ereborian Guard like a laser beam.  After a minute of uncomfortable silence, with the crowd of Dwarves and Men hushed for the expected explosion and brawl, Steve then spoke, his voice pure snow with sharp edges of steel.

                “Very well, Dwalin, Son of Fundin.  I, Captain Steve Rogers, accept your challenge.”

                Looking back on it, Dwalin wondered if perhaps he crossed a line with that last insult…

                “So what happened then, Elder Ori?” asked a Dwarfling as the rest of the captive audience of young children leaned forward eagerly.  The old storyteller continued after a sip of his tea.

                “I remember that day quite well.  It was sunny but perfectly cool and moderate in temperature.  It was a perfect day to be outside, and rumors spread like wildfire when everyone in Mirkwood, Erebor, and Dale learned of the imminent contest, so on the day and hour of the event, there was a massive throng of civilians and spectators who wished to view how this would end, all gathered at the Front Gates of the Lonely Mountain…”

                It was like a festival, with vendors selling food and their wares, cheering and excited chatter all around as people mingled and snacked and drank ale, enjoyed each other’s company, and anticipated with great interest on pins and needles for the main event.  Thankfully, the rains for yesterday had ceased, and overhead was a sunny day with white clouds and the ground, though soft and muddy in some places, was still quite firm enough to avoid messes.

                Yet the pressing mob formed a polite and neat circle around the Front Gates of Erebor, both of which has two giant and massive piles of stone and various types of rock ranging from pale marble to gray shale to tanned tuff and dark basalt.  And at the base of each hill of sarsen mound were various pickaxes, sledgehammers, wedges, and chisels of superb Dwarven craft.

                “There are so many people…” Bard murmured to King Thranduil with some concern as he looked on the massive assembly of Elves, Dwarves, and Menfolk, “This could be a large security risk for our peoples’ safeties and well-beings.  The Orcs and the servants of Morgoth could use this as an advantage for attack.”

                Thranduil couldn’t help but be a little impressed at Bard’s concern and intuition as he intoned, “There is no need for alarm.  Mirthrandir and Radagast the Brown as well as the Lady Galadriel have organized an impressive battalion of footsolders from Rivendell.  Elrond along with his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, are hidden in the cliffs all around, and I myself have legionnaires concealed amongst the crowds.  And Beorn is already in his shifted form.  If there is any treachery that can escape their notice or the notices of two wizards and the Lady of Lothlórien, then we deserve to be taken by surprise.”

                Relieved, Bard smiled and nodded before he pondered again over at what the Mirkwood ruler just said.

                “Wait.  Lady Galadriel of the Elves?  Why is she concerned with today’s events?  I mean no offense to her Highness, but we at Dale are a simple folk with nothing truly extraordinary in our name.”

                Thranduil couldn’t help but smile.

                “She wishes to spy upon the contest with Captain America and Thor Odinson.”

                “Of course…” groaned Bard as he rolled his eyes.

                The Dale monarch just hoped that today’s events wouldn’t give him a bigger headache.

                Meanwhile, Glóin was busy taking bets from various people in the crowds, and all of them were male Dwarves, Men, and Elves, betting on the most desired outcome.

                “Fifty gold coins on King Thorin and Dwalin Fundinson winning!”

                “I place ten on the Dwarves beating those fair-haired dandies!”

                “Five on the King and his Guard Captain finally snapping in to the temptation and executing the Captain and that damned Thor Odinson during the contest!”

                “Stabbing through the heart or beheading?”

                “Let us wager on both!  Either way, we’ll be satisfied with the option!”

                “I personally hope that Masters Steven and Thor cry like wee babes once they lose!”

                “I personally would love to see tears and whining from those milquetoasts, I daresay!”

                “This is from our entire group,” one male Mirkwood Guard ambled up as he placed a heavy bag in Glóin’s hand, “Two thousand coins of silver and copper.  We shall bet in favor of Thorin Oakenshield and Dwalin Fundinson.”

                “Wait…” blinked Glóin, “Since when do you Tree-Shaggers favor a Dwarf?”

                “Let us just say that we want to see Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson win even less,” grumbled another male Elf grouchily as he crossed his arms over his chest, which earned him a hearty and welcoming pat on the back from Glóin.

                “Ah, you Tree-Shaggers are all right!” cheered the red-haired banker, only to earn a grimace from the Mirkwood Elf.

                “Please stop touching me.”

                Nori then came up to Glóin as he piped up, “Put me down for - !”

                “YOU’RE STILL BANNED!” roared all the neighboring Dwarves, Elves, and Men in unison at the Spymaster as they pointed and hollered.

                Nori’s face soured, but admirably, he sauntered off crankily, griping and sulking all throughout.

                As Prince Kíli stood by at the edge of the massive throng placing orders, he then called out to Fíli, protesting, “Oi!  Why aren’t you participating in the pools, dear brother?”

                Fíli raised an eyebrow as he replied smoothly, “I feel it is simply in bad taste to eagerly wager and long for the loss of two brave warriors who in no way deserve any of our ilk and boorish insults after all that they have done to protect our Lonely Mountain and Dale.”

                Kíli gave Fíli a long look before he smirked knowingly.

                “Princess Sigrid threatened to cut you off if you participated in the betting pool, did she not?”

                “Believe it or not, just because I am a male does not mean I have to be automatically jealous and offended by Master Steven and Master Thor’s presences,” Fíli retorted, although Kíli was quick to notice that his brother was a bit too hasty in answering and the slight blush in his cheeks.

                “Never thought I would live to see the Heir of Erebor scared of the Princess of Dale…” teased Kíli as he roughly yet playfully looped an arm over the blond Dwarf’s shoulder.  Fíli frowned at Kíli.

                “Captain America and Thor Odinson are both really fine warriors and noble friends if you stopped to take your head out of the dirt and actually got a chance to get to know them,” the blond Prince pointed out, but Kíli continued to good-naturedly rib his sibling.

                “Well, you can go ahead and spend your time with those infuriating poseurs, but I shall be with the real, masculine warriors over there who would rather belch and dance in taverns than read stories over tea and scones.  As well as relish watching those two upstarts get exactly what’s coming to them.”

                “Are you not afraid of what Lady Tauriel shall do to you when she finds out that you bet against Captain America and Thor?  Especially since she is an avid member of the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ and ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ societies?”

                “Please,” scoffed Kíli with a bawdy grin as he spoke in Khuzdul, “Like I would be stupid enough to hand over my bet in public.  I did it last night via one of the guards passing my wager to Glóin himself at his apartments.  There is no possible way my One will ever find out.”

                “Unless someone tells her…” Fíli grinned wickedly.

                Kíli paled in horror at Fíli’s subtle threat.

                “Damn it.”

                At the same time, Dori the Dwarf ambled over leisurely towards Glóin.

                “I place a bet for both myself and Ori,” Dori said, tossing Glóin two large sacks of money, “A hundred gold coins each for the favor of Captain America and Thor Odinson winning.”

                Though Dori was perfectly polite and easy-going, his statement did not suit well for Glóin and the other Dwarves.  Immediately, they glared at Dori as if he committed the most grievous heresy, as if he said he would renounce Thorin Oakenshield and declare Thraunduil as his true Lord and King.  Dori’s back went a little straighter, his neck posturing a bit higher, as he coolly met his kin’s offended scowls.

                “Is there a problem, Master Glóin?” Dori asked with fake neutrality.

                “I suppose it is safe to say that like your questionable Spymaster brother, yours and Ori’s loyalties are just as frivolous,” Glóin said with disdain.  Nori, upon hearing this, frowned.

                Civilly, Dori just smiled before he took out a third coin purse and tossed it at Glóin.

                “I suppose that is merely your opinion, Master Dwarf.  Oh, by the way, this is from wee Gimli.  He also bets ten coins in favor of Steven and Thor,” Dori said with a touch of self-righteousness.

                “Sorry, Adad!” Gimli yelled out upon the look of fury scandal on his father’s face as Glóin pointed a quivering finger at his son.

                “You bring shame on the family, boy!” Glóin roared, wondering if he could be excused for walloping his son and spanking his Dwarfling soundly right in public.  Thankfully, Glóin’s wife interjected.

                “Glóin, Darling?” Täli asked, her voice mild but with hidden iron, “Do we need to have another talk?”

                “No, Mudùmel…” Glóin backtracked ingratiatingly, simpering and making an effort to look repentant.  Nori couldn’t help but smirk and preen.

                “My, my, my, we all now certainly know who runs the family of Farin and Gróin, don’t we?” Nori chuckled.

                “I’ll get you after this contest, blackguard…” grumbled Glóin under his breath murderously in Khuzdul.

                Suddenly, there was a vigorous cheer from the crowd as Thor Odinson, Steven Rogers, Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins, and Dwalin Fundinson marched out into the open through the Front Gates, the five exiting out of the Lonely Mountain.  Steve was polite, smiling as he nodded his head at various people chanting his name in the audience, although Thor could sense he wasn’t entirely comfortable doing this entire match right in public in front of everyone.  Dwalin, however, was simply elated as he roared and bombastically pumped his fist in the air, invoking many of the males in the audience to cheer and vocalize Thorin and Dwalin’s name in a frenzy of Khuzdul, music to his ears.

                All right, as low as it was to force Steven and Thor into this whole charade, the Dwarf Captain was going to absolutely relish humiliating that damned fop.

                As Thorin and Bilbo both waved their hands to the crowd of roaring and chanting male Humans, Dwarves, and Elves, Thor Odinson then did something that caused all the females in the crowd to go absolutely wild.

                Thor then immediately ripped off the breastplate section of his armor and tossed it aside, revealing his tanned skin, muscled chest, and to add insult to Thorin’s injury, he began flexing his biceps and arms, pectorials bouncing like rubber, winking naughtily at Bilbo Baggins.

                Bilbo’s eyes went wide as he stammered incomprehensibly, his heart pounding, his face flushed.

                Thorin felt his jaw unhinge in outrage, fingers twitching for the sledgehammer next to the rock-pile.

                The high octaves of feminine and girlish shouting and hails of liveliness easily overpowered the applauding of their male companions by double.

                “Thor!  What are you doing?!” Steve shouted, wide-eyed and stupefied, so humiliated as he went pale.

                Thor blinked in confusion as he innocently asked, “I am simply following the Dwarven tournament protocols.”

                “Protocols?!  What protocols?!  There are no protocols about competing in Erebor, you unintelligent, perverted ox!” roared Thorin, red-faced and looking like he was about to have an aneurysm at the humiliating sight.  The blond Asgardian naïvely looked at the Dwarf King as he continued to sway his hips from side to side like an erotic dancer.

                “Master Nori said that it is tradition for the challengers of a contest between Dwarves to go shirtless and bare-chested and entertain the crowd of spectators as part of an induction ceremony,” Thor said before he grinned cheekily with a flamboyant and charming twinkle in his eyes and started gyrating his pelvis, arms up and hands locked behind his head.

                The females screamed even louder, and one female Elf started hyperventilating.

                “NORI!” bellowed Thorin in rage as he and Dwalin looked around wildly before spotting said Spymaster eagerly accepting his bribe money from a good crowd of women, receiving so many small pouches of coin that the Dwarf had trouble trying to bundle all of them together in his arms, in danger of his bounties spilling out to the floor.

                Nori just impishly grinned, his voice elated, “Whatever is wrong, your Majesty?  Nothing odd or disrespectful with giving the female folk of our cities what they want!  And being paid for it!  It is an honest day’s work, Thorin!”

                “You wouldn’t know ‘honest’ if it came out from an Orc’s rear and slapped itself right in your fat mouth!” snarled Dwalin, certainly vehement and outraged at how Ori couldn’t help but stare, open-mouthed at the sight of Thor jerking his hip forwards and back in a rather naughty manner.  Bard, horrorstruck and taken aback, quickly placed his hands over Tilda’s eyes, not wanting his youngest child to be scarred for life.

                “Da!  I cannot see!” protested Tilda as she tried to writhe out of her father’s hands.  Bard just clamped on even more tightly.

                “That is the point!” Bard hissed as he helplessly (and furiously) watched Sigrid his eldest cheer on the striptease.

                “TAKE IT OFF!” screamed Sigrid with ecstatic ardor, and instantly, every female Dwarf, Elf, and Woman repeated her words rather urgently.

                “TAKE IT OFF!  TAKE IT OFF!  TAKE IT OFF!”

                Thor eagerly listened to the demand of his fans as he then took a nearby bucket of collected rainwater and overturned it over his head, soaking his body completely with water before continuing to flex and dance seductively, his muscles shining with drops of water and glistening under the sun.  While Thorin and Dwalin were absolutely twitching with utter indignation, Steven was covering his face with one hand in complete embarrassment.

                “Thor, you’re embarrassing yourself…” groaned Captain America, rubbing the bridge of his nose in commiseration.

                Thor then got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he ambled up towards his close friend.

                “Correction: I am embarrassing the both of us…” Thor chuckled deeply before he then reached out and grabbed the back of Steven’s white T-shirt.  With a hard jerk, Thor completely ripped off Steven’s shirt off his body, as easily as one could cleave apart a dry autumn leaf, and to his complete surprise, Steve was now bare-chested too and was currently revealing his muscular torso to the entire crowd.

                Despite the jeers of disdain and heckling boos and hissings from the Men, the Women went completely mad as quite a few of them began to swoon.  Steve blushed so hard, his face as red as a strawberry, as he vainly tried to cross his arms over his torso in a futile effort of modesty.

                “Thor!  That was my favorite shirt!” protested Steve, now completely mortified.  Thor laughed jovially, not the least bit troubled as the threaded the torn fabric in between his legs and started rubbing it against his crotch in a sawing motion, hogging the spotlight shamelessly.

                “I shall buy you a thousand new shirts, Brother Steven!” Thor yelled.

                Dwalin, now frantically desperate at seeing Ori ogle Steven’s bare chest and muscular form with eyes as wide as dinner plates and a lovesick, drooling expression, hurriedly barked at his King as he stripped off this armor and tunic.

                “Take off your shirt!” Dwalin snapped as he agitatedly hoisted his clothing over his head.  Thorin was flummoxed, to say the least.

                “NOT YOU TOO!” Thorin barked with indignation, but then Dwalin wordlessly pointing at Thor who was trying to seductively show up to Bilbo by flexing his back, muscles popping out impressively.  Bilbo couldn’t help but nod, dumbfounded.  He shouldn’t be staring, should be acting like a respectable Hobbit, should gently scold Thor and lecture him to quit being such a willing nudist…

                Oh, who was he kidding?

                “That is…quite…remarkable, Master Thor,” was all the dazed Bilbo could utter, and Thor’s cheeky smile grew even more provocative and slinky.

                “I believe the saying goes, ‘Look all you want, touch all you want’, Brother Bilbo…” Thor leered.

                Bilbo was now beet red, not sure if he was light-headed because of the brazen offer or because of the temptation.

                Thorin quickly snapped back to attention and changed his mind quite rapidly as he discarded his tunic and chain mail armor within the span of several seconds.  And within view of everyone gathered around, both of the Dwarves were now shirtless and showing their stocky builds, hairy and squat, yet powerfully formed from years of fighting, warfare, and working at the forge.  It was a bit comical to see both Dwalin and Thorin, two of the most stubbornly austere and humorless beings of Erebor, reduced to flexing and posing like insecure idiots and quite self-consciously.

                Mercifully, Bilbo and Ori were now ogling quite audaciously at their lovers.  Thor Odinson frowned, not liking the competition for Bilbo’s attention.  Dori, upon seeing the look of pure lust on Ori’s face, was scandalized.

                “You would prefer that shit-faced bastard over Steven Rogers?  Are you touched in head or have you been struck ill from spending so much time cooped up in the library with dusty scrolls and no air?” Dori scolded.

                The crowd of females, however, immediately did an about-face.

                “PUT IT BACK ON!  PUT IT BACK ON!  PUT IT BACK ON!”

                King Thranduil drawled, “Your Majesty, and I mean this with every offense intended: could you simply do all of us a favor to our collective eyesight and sanity and put your shirt back on?”

                Dáin piped up rather rudely from the background amid the groans.

                “Thorin, laddie, you are very fortunate that Master Baggins finds you alluring, though for the life of me, I haven’t the faintest and sanest explanation why,” Dáin quipped.

                Dís added in with a smile, “It is a bit similar to trying to impress us with a pebble after showing us a diamond.”

                There were times Thorin Oakenshield could actually murder his kin.

                He really could.

                Thankfully, with one of Gandalf’s fireworks exploding high in the air, the cluster of people shushed considerably enough for the moderators of the competition to take control and begin.

                Lord Dáin then ambled up towards Thorin, Dwalin, Steven, and Thor, bellowing loudly in his strong voice for everyone around to hear as they hushed, “Listen well, ALL of ye!  This shall be a contest of strength and will, as decreed by our Majesty of Erebor, King Thorin himself!  In two teams of two, with King Thorin and Master Odinson as seconds, Masters Dwalin Fundinson and Steven Rogers are to utilize whatever tools at hand to split their respective piles of boulders.  The goal is to render apart as many as you can in one hour’s time.”

                “You are to only use the tools provided here or your own strength, so splitting the rocks with your fists, heads, and other feats of your own muscle and vigor shall be allowed.  There is to be no use of any other tools and certainly no magic!  That means that the shield of Captain America and the Hammer of Mahal are not allowed at the match.  If we even see a flicker of thunder and lightning, then both Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers shall be disqualified.”

                Steve and Thor both decided to not comment on how that last verbal jab was unfairly hurled at them as they both nodded at Dáin.  The red-haired Dwarf Lord continued.

                “The methodology of the race is that each person per team must take a single stone and split it cleanly in half, one rock at a time, and then they must neatly make a separate pile with the riven pieces.  You only need to split each stone once, and only once.  Any technique or process you devise with your partner as an act of teamwork to split stones is permissible as long as you both act accordingly to the rules by yourselves without any external aid.”

                “In one hour, Lord Balin of Erebor, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, King Bard of Dale, and Radagast the Brown Wizard shall tally up the count of split rocks for each team.  The duo with the greater number of split rocks shall win the challenge.  And aside from bragging rights and rubbing it in the other team’s faces, the champions of the race shall win…”

                Radagast then popped up with a giant earthenware platter filled with a luscious and sweet-smelling stack of familiar biscuits, still warm from being taken out of the ovens that morning.

                Radagast announced with a smile, “The winners of the contest shall earn a platter of freshly-baked peanut-butter cookies, a rare and succulent treat of utmost deliciousness, provided by the Teahouse of Erebor of Master Dori, Son of Ri!”

                There was a nonplussed silence.

                The look on Dáin’s face was deadpanned and unenthusiastic as he hollowly griped, “…that’s it?”

                From the looks of many of the male Dwarves, Elves, and Men in the crowd, they clearly agreed with Dáin’s sentiment.

                Thorin then roared out to the crowd, taking everyone by surprise.

                “Bah!  A paltry prize!  I, King Thorin, shall add an additional accolade!  Whomever shall triumph in the Burdens of Stone shall receive a loving kiss from the Consort of Erebor, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire!”

                The crowd gasped and murmured to each other in confusion.

                Dís raised an eyebrow.  She knew exactly how this would end…

                The Queen of the Blue Mountains then turned to Glóin and whispered conspiratorially, “Master Glóin, if it is not too late, I would like to place a wager on the outcome…”

                Bilbo’s eyes went wide.

                He certainly did not agree to this beforehand.

                “Thorin…” Bilbo hissed urgently, but Thorin’s declaration made Thor absolutely jubilant and rapturous as he practically danced and jumped up and down with joy like a wild child before grasping Steve by the shoulders and shaking his teammate.

                “Brother Steven!  WE MUST NOT LOSE!” Thor roared with glee, eyes shining with merriment and desire.

                “Thor, will you just calm down?  You’re embarrassing yourself…again,” Steve groaned, rolling his eyes as he extracted himself from the Asgardian’s grip, but Thor continued to extol the acclaimed prize.

                “How can you be so unmoved at the thought of a kiss from the caressing lips of a tender and gentle warrior such as Brother Bilbo?!” Thor exclaimed melodramatically, “‘Tis the reward to the finest warrior I can ever behold!  A prize that I shall gladly endure the heat of a thousand suns to attain!”

                Thorin secretly smirked as Bilbo blushed at Thor’s euphoria.

                Oh, Thorin was going to immensely enjoy rubbing it in Thor Odinson’s face when he and Dwalin won this contest…

                Starting with kissing the life of Bilbo and making him moan and whimper in pleasure right in Thor’s plain sight…

                And reminding Thor who exactly belonged first and foremost in his Hobbit’s heart…

                Amid the snickering and derisive mockery from most of the males in the audience, Prince Bain turned to Sigrid who was still watching Thor and Captain America was shining eyes of admiration.

                “Remind me again why the female folk of our cities feel they have a chance with Master Thor and Master Steven’s affections?” Bain asked his eldest sister.

                “Do shut up, and let me dream,” Sigrid snapped as she smacked Bain away rudely without moving her head.

                Dáin then turned to all four of the contestants and asked, “Do any of you upstarts have any objections to the rules?”

                Steven and Dwalin’s response was unanimous and in union.

                “No.”

                The red-haired Dwarf Lord smiled.

                “Good, laddies.  Because I’d hate to tell you pissants exactly what sort of problems we’d be having if you did.  To your stations!”

                Steve, deciding to try to show some sportsmanship, held out his hand to Dwalin before they parted ways, thinking perhaps that for Ori’s sake, he could try to mend the rift.

                “May the best person win,” the blond Avenger offered, only for Dwalin to sneer at the offer (not surprisingly).

                “And it certainly shall not be you, you foppy bastard,” the Dwarf Captain spat.

                Steven narrowed his eyes, his mouth set, but he gracefully did not respond in kind as he walked away to his rock pile where Thor was patiently waiting.

                “Good luck, Dwalin!  Good luck, Steven!” Ori called out, not willing to take any sides.  While Steven smiled, the jealous and disapproving scowl Dwalin sent Ori send a shiver of unease down the scribe’s back.

                “Ready!” Dáin declared, green flag raised in the air.

                Dwalin and Thorin, muscles tensed and set, braced themselves.

                “Set!”

                Dwalin placed his hands on the nearest rock (nearly half the size of himself) as Thorin gripped his pickaxe tightly.

                Dáin brought the flag down with a flourish as he hollered in Khuzdul.

                “BARUK KHAZÂD!”

                There was a sudden roar of approval and competitive spirit from the assembly as Dwalin lugged the rock onto the platform and held the stone in place, only for Thorin to swing his pickaxe and quickly split into two with one stroke.

                Wham!

                Dwalin neatly tossed aside both halves before picking up another hunk of shale from the pile and holding it in place with both hands before Thorin let loose another swing, expertly positioning his aim in between Dwalin’s hands and cracking the rock right down the middle once again.

                Wham!

                Dwalin then tossed that rock aside and got another from the pile.

                Wham!

                And another.

                Wham!

                Both the Dwarf King and the Captain of the Guards were working wonderfully in tandem, such collaboration due to years of solidarity and trust the two have gained from years on the battlefield and over the years of exile.  And in their milieu, both Thorin and Dwalin felt exhilarated, triumphant, and so, so supercilious.

                “I could almost feel sorry for those idiots…” chuckled Dwalin darkly in Khuzdul as Thorin split the seventh rock.

                “Challenging us in a Burden of Stone?  We’re Dwarves, born and weaned under the very mountains by Mahal himself.  The day any other race knows rock and craftmanship better than the children of the Maker will be the day Arda needs to be remade.  Those fops have absolutely…no…chance…”

                The words in Thorin’s throat died with a squeak as Thorin and Dwalin glanced nearby at Thor and Steven’s progress, only to be greeted by a surprising and terrifying revelation that was enough to make their faces drain of color and their limbs to freeze in cold astonishment to the outraged protests from the males of the audience.

                Thor and Steve were both already working on splitting their fifteenth boulders.

                And they were ripping the chucks of rocks apart by hand.

                By hand.

                As easily as one could tear through a piece of parchment or paper.

                With barely even grunting, both Thor and Captain America worked in tandem, taking lumps of shale and granite in both hands before splitting them apart, their muscles flexing and bulging beautifully for the entire audience to gaze upon as their strength tore the boulders neatly in halves before discarding them into the growing pile on the side.

                The growing pile that was increasing by the second and already significantly greater than Thorin and Dwalin’s pile.

                “Look at those muscles and how they move and flex…” Bea the Dale barmaid sighed as she stared at Steven’s back and heaving chest.

                “These Avengers are both so strong…” a Dwarrowdam murmured, fanning herself.

                “THAT’S CHEATING!” roared Dwalin, pointing a furious finger at the two Avengers.

                “Actually, it is not,” Thranduil silkily intoned with a Cheshire smile that did little to hide his smugness as Thor and Steven continued on, “Lord Dáin has declared that both Steven and Thor Odinson could not use the magical hammer or their shield for this contest and that they must both split the rocks of their own accord without aid or magical assistance.  Other than that, you have made no mention of what other limitation the two must follow, and you certainly did not declare that neither of them can use their innate strength of their bodies.”

                “Aye, the Tree-Shagger’s right, Cousin,” Dáin sighed, nodding his head.  As much as he hated to agree with an Elf of all people…

                “They are following the rules we have set down, and as the contest has already started, it would be quite unfair sportsmanship to change them now,” Balin said with a wince, feeling a headache coming on.  He should have just pretended to be sick and stay in his chambers today…

                “Brother, you never even considered the realization that perhaps Thor and Steven are stronger than a normal Man?” Dís asked in disbelief, one eyebrow raised.

                “But…but we just figured it was due to the hammer and shield that gave them their vigor!” protested Dwalin, “I mean, Bilbo wields the Hammer of Mahal, and he is not particularly - ”

                “Finish that sentence, Master Dwalin, and there will be no maple pumpkin tarts for you for a year,” Bilbo cut in coldly.

                “Shut up and keep smashing!” roared Thorin frantically, swinging his pickaxe, “I am NOT letting that jackass of a peacock win!”

                There was a contemplative silence before one Fauntling piped up from the back of the room.

                “Thorin and Dwalin lost, didn’t they?” he asked.

                “By a literal rockslide…” confirmed Ori with a nod.

                “Were they angry?” asked another Hobbit girl.

                “Very.”

                “As angry as the time when King Thorin discovered that the only way to calm down the Hulk was by having the Hulk cuddle Bilbo?” one Dwarfling asked.

                “Angrier than that, actually,” sighed Ori, wincing at the memory.

                “As angry as the time when Master Star-Lord asked if he and Master Bilbo would be interested in a threesome?” one Dale teenager asked.

                “Angrier than that.”

                “As angry as the time when Thorin Oakenshield and King Bard caught Prince Fíli and Princess Sigrid naked and being intimate on the Ereborian throne itself?”

                “Angrier than that,” Ori said, although he winced again at the reminiscence of Bilbo and the rest of the Company tackling both Bard and Thorin to the ground before Bard could commit homicide.  And even then, it took several years before Bard could look at Fíli without appearing as if he wanted to bash the Dwarf’s teeth in.

                “As angry as the time when Doctor Strange cast the body swap spell on him and King Thranduil?” one female Elf girl asked.

                Elder Ori was about to answer before he paused, thinking it over.

                “…actually, no.  That time, he was angrier,” the old storyteller admitted.  Although to be fair, Bilbo commented in the past that Mount Doom erupting would have been calmer in comparison to the livid fury both Thorin and Thraunduil displayed after Doctor Strange’s cruel joke that eventful day.

                “That reminds me: did King Thranduil ever remove the bounty off Doctor Strange’s head?” another Dale boy asked his Elvish friends.

                His Mirkwood comrades answered in unison.

                “No.”

                “It is official!” announced King Bard loudly for the audience to hear, with Ori, being the Royal Scribe, taking note and logging the number in his journal for historical reference in the Library, “The number of stones and boulders split by King Thorin Durinson and Dwalin Fundinson is nine hundred and twenty nine for this contest!”

                Ori dutifully wrote it down with his head lowered, not sure if he could be trusted to look up and not wince at Thorin’s enraged face.

                “What is the tally of the rocks split by Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers?” Dáin asked.

                “Er…we are still counting…” Balin admitted sheepishly, although everyone witnessing this could easily discern that Steven and Thor’s rock pile was much, much greater than Thorin and Dwalin’s.

                By over three fold.

                Trembling, Dwalin looked like he was just about to commit mass murder starting with everyone gathered around for the contest as he growled, “Must you carry on this embarrassing charade?”

                Thranduil grinned so smugly at their complete humiliation that the Dwarf Captain was tempted to punch him directly in the face.

                The Elf King of Mirkwood drawled, “Why, of course, Master Dwarf!  After all, we must simply be precise and thorough for written posterity!  And we all know that you Dwarves like everything to be exact and explicit and completely absolute so there can be no qualms or disgruntlement in the future.”

                Meanwhile, a rather sour-faced Glóin was angrily distributing the collected money in the pool and biting back the curse words he was just eager to scream to the heavens.  Evenly split, the entire kitty of coin was packed into sizeable leather pouches and bequeathed to Ori, Dori, his own son Gimli (who was going to be grounded post-haste), Prince Bain of Dale, and (surprisingly) Dís.

                Thorin was apoplectic as he saw Dís receive her share of the winnings.

                “You bet against your own brother?!” he squawked.  Dís gave him a baleful and exasperated look.

                “Thorin, I have grown watching you act like an oblivious and stubborn idiot since we were children.  Of course I could have seen this coming,” the Dwarf Queen replied, not the least bit sorry.

                Thorin wasn’t sure if he could resist the urge to start bawling right then and there…

                Finally, after over twenty minutes, Radagast announced the final tally once Balin, Thranduil, and Bard double-checked their figures.

                “The number of rocks split by Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson is two thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-two!  Therefore, by unanimous agreement by all the judges and moderators, we hereby announce Master Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson as the winners of the contest!” the Brown Istari publicized.

                All the females (along with a few such as Bilbo, Gandalf, Bain, Gimli, and Fíli) cheered and applauded their congratulations, their heralds of commendation and worship loud enough to be heard across the Misty Mountains.

                In contrast, the majority of the male Dwarves, Elves, and Men just sulked and griped, dark expressions of resentment and mutterings as their resolutely refused to applaud.

                Dwalin and Thorin were both completely disgraced, their fists so tight that their fingernails drew blood in the palms of their hands, teeth grinding against each other as their glowered darkly with flushed and sweaty faces of wrath.

                It was a safe bet that they were not taking this loss well.

                Steven did his best to try to minimize the embarrassment by taking the platter of cookies (although Thor immediately stuffed six of them in his mouth at once, looking like a hoarding hamster) and offering them out to Thorin and Dwalin, proclaiming stridently.

                “Of course, to congratulate a job well done on everyone’s efforts, the prize of the peanut-butter biscuits shall be shared between both teams as a symbol of there being no hard feelings and of friendship.”

                Dwalin looked like he wanted to spit in Steven’s face, but he managed to hiss out through gritted teeth, “…thank you…Master Rogers.”

                Thorin, however, dreadfully realized one minor detail as the King’s face melted into panic and alarm.  He had forgotten about his earlier addendum to the winning trophy…

                Indeed, quite a few of Thorin’s Company seemed to be on the same track of thought as well as they fidgeted apprehensively.

                Thankfully, Thor then held out a hand, as if he read Thorin’s mind.

                “Nay,” Thor said, shaking his head and holding out a hand, “Peace, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield.  I shall not kiss a valiant soul such as Brother Bilbo without his consent.  There is no honor in forcing your affections on one of such pure heart chosen by Mjolnir.  If Brother Bilbo does not feel comfortable with giving me a kiss, I shall graciously dissolve the promised prize and leave him be with no dishonor to his name.”

                Thorin blinked, although he felt his shoulders sag with relief.

                Balin rolled his eyes and whispered under his breath, “Thank Mahal…”

                Bilbo smiled at Thor’s benevolent offer as he whispered, “Thank you.  You are far too sympathetic and considerate, Thor Odinson.  Your parents have raised you well.”

                The blond Asgardian beamed like a puppy as Steven exhaled, glad that there would be no blowup.

                Then Thor’s voice rang out a suggestion.

                “If it be graceful and tame enough, Brother Bilbo, I would most cherish a hug from you instead, if it be worthy of your judgment,” the blond Asgardian suggested.

                Bilbo smiled.  A hug sounded innocent enough, and Thorin wouldn’t get that outraged over it.

                “Certainly, Prince Thor,” Bilbo said as he beamed and held out his arms wide.

                With a sudden movement that took everyone by surprise, Bilbo found himself enveloped into Thor’s brawny and muscular arms and picked up off the ground as if he was as light as a feather.  Wide-eyed with shock, Bilbo could only make a small squeak as Thor closed his eyes and gently squeezed Bilbo against his bare, sweaty, and rock-hard chest, one large hand stroking Bilbo’s back as Thor purred like a cat and nuzzled his bearded face against the top of Bilbo’s head.  Bilbo wasn’t sure how to feel about the giant, hulking figure nuzzling and caressing him as he was firmly pressed in between Thor’s pectorals.  Bilbo couldn’t say the hug was unpleasant, although he didn’t enjoy his face being rubbed against Thor’s sweaty chest nor did he entirely like the close-up view of Thor’s pointy nipple.

                And was Thor’s skin always this smooth and soft?  And smelled like ale and rowan wood?

                “Lucky Hobbit…” grumbled Tauriel as many of her friends were just as envious.

                In the background, Thorin’s right eye twitched madly along with his clenched fingers as the Dwarf King was literally shaking, froth starting to gather at one corner of his clenched teeth, hissing for breath all the meanwhile.  His face went into a sick and unhealthy color as he temporarily lost all hearing, his skull buzzing with the sound of blood bubbling in his ears and veins, scarcely able to see straight.
                Balin rubbed the bridge of his nose as those near Thorin cautiously took several steps backward, gulping.

                “Da?” Tilda was heard asking softly, “Is Master Thorin turning red or blue?”

                “I daresay he’s turning purple, actually,” Bain commented.

                “Tilda, one of my Rhosgobel Rabbits would like you to scratch its head,” Radagast segued in smoothly, instantly getting Tilda’s attention as she squealed with joy as she petted the tame hare.  King Bard turned to the Brown Wizard.

                “Thank you…” Bard whispered.

                “You still might want to cover your daughter’s ears,” warned Radagast with a smile.

                After ten and long and agonizing (for Thorin) seconds and with a loving sniff of Bilbo’s hair, Thor gently set the blushing Hobbit down to the ground, enjoying the look of scandalized embarrassment on the frazzled Bilbo’s face.

                “Oh my…” was all Bilbo could croak, not sure if was about to faint from all the blood rushing to his head.  Thor chuckled deeply as he rose to a standing position only to look in the distance to see Thorin on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, barely holding it together and threatening to burst with uncontained wrath.

                “Why King Thorin of Oak’s Shield,” Thor drawled with mock concern, “Whatever is the matter?  Are thou mad, brother?”

                “It’s like adding oil to the cooking fire,” one Dale girl groaned, wincing.

                Surprisingly, one Dwarf wasn’t entirely sympathetic as he declared, “As much as I have loyalty to Erebor and the royal family, I have to say that King Thorin brought that one on himself.”

                Ori couldn’t help but smile as he stated, “That led to the Great Mud-Wrestling Fight between Thor Odinson, Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin, and Steven Rogers.”

                “Wait, why were Masters Dwalin and Steven Rogers involved?” blinked a Hobbit girl, cocking her head.

                “The fight somehow escalated a bit…” Ori explained, rolling his eyes.

                “Loggerheaded fop!” bellowed Thorin as he tried to head-butt Thor Odinson into his midsection, charging with his head lowered like a mad bull.  Thor expertly stopped the Dwarf King in his tracks by comically catching his head in the span of his giant, left hand.  It was sort of droll to watch the Dwarf King flail and struggle to close the distance between while being held in place by Thor at arm’s length.

                Bilbo just gingerly rubbed his temples where he was developing the strangest headache out of the blue…

                “Now, really, King Thorin.  Thou are truly being crass over a silly hug - ” Thor criticized.

                Thor then lost what he was trying to say as Thorin, as a cheap shot, grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and flung it directly into the Asgaridan’s eyes.  The blond Man credit out in surprise as he instinctively grabbed his face, letting go of his Dwarf antagonist.

                “Showboating bastard!”

                Steven, sensing trouble, tried to intervene.

                “THOR!  YOUR MAJESTY!  Both of you stop this – oof!”

                What Steven was going to say was immediately lost as Dwalin took advantage of the distraction and tackled Captain America from behind, completely winding Steve as he was sent crashing fact first into the dirt and mud.

                “Hands off my King, you scuttling home-wrecker!” yelled Dwalin as he grabbed Steven’s hair and repeatedly rammed the Man’s face hard into the ground.  Captain America then acrobatically flipped the heavy Dwarf off his back using his legs as leverage and both he and Dwalin were sent wrestling in filth, with Dwalin trying to get a punch in and cursing in Khuzdul.

                Meanwhile, Thorin took advantage of the distracted Thor being temporarily blind as he grabbed Thor’s left leg and yanked it forward with all of his strength, causing the muscle-bound Asgardian to fall backwards with a yelp as he lost his balance.  Falling backwards, Thor crashed into the ground, splattering mud everywhere, and now in a vulnerable position, Thorin pounced eagerly.

                “Cumberworld bedswerver!” Thorin snarled as he landed with his elbow jutting downwards, magnificently hammering Thor right in the sternum.

                “Thorin Oakenshield, please desist!” Thor growled, now clearly angry, wincing a bit from the blow but nonetheless hardly affected.

                “Spongy son of a venomous bitch!” howled the sable-haired Dwarf as he managed to swing both of his arms together into Thor’s stomach and abs win a two handed punch.

                “Thou shall not bring my mother into this!” snarled Thor, his face starting to flush.

                “I’ll kill you!  I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll – oh for the love of Mahal!  I cannot even strangle you properly?!” Thorin squawked in frustration.  Indeed, it was true.  Thor’s neck was so massive and thick that Thorin’s hands could not even fit suitably around the Asgardian’s throat.  It was as if the Dwarf King was trying to vainly wrap his fingers all around a large tree trunk.

                Thor Odinson smirked at the Erebor King.

                “I suppose thou has fingers that are simply too short and stubby, unlike my magical fingers which Brother Bilbo - ”

                That was all Thor Odinson was able to voice before an incensed Thorin delivered a ferocious head-butt directly into Thor’s face, jamming his forehead into Thor’s nose and breaking it with a resulting spurt of blood.

                “Dull-brained jackass!”

                Having enough and trying his best to not cause permanent injury, Thor then expertly used a wrestling move to latch onto Thorin and wrap the Dwarf’s head in a one-armed choke-hold.  Thrashing and squirming madly, Thorin let loose a volley of curses in Khuzdul as he tried to wrench his head out of Thor’s armpit, but the Asgardian firmly kept the Dwarf pinned to his side.

                Panting, Thor tried again in a controlled voice as he stood up, “Now, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield.  Are you ready to discuss this in a calm – OW!”

                Thor yelped as Thorin desperately sank his teeth into Thor’s side, drawing blood as he bit down on the skin and muscle of the abdominals as hard as he could.  In response, Thor lessened his grasp which allowed the dwarf to wriggle free before stomping hard on the back of Thor’s knee, causing the Asgardian to pitch forward on all fours.

                “Lily-livered, cock-teasing, ingratiating ponce!”

                Thor was now beginning to lose his patience.

                “I am warning – OW!” Thor yelped as Thorin’s fist made contact with his nose and mouth, drawing blood.

                “Bilbo Baggins is my Beloved!  Do you hear me?!  MINE!” Thorin yelled as he managed to jump up an impressive height before looping his arm around Thor’s throat in a chokehold and pulled hard, causing the Asgardian to fall on his back, sending both of them into the mud, with Thorin crushing Thor’s windpipe all the meanwhile.

                “We should stop this…” Tauriel commented, staring hard with glazed eyes.

                “We really should…” agreed Mafria, a small and pleasured smile on her lips.

                “They might kill each other…” Bea pointed out.

                “And we simply cannot let that happen…” Princess Sigrid stated.

                Not that they made an effort to stop staring at the glorious fight of the four shirtless and muscled warriors wrestling in the dirt, mud and dirty water spread lusciously over their muscular forms.

                Nope.  Can’t have that.

                Fíli groaned as he stepped forward, “Bombur, Bofur, grab Uncle while - ”

                Sigrid’s voice rang out harshly as she pointed to the blond Dwarf while still keeping her eyes fixated on the erotic scrap.

                “Fíli Durinson, you know I care for you.  But so help me: if you interrupt this arousing exchange of blows, I will shoot you with my father’s longbow.”

                Fíli decided to wisely keep his mouth shut and backed off.

                Bard sighed, rubbing his eyes as he demanded Balin and Bilbo (who were both next to him), “Aren’t you going to act?!  Do something!”

                “I am.  I’m having a drink.  Would you like some?” Balin asked sardonically, one fuzzy eyebrow raised meaningfully as he opened a small metal flask of hard liquor he took out from a hidden pocket in his tunic.

                Bard looked at Balin as if he was completely insane.

                Steven managed to get the better of Dwalin by pinning the Dwarf’s arms behind his back and sitting directly on Dwalin’s back with Dwalin thrashing face-first in the mud.

                “When you calm down and agree to stop this silliness, I will let you up, Mister Dwalin,” Steven Rogers declared sternly.

                A purple-faced Dwalin said a foul series of curses in Khuzdul that involved Steven doing a lewd act with a Warg, a Troll, and a crowd of Orcs using their spears for a particularly vulgar purpose.

Art by Seadeepspaceontheside

                Elder Ori then steeled himself for the next part of the chronicle, mentally preparing himself for the emotional turmoil and distressing memories that were about to unfold.  The hoary Dwarf motioned for a refill of his tea from his son (who immediately complied).

                “Finally, after a week after that disastrous contest, I managed to work enough nerve to ask Steven Rogers a question that was most dear and important to me at the time.  Little did I know what that one innocent act would result in an inundation of bad decisions…”

                “‘The square root of 7 is - ’ She broke off.  She wasn’t holding out, IT was getting at her, and she couldn’t concentrate, not even on math, and soon she, too, would be absorbed in IT, she would be an IT.”

                “‘Tesser, sir!’ she heard Calvin’s voice through the red darkness, ‘Tesser!’”

                “She felt her father grab her by the wrist, there was a terrible jerk that seemed to break every bone in her body, then the dark nothing of tessering.  If tessering with Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which had been a strange and fearful experience, it was nothing like tessering with her father.  After all, Mrs Which was experienced at it, and Mr. Murry – how did her know anything about it at all?  Meg felt that she was being torn apart by a whirlwind.”

                “She was lost in an agony of pain that finally dissolved into the darkness of complete unconsciousness.”

                With those somber words, Steve grimly smiled to himself as he closed the small book with a final soft clap and looked up to the wide-eyed audience of children and adults in the Dale marketplace.

                “And we’ll end there,” Steven announced amid the groans and moans, “We’ll continue the next chapter the following week, all right?”

                “No!” whined Princess Tilda who was snugly sitting on Bifur’s lap, with the grizzled Dwarf firmly and protectively holding her, “I wish to hear more!”

                “Just one more hour, please, Captain America!  We wish to find out what happens!” begged Gimli as he sat on the stone ground, side by side with Prince Bain and Bofur.

                “As much as I agree with you, Gimli, it is getting close to curfew, and we do need to start Guard Duty back at Erebor soon,” Prince Fíli pointed out, seated comfortably with Princess Sigrid snuggled in his lap.  If anyone else noticed the apparent close friendship between the Dwarf and the human girl, no one commented aloud.  Though a few such as Bilbo and Bifur cast the two with fond and knowing looks.

                “Aye, Fíli is right,” groaned Bofur as he got up and stretched the kinks in his back, “Best to get everyone safe in their homes before the sun completely sets.  Orcs and Goblins may be about, and we all have to be on full alert.  Come now, you little scamps!  Your mothers and fathers are waiting for you back home.”

                As everyone left, saying good-byes and heading off towards their homes, Ori then quietly ambled up towards Steve when he was finally alone as he placed his belongings into his knapsack.

                “…Steven?” the Dwarf peeped timidly.

                “Yes, Ori?” Steven asked lightly.

                Oh, how Ori hated how Steven’s blue eyes were getting clearer, gentle and tranquil like a calm day at sea and making his stomach twist and turn agitatedly.

                The Dwarf felt his resolve and courage fail once again as he fidgeted nervously in front of the Avenger, who was dressed in his white, sleeveless undershirt and brown slacks and shoes, standing at respectful attention.  One second passed, then three, but the Dwarf scribe was unable to utter anything through his dry and clogged throat.  Chuckling, Steve finally knelt down and placed himself within eye-level of the Dwarf scribe, one hand gently resting on Ori’s shoulder.

                “Hey, no pressure,” Steve said softly, “When you’re ready to tell me, you’re ready.  Don’t force yourself to - ”

                “MayIdrawyousometime?”

                This request came out so fast that even Steven with his sharp hearing barely could decipher it.  But Ori, red-faced and completely humiliated, suddenly found an interest in his toes as he looked down at the ground.

                By Mahal, he was so embarrassed.

                What must Steven Rogers think of him?

                Steve leaned back a bit, and for a moment, Ori was so fearful that he angered the Avenger, but then the blond Man’s eyes twinkled under the torchlight, merry and mischievous to complement the ribald smirk dancing on his face.

                “Do you really wish to draw me?” Steve asked, his voice deep and soft and a bit surprised (as if no one had ever asked such a question for him).

                By now, Ori’s face was redder than his hair, his ears so heated that Ori felt he could simply melt snow upon touch.

                “…yes?” squeaked a scarlet-faced Ori, so mortified and vulnerable that he wanted to go run into the lower mines of the Lonely Mountain and toss himself into the nearest gorge.

                This would be the part where Steven, good, kind, Steven, would gently let him down and make weak excuses or say he was not comfortable with the idea, just like Dwalin.  No, Ori decided that wouldn’t show disappointment, not when Steven was already being such a sweet friend…

                “I would be honored,” Captain America answered with sincerity.

                Ori looked up in surprise so quickly, his neck made a sharp cricking noise, sending a small ache down his neck.  He could scarcely believe what he had just heard.

                “Really?” Ori asked breathlessly.

                “Really,” Steven said, nodding, looking so accepting and supportive that Ori could have kissed the Man.

                “When?!”

                “Anytime you are ready.”

                “Tomorrow evening?!  After your work shift at Dori’s teahouse?!”

                “Sounds good.”

                “Oh, Steven, thank you!  THANK YOU!  You cannot see how much I’ve always wanted to have this opportunity!” cried Ori as he excitedly bounced on his feet, his eyes shining with delight and his grin so wide and eager it nearly split his entire face.  Steve just smiled, his expression so likeable and adoring; Ori was so enthusiastically cute it was difficult to refuse him…

                “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack,” quoted Steve as he held Ori’s hand and walked towards Bilbo, Fíli, and the other Dwarves, the entire group ready to head home to their warm beds in Erebor on the road home as the sun began to set.

                Ori blinked at the reference.

                “Excuse me?”

                Steve rolled his eyes as he explained, “Never mind.  It’s from a movie.”

                “…what is a ‘movie’?”

                Quite a few of the children and youths (mainly female) sat up a bit straighter, their eyes now wide with a certain keenness that wasn’t there previously.  The aged Dwarf chuckled as he sipped his hot tea before continuing.

                “I was so excited that I was certainly beyond the point of true thrill and excitement when Steven Rogers came to meet me at the Royal Library…”

                “Steven!” gasps Ori as he turned suddenly at the gentle yet heavy palm resting on his shoulder, only to see the said Man towering over him with a wry smile, “Oh!  Whatever is the matter?  I thought…I thought you were going to be at the tea house tonight.”

                Steven raised one eyebrow as he explained, “Apparently, when I mentioned to Mister Dori that I was planning to privately spend time with you over drawing, he immediately dismissed me from my shift and couldn’t push me out of the door fast enough.  In fact, he gave me the entire week off and became insistent that I hang around with you, demanding that I spend time with his little brother.  I believe he also mentioned how he and Nori will ensure we’ll have some privacy and offered his own apartment up for some quiet time from a certain ‘shit-faced bastard’, as he put it.”

                “Dori…” groaned Ori, embarrassed as he covered his eyes.  He was just grateful that the Captain had a wonderful sense of humor about the entire thing.  Steven just chuckled as he offered.

                “Do you want me to help out in the Library?” the Man asked, “I don’t want to keep you from your responsibilities, and I remember that I didn’t finish building the new bookshelves you wanted - ”

                “No, we can go now!” Ori spoke hurriedly before blushing with embarrassment at his enthusiasm.

                By Mahal, why couldn’t he stop acting like a hyperactive Dwarfling about this?

                Thankfully, Steve laughed softly, seeing Ori’s demeanor as endearing before Ori took Steven’s hand and led him out of the Royal Library, under scrutiny of the other Dwarves and assistants who were watching this entire flirtation with eagerness for gossip.  Ori and Steven both pretended to not hear the furious and keen undertones behind them as they left, although the Dwarf decided that it wouldn’t be any different from the rumors already spreading around the Lonely Mountain regarding both himself and Captain America.

                As the Dwarf led Steve through the darkened tunnels towards the living quarters, Ori at first wanted to take the Avenger to his own lodgings he shared with Dwalin.  Yet then the Royal Scribe recollected the ugliness of the brawl between the two of them during the Trials of Stone (and it took Dwalin three days to not inwardly seethe and froth, red-faced, at the mouth at the mere mention of Steve Rogers), and Ori then decided to avoid the chance of running into Dwalin and provoking another fracas.

                Dwalin would understand.

                Besides, once Ori finished Steven’s drawing, perhaps the stunning art and beauty of it would even convince Dwalin to be more charitable and open to the idea of letting Ori sketch his own portrait for the chronicles of the reclamation of Erebror from Smaug.

                As Ori and Steven entered Dori’s home, Steven mused at the warm and inviting rugs and fabrics, the spacious metal bench that was large enough to seat several Men, the spic-and-span kitchen, the roaring fireplace in the living room with its cozy steel stools and chairs and pillows.

                “Forgive us for the cramped area, Steven,” Ori said remorsefully, “The dwellings were never built with the accommodations of non-Dwarven Men and Elves and other friends in mind.”

                “Actually, I like it.  It’s homey and warm, like the apartments I used to have before the war,” mused Steve, starting to get nostalgic.

                That year in Brooklyn, despite the rats and cockroaches that invade their bathroom and kitchen, the rust and mold that could never be scrubbed away no matter how strenuous cleaning efforts, the way the building burned like an oven in the summer and froze like an icebox during the winter, it was the home where Bucky watched over Steve while he was sick with pneumonia in bed, the home where Bucky and Steven shared dinner from tin cans over candlelight and laughing over funny anecdotes, and the home where he and Bucky whispered sweet nothings and caressed bare skin underneath the thin sheets…

                As blasphemous as it was to think of, Steven was beginning to feel like Erebor was a second Brooklyn to his soul.

                He smiled to himself, at peace.

                Ori grinned before he asked innocently.

                “Would you like for us to continue here or in the guest bedroom?”

                There was a naughty glint in Steve’s eyes as he nodded, replying, “The bedroom is fine.”

                Ori nodded as he led the Avenger towards the bedchambers and lightly closed the door.  He nodded towards the bed before he turned his back towards Steven, lighting the candles carefully and placing them on the nightstand nearby.  Ori blithely continued on as he heard Steve shuffling in the background.

                “Steven, I cannot thank you enough for such an opportunity!  All the times where you have given me advice and instruction for my drawing has certainly paid off!  Even Balin has commented that my sketches have a noticeable improvement over them!”

                It was now easier to bare his soul, for the Dwarf was now finding it difficult to stop telling Steven how he felt, the words pouring out of his mouth like a surging river, a torrent of water…

                Ori then bent over as he flipped his sketchbook to a fresh sheet of parchment, white as snow and just ready for the masterpiece he was sure he was about to create.  Sharpening his best charcoal with his quill knife, Ori continued talking fondly.

                “It’s been so wonderful to have both you and Thor Odinson here in Middle Earth.  You have no idea how much light and laughter you two Avengers have given to all three of our Kingdoms.  You are kind, gentle, and despite a seasoned warrior, you appreciate art, beauty, and tea and show such a soft heart that have made friends with everyone here.  Both the influence of you and Thor are so prevalent that now I cannot image the Mountain without your personal touches of adventure and heroism.”

                Removing his knitted gloves and his scarf and heavy coat before gathering paper and materials in his hands, Ori turned around as he continued to talk, “You have no idea how much I admire your art!  We could dedicate an entire shelf of…all…your…drawings…”

                The Dwarf trailed off, his blood draining out of his face with each spoken word, his eyes growing wider and wider as time slowed to a crawl, so still and hushed that Ori’s heartbeat was drumming soundly in his flushed ears as Ori’s breath caught in his throat.

                Speechless, dumbfounded, and bewildered, the Dwarf scribe just stared and stared, mouth slightly agape and unable to blink.

                There, on the small Dwarven bed, atop the sheets and blankets, was Steven Rogers lying on his side, head propped up with one arm and elbow resting against the straw mattress a few feet away.

                Completely naked.

                Bare as a newborn baby.

                Without a single bit of clothing.

                Exposing…everything.

                Steve chuckled as he then asked, “Is this pose all right with you, Ori?”

                Ori did not answer, did not even make a sound out of his paralyzed throat, as he just stood as still as a statue, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he stared and stared at Steven’s impressive organ.

                Steve cocked his head, a bit puzzled as he asked, “Would you prefer if I lay on my back for this?”

                The Dwarf just continued to stand there as he looked on the perfect musculature and the peach-toned, smooth skin of Steve, without a blemish or a freckle and what little hair growing on his body as light and soft as goose down.

                Ori tried to tear his eyes away from Steve’s manhood, but he could not help it.

                It was like watching a car crash; you just couldn’t look away.

                So Ori just kept his gaze riveted on Steve’s body.

                “Ori?” Steven asked, now sounding alarmed, “What’s wrong?”

                Ori finally managed to raise his head and met the Captain’s eyes, stunned and snapping out of his shocked reverie.  Yet that one fleeting glance of bewildering numbness jolted Steve into sudden comprehension.

                “You…didn’t need me to strip…did you?” Steve croaked hoarsely, now having an icy vise clench his heart and stomach as his blue eyes were now widened to comedic proportions, exactly like Ori’s.  Said Dwarf just looked at the Man vacantly, still befuddled.

                Shit.

                Steve felt shame and despair crash down on him as he hurriedly stumbled out of the bed, hyperventilating.

                “Oh God!  I’m sorry!  I’m so, so sorry!  I never meant to hurt you!  I didn’t mean – I would never – please don’t…”

                Steven couldn’t continue, dejection clogging his voice, but Ori then blinked, coming out of his trance, surprised at the anguished despair in the Man’s voice.

                “Steven…” Ori began.

                “I’ll leave, and I’ll tell Dori the truth before quitting from his teahouse, and if he wants to pummel me beforehand, I’ll gladly accept it.  I’ll tell King Thorin what I have done so that you won’t be victimized and disgraced any further.  I’ll place all the blame on myself, not you!”

                “Steven!” Ori tried to protest again as the blond Man hurriedly threw on his underwear and slacks.

                “I’ll accept whatever judgment Thorin and Bilbo give to me, for I know it will be fair and the better alternative to having you and your family humiliated!  I’ll tell Thor to send me out of Middle Earth once I serve my sentence, and he can try bringing in another Avenger to help you with the Orcs like Natasha or Sam or - !”

                “STEVEN, STOP!”

                That got through as Ori grabbed the Man’s shoulder, causing the panicked Steve to look at Ori’s face, anxious and breathing hard.  In fact, it was safe to say that Steven was uncharacteristically having a small panic attack.

                “You’re…beautiful…” admitted Ori, blushing.

                Steven blinked, which allowed Ori to finally say his next words before his brain even had time to comprehend it.

                “Get back on the bed so I can draw you.  Please…”

                Ori wasn’t sure who was more surprised at that request: himself or Steven Rogers.  Steven swallowed anxiously before he asked, “Are…are you sure?”

                “I want to draw you.  All of you…” Ori nodded enthusiastically as he sat down on a stool with his pad and got his charcoal stick ready.  Steve shakily exhaled as he removed his pants and undergarments.

                “Don’t be scared, Steven,” Ori encouraged, which brought a smile from the Avenger.

                “Funny, I was about to say the exact same thing to you.”

                At this, many of the girls and young females in the audience leaned forward attentively, their eyes wide and with leery smiles dancing on their faces.  Their male compatriots rolled their eyes good-naturedly.

                “Well?  Go on!” encouraged one of the Elf youngsters.

                “What was it like, Elder Ori?  Give us all the scandalous details!” drawled a snickering Dale girl, wiggling her eyebrows.  The Dwarf couldn’t help but smile.

                “Believe it or not, strangely therapeutic…”

                “Are you quite serious?!” Ori laughed, stopping his sketching so that he wouldn’t risk his drawing as he held his stomach and giggled uncontrollably, his mirth echoing throughout the guest bedroom.  Steven laughed with his friend, his baritone voice complimenting the scribe’s high-pitched shrieks.

                “I swear!” Steve chortled, “Bucky was actually crushing on me, and he took the opportunity when I asked to draw him to strip himself naked and see if he could seduce me.  It turned out that we both had mutual feelings for each other, and…well, one thing led to another and…er, we had…fondue.”

                “That is the first time I have ever heard anyone using drawing in such a scandalous manner!”

                “Trust me.  That was typical of him.”

                “So you both were intimate even before the war?”

                Steve gave a warmhearted and doting glance.

                “It transcended simple intimacy, Ori.  It was love, love in the purest form only two brothers growing up in Brooklyn and fighting side-by-side could ever feel.  Well…loved, anyway…” Steven amended, the realization now bringing a bit of melancholy to his face as his mouth set into a thin line, reliving the memories of the Helicarrier and its aftermath.

                Ori started drawing again, taking care to ensure he got the shape of Steven’s shoulders just right as he picked up his charcoal stick.

                Still, as best as it was to remain silent, Ori couldn’t help but try to do anything to get Steven out of his slight depression.

                “Tell me more about Bucky…” Ori requested softly as he finished drawing the contours of Steven’s thighs, making sure to sketch the shape of his quadriceps correctly.  It was so strange how amid the furs and dark colored blankets on Ori’s bed, Steve’s pale skin practically glowed under the candlelight like a star.

                Steven was a bit silent for a minute or two before he exhaled as spoke in a revered tone, fondness surrounding each word, “He’s a jerk…but he was my jerk.  Bucky never stopped to stand up for what was right, and he would always do it with a quip or a joke as well as that damned sexy smirk of his.  It was difficult to tell when I wanted to punch him or kiss him.  He always looked out for me after me after my mother passed away, and it didn’t matter if we stood up against a pack of bullies or an entire army or even Red Skull himself.  Just the two of us who mattered most against the world.  I felt guilty whenever Bucky had to cancel a date or had to spend what little money we had to getting me medicine so I could recover, and I thought my heart was going to split apart when Bucky left to fulfill his duty to fight in the war.  You couldn’t even begin to comprehend how elated and happy I felt when I was chosen for the Super-Soldier program, and even more so when Bucky and I were reunited.  From that day on, I may have been in the front lines, but Bucky was the one of the few I trusted to watch my back and pick up any stragglers.”

                He could still recall the words in his head that one night in the bar…

                You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?

                Hell, no.  That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight.  I'm following him.

                Steve paused in thought before he continued a little sadly.

                “A part of me will always feel guilty doing that to Bucky, though.  That I changed into Captain America and was no longer the Steve he grew up and looked out for.  I remember how he even joked that we were both beginning to switch roles, and he was now the invisible one after Peggy started flirting with me.”

                “Everyone changes, Steven,” Ori emphasized as he shaped Steven’s square jaw on the parchment, “It’s a given in every life, every soul.  Even us Dwarves of stone and rock will weather and chip away from the seasons of sun and rain.  As your friend and One, Bucky would continue to love you regardless of the shift into Captain America just as you continued to love him despite the atrocities he committed as the Winter Soldier.”

                “I thought that too at first,” Steve murmured quietly, his face blank despite the ache in his chest.  It suddenly felt a bit colder in the room for some reason.  Ori wanted nothing more than to hug Steve and banish away his sadness.

                “You cannot blame yourself for events beyond your control, or even how Bucky deemed afterwards when you freed him from Hydra’s control.  Thorin blamed himself for the siege by Smaug when the wyrm conquered the Lonely Mountain.  Bilbo blamed himself for invoking Thorin’s Dragon-Sickness into attempted murder when he gave away the Arkenstone to the armies at our gates.  Anyone could have easily discerned that neither of them were at fault for the evil and actions of others.  You and Bucky are no different.  How Bucky feels is how he feels, and there is no right or wrong in that,” Ori murmured as he rubbed his thumb over the lines of Steven’s hair, smudging the charcoal satisfactorily enough to get the right blend of dimness.

                “It didn’t stop Bucky from pushing me away,” muttered Steve with a frown on his face.

                “That does not mean he ceased to love you considering your history.  Even after all the crimes he has committed as the Winter Soldier, did you stop loving Bucky?”

                “Never!  A thousand times over, I would have forgiven him and welcome him back!  But you don’t understand!  None of you do!  I begged!  I pleaded!  I argued and promised the world if Bucky could just trust me enough to come back with me so I could help him!  But he still left!”

                “So why did you not go with him?”

                “He said he did not want me to follow him.  Bucky told me to stop and forget about him.”

                Ori paused from drawing the impressive bicep, raising an eyebrow in puzzlement at Steven’s answer.

                “…just like that?”

                “Don’t judge me, Ori,” retorted Steven hotly with a frown, “Bucky being able to disappear and vanish without a trace due to his Army and Hydra training just made things more difficult.”

                “You could have used the stubbornness of the Dwarves, Steven.  I can assure you that any decent Dwarf who heard that unsatisfactory response would have easily brought back Bucky in a headlock or beleaguered him until the day Arda falls.”

                “Ori, Bucky has been forced to do things against his will enough times due to Hydra’s brainwashing.  If I refused to accept his choice, I would have been no better than Rumlow or Pierce.  I’m not subjugating Bucky to comply with what I want.  You cannot make someone stay with you if they push you away.”

                Ori looked at Steven with pity, like how a patient teacher would glance at a slow student.

                “Steven…” Ori said slowly, making his point, “The times when someone pushes you away are usually the times they need you the most.”

                Steven blinked before the Man looked up to the ceiling in deep contemplation as Ori began drawing the Avenger’s bare feet.

                It was funny how such a simple statement was so profound.

                Elder Ori paused before he forced himself to continue, each word growing heavier and burdensome.

                “It was a week until I finally finished the illustration, with help and suggestions from Steven critiquing my work, and I remember feeling so elated when the portrayal met and surpassed all of our expectations.  It was so uplifting and inspirational, a special masterpiece shared just between the two us, as close friends.  An exclusive secret token of our friendship, over love of art and my admiration of such a soft-hearted warrior like Steven who did not once ever make me ashamed over my craft.  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of leaving my notebook unattended on my desk while I was out with Bifur and Nori on a trip to the lower mines…”

                Dwalin just grumbled to himself as he finally realized that his Beloved was nowhere in the vicinity, and now, he was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with all the side glance and stares from the Library staff as they mingled around with their tasks and book-keeping.

                Ever since those damned Avengers showed up, the amount of time he and Ori spent together decreased significantly.

                Dwalin missed the days and nights where it was Ori who pleaded and begged Dwalin to spend more time with him over his duties with the Ereborian Guard.

                The irony of the role reversal was not lost on the burly Dwarf.

                Irate, Dwalin was about to leave the Royal Archives when he then spotted a familiar notebook on Ori’s metal desk.  Even though the quarters of the Head Librarian and Roayl Scribe was off-limits and certainly private, Dwalin merely shrugged away any misgivings of confidentiality before he picked up Ori’s sketchpad and began to thumb through the drawings for curiosity’s sake.

                The Ereborian Raven, Roäc, flapping his wings as he landed on an iron banister, and his feathers drawn in such a pristine and detailed manner against the sunbeams…

                The Elk steed of Thranduil, contently grazing on a patch of clover in Bilbo’s gardens and looking so majestic and serene that (against his principles) Dwalin was tempted to call the King Tree-Shagger’s pet beautiful…

                The imposing rock statue of the Dwarven Guard near the Hidden Stairway, with the lights from the city of Dale in the background casting a comforting glow against the starry sky that Dwalin could swear he could picture the fireflies and cold breeze of the moon…

                A heartwarming picture of Beorn the Shapeshifter, smiling toothily with Princess Tilda riding on his shoulders and laughing with delight as the Bear-Man carried her, dancing a jig so lively Dwalin could almost hear music in his head…

                Dwalin had to admit that Balin was right.

                Ori’s drawings were showing a significant improvement as of late.

                He couldn’t actually say for sure, but even Dwalin could note that under Steven Roger’s guidance and instruction, all the nuances of shading and shadows and the way the charcoal lines blended and cut against each other transcended Ori’s sketches into actual life-like images, as if they could spring forth from the paper.  Ori was truly mastering his craft in a way that quill and ink could never replicate.

                Suddenly, Dwalin felt a bit of shame in his stomach.

                Even after everything that happened, Steven was only trying to encourage his One’s happiness and passion.

                By Mahal, I can’t believe I’m thinking about it, Dwalin thought as he continued to flip through the sketchbook, But perhaps my brother and dear Ori have a point.

                Maybe I should just swallow my blasted pride and apologize to Steven Rogers.

                Maybe I could actually try to get along with that pon-…with Captain America and Thor Odinson.

                Maybe I shouldn’t be so hostile.  There’s no good reason to feel threatened and hand on my damned jealousy just because the Avenger gets along so well with Ori.

                Maybe –

                And then Dwalin turned to the last page in the sketchbook…

                “I take it Master Dwalin absolutely exploded with anger and made enough of a din to rival a Fellbeast?” asked one of the Dale children.

                “Actually, to everyone’s astonishment, it took a while for it to come about,” admitted Ori sheepishly.

                “Adad…” Gimli asked hesitantly as he side-eyed the twitching and purple-faced Dwalin with some wary confusion, “Is Master Dwalin going to explode?”

                “Let’s go get your Uncle Óin,” sighed Glóin as he led his son out of the grand library, not wanting to stick around when his comrade decisively snapped.  Leaving the shell-shocked and furiously traumatized Dwalin, shaking with rage as he continued staring at the offensive drawing in his clutched grip, wrinkling the thick parchment in his clenched fingers.

                What worried Fíli was that aside from the convulsions, Dwalin did not move from his position for fifteen minutes.

                Fifteen minutes.

                It was the proverbial calm before the storm.

                Chary and incredibly mindful of Dwalin’s state of mind, Fíli, Kíli, and the Elf Tauriel stayed behind with the Dwarf Guard, looking at the offending sketch.  Much to Prince Kíli’s ire, Tauriel kept gazing at the sight of the nude Steven Rogers with glazed eyes and a wide and frozen dreamy smile on her face.

                Fíli couldn’t help but remark upon the portrait, “By Mahal, Master Rogers certainly has a big…”

                Fíli’s face then turned white and clammy upon Dwalin suddenly looking at the blond Prince with a bloodshot and bulging eye.

                Fíli gulped.

                “…uh – sword.  I meant ‘sword’.  Master Rogers has a big sword,” Fíli finished lamely.

                Kíli, in his typical obliviousness, couldn’t help but pipe up in confusion.

                “Sword?!” echoed Kíli, befuddled not noticing how the vein in Dwalin’s forehead pulsed and turned more purple with each spoken word, “What – ow! – sword?!  I do not see – ow! – a sword!  The only – ow! – thing I – ow! – see is – ow! – that – ow! – ponce’s – ow! – big – Fíli, stop kicking me!”

                “Master Dwalin, would Master Ori be willing to sell this masterpiece?” Tauriel could not help but ask.

                “The situation went to absolute pot when I returned back from my duties.  It has been over three hundred years, and yet I can still smell the ash from the roaring fireplace and the smell of the firewhiskey permeating the parlor when I entered the apartments…” Ori continued in an emotionless voice.

                “Dwalin!” Ori exclaimed as he closed the door, “Are you all right?  It’s past midnight and…why are you drinking at this late hour?”

                There was no response, and the burly Dwalin just sat there at the table, his face hidden in the shadows as he sat, hunched over the dining table with a small crystal shot glass of firewhiskey in his hand.  His expression behind his beard was blank, numb.

                Dwalin didn’t mean to; he only intended to have one drink of liquor to soothe his fuming nerves and his writhing gut.

                Unfortunately, as the excruciating wait lingered on and on, one drink became two…

                Then two drinks became five…

                Then five drinks became three-quarters of the bottle…

                Despite the fermented alcohol buzzing in his head and causing his senses to swim around his befuddled brain and skull, it was immediately erased as the volcano in his heart and soul began to percolate and bubble madly upon sensing Ori standing in the living room.

                “Did you have a nice time with your good friend, Master Rogers?” Dwalin growled huskily and with pure venom without looking up.

                Ori felt a shiver of perplexity and trepidation go down his spine as he crinkled his brow, shocked.

                “…I do not know what you are talking about, Dwalin.  Steven is out exploring the Earth Eater tunnels with Bilbo and Legolas, and I spent recording deposits in the mines with Bifur.”

                To Ori’s deepening unease, Dwalin’s voice became absolutely arctic, chilling the room all around them despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

                “Is that all?”

                Ori slowly walked forward towards Dwalin in concern; the Royal Scribe was starting to get worried now.

                “Dwalin…whatever is the matter?” Ori asked as he slowly reached for Dwalin’s callused hands, “Is something - ?”

                Ori ended the sentence abruptly as Dwalin jerked his hand away from his fiancé’s before he shot up from his seat, took the empty tumbler glass from the table, and hurled it against the far wall, shattering it into microscopic pieces with an eerie tinkling noise.  Ori was rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and too shocked to even flinch.

                “You deny it then?” hissed Dwalin, beads of spittle flying out of his clenched teeth.

                “Deny what?!” gasped Ori, white in the face.

                “You deny you and the noble, faultless Steven Rogers have been sneaking off to this way and that?  You deny how you and he flirt shamelessly with each other in front of the entire Lonely Mountain?  You deny how you and he lust in the shadows?!  You deny how you both have caressed each others’ bodies while I was fulfilling my duty to the King?!  You deny how you let Steven ravish you?!  You deny how you sucked him off?!  You deny how you let him fill you in our own bed?!  In our own home?!  YOU FAITHLESS WHORE!”

                Each sentence became increasingly bitter, potent, until it rose as a crescendo of unadulterated hate, vehemence, outrage, and visceral agony all mixed in a storm of whiskey and shame until the purple-face Dwalin was screaming in the scribe’s face, his eyes wild and his beard frizzled and sticking out, bristling.

                Ori felt his heart drop to his feet after cracking with each hurled accusation.

                “Dwalin, please!  I have not done any of the things you have accuse me of?!  Dwalin, this is ridiculous!”

                The Dwarf Captain’s next words were dripping with utter resentment as he then held up Ori’s notebook.

                “Explain this, then, love…” Dwalin spat.

                Ori went white in the face as he then looked upon the image of the sketch he drew of Steven Rogers lying naked.  And the realization of what this looked like sunk a boulder of despair and anxiety down to his stomach.

                “It means nothing!  Nothing had ever occurred between Steven and I!  I asked Steven to pose for me because I thought he was beautiful, because I wanted to preserve this in memory and in our recorded history!” protested Ori, his cheeks hot.

                Dwalin’s eyes glinted dangerously in the shadows as the cords in his neck tightened, the purple vein bulging out of his forehead forebodingly.

                “You admit it, then?” Dwalin rumbled, “You admit your infidelity?”

                “Dwalin, stop, please!  There was no infidelity!  Nothing is further from the truth!  I drew and spied upon Steven naked, yes!  But all we did was talk about his past and his relationship with Bucky!  That is all that had occurred!” the scribe placated, whimpering, but his fiancé would have none of it.

                Dwalin’s response was acidly curt.

                “I do not believe you.”

                “It is the truth!” Ori begged, “Steven is my friend, but you are my One!  There is simply nothing between Steven and I except as friends and good comrades who have bonded over art!”

                “OVER ART?!” Dwalin hollered loudly enough for the neighbors to hear his wrath, “OVER ART?!  YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE YOU AND THAT DAMNED CAPTAIN AMERICA TREASURE EACH OTHER’S COMPANY AND SPEND EVERY WAKING MOMENT BONDING OVER THIS – THIS – GARBAGE?!”

                Horrifying and shocking Ori to the core, Dwalin then cruelly flipped open his One’s artpad with a simply flick on his thumb before he then reached out and ripped out the drawings out of the thick pad, tearing them and crumpling them into ruined wads of paper strips and fragments.

                “No!” Ori cried as he rushed over and tried to grab at his treasured notepad, but with a violent push, Dwalin shoved Ori to the floor with one arm, sending the smaller Dwarf sprawling on his side.

Unburdened, the Dwarf Guard then continued to rip as much as he could.

                Within seconds, over and over, leaflet and leaflets of tattered, torn, and ripped pages fell to the stone floor, with Dwalin furiously tearing apart as much as he could with all of his strength.

                How dare he?

                This ugly mantra repeated itself over and over Dwalin’s head as he set to destroy every inch of Ori’s damned sketchbook.

                How dare Ori cheat on him?  How dare his One betray him over charcoal and paper and a damned Man of sunny hair and sunny smiles?  How dare he?

                Ori screamed as his eyes welled up with tears, petrified.

                “Stop!  Please don’t!  Those drawings mean everything to me!” the scribe cried.

                Though Ori certainly did not mean that sentence the way it sounded, it only added fuel to Dwalin’s rage as his ire skyrocketed, erupting into a very ugly, ugly thought.

                “You want your precious sketchbook?” spat Dwalin with malice.

                And with that, the burly Dwarf Captain flung the fragile pad directly into the roaring fireplace, embedding it into the flames.

                Ori screamed without words as he frantically dashed towards the hearth and grabbed at his cherished notebook, with the edges of the paper already smoldering and curling from the heat.  Desperately, Ori beat back the small wisps of flame threatening to destroy all his memories on parchment, managing to save it from being completely consumed.  Yet given the scorch marks and the edges already now a lifeless and permanent soot of black, it was damaged for good.

                Ori cradled the pad of parchment close to his chest, distraught.

                He would have preferred it if Dwalin struck him.

                “You traitorous skunk!” roared the Guard Captain, “You’re nothing more than a pissed faced liar!  You…you humiliated me!  You have brought dishonor and laughed behind my back while I remained devoted, you underhanded viper!  How much you and Steven laughed, seeing everyone else in the Lonely Mountain guess how the both of you found comfort in each other’s arms, the poor Royal Scribe unable to seek refuge and solace from his dimwitted and foolhardy Dwalin!  Creeping up to Captain America ever since he arrived here with Thor!  How much you enjoyed the kind and gentlehearted Captain over the mule-faced and brazen Dwarf who stuck with you thick and the thin during the Quest to reclaim Erebor from Smaug!  The Dwarf who protected you from the Goblins!  The Dwarf who encouraged your brothers to let you fight and grow!  The Dwarf who bolstered you through your terrors and nightmares while being chased by Azog!  The Dwarf who risked and sacrificed everything to court you, and no one else but you!  The Dwarf who loved you!  And yet you have no shame in tossing that aside for a shield-wielding fop as if those efforts meant less than nothing!  In front of everyone to see!  You dishonest snake!  Your innocent face hides a viper’s tongue and heart!  I cannot say you are anything but a fickle double-dealer, you pathetic whore!  You are even more two-faced than your Spymaster brother, you tart!”

                Ori’s heart was pounding painfully against his chest, threatening to cause the blood rushing to his head and make the Dwarf pass out.

                This was getting horribly, horribly out of control.

                Ori pleaded as he stood up, “Love, please!  I’ll get Steven!  He can straighten this entire mess out and clear up this whole misunderstanding - !”

                Unfortunately, that was exactly the wrong thing to say as Dwalin’s volcanic ire spewed forth out of his soul and heart, fiery, unstoppable, and completely destructive.

                “You want your precious Steven Rogers here, to comfort and woo you and defend your honor like the piss-filled shining knight you praise him to be?!  You want Captain America here?!  You want to lavish under his concern and attention and be a part of his blasted life as a heroic Avenger?!  That is completely fine!  Because I am finished with you!”

                And to Ori’s horror, Dwalin roughly grabbed him by the shoulder, with Dwalin’s fingers clenching painfully into his skin and flesh before reaching out with his other hand towards Ori’s head.

With an excruciating sharp pain, Dwalin callously ripped the lovingly crafted courting bead out of Ori’s braid, taking a sizeable amount of hair in his clenched fist.  Ori cried out in pain as he automatically clasped at the side of his head only to find the treasured part of his life and love missing, like a piece of his soul was torn off.

                “I will go tomorrow morning to the King and ask his permission for our courtship to be officially annulled for irreconcilable differences so not to shame either of our families.  That will still leave you with your honor and unsullied enough for you to run off with your beloved Captain America.  Unlike you, I actually don’t wish to ruin your reputation,” Dwalin spat, although one could noticed his voice quavering with grief, his eyes red from liquor and tears, his trembling lip underneath his beard.

Hurriedly and with stiff movements, Dwalin turned around and began walking out of their living quarters.  Now desperate and frantic, Ori rushed over and grabbed at Dwalin’s arm, trying to get him to stay.

                “Dwalin, please!  Do not go!”

                “Get out of my way,” growled Dwalin, the grief and numbness in his soul slurring his already drunken words.  Pinching the scribe’s wrist with one thumb and forefinger, Dwalin extracted Ori’s fraught grip around his arm.

                Despairing, Ori beseeched as he latched his arms around Dwalin’s muscular waist in an effort to hug him and remain still.

                “You have it all wrong!  You do not know the entire story!”

                “Get out of my way…” muttered Dwalin again, this time his voice hard and barbed with thin resentment.  With a restrained shove and his fraying temper, Dwalin released himself from Ori’s embrace.

                Ori then dashed and blocked Dwalin’s way entirely, trying once again to get Dwalin to listen to reason.

                “Âzyungâl!  Please!” begged Ori.

                Dwalin snapped.

                To be fair, he only meant to shove Ori out of the way.

                Dwalin vaguely did not plan to grab his One by the shoulders and hurl the scribe aside, with as much hatred and anger as he would have for an Orc.

                Dwalin did not intend to use so much force in his shove, did not intend to physically hurt Ori in any way.

                And Dwalin certainly did not mean to aim Ori directly at the parlor table…

                There was a crash and a gut-wrenching cry of pain as Ori’s upper body slammed into the metal furniture, bending it upon impact and leaving Ori amid the wreckage.

                Vision blurring slightly, Ori tried to gingerly pick himself off the floor in an attempt to plead and reason with his fiancé, only for the scribe to hiss in pain as he applied weight on his left wrist.  Delicately, Ori cradled his arm close to his chest only to find it incredibly tender as the freckled skin was now pink, inflamed, and beginning to swell with fresh blood leaking out of his bruised skin.

                Certainly sprained if not broken.

                Time figuratively froze for Dwalin as he realized what had just happened.

                Ori, despite the pain, looked up at the shell-shocked Dwalin, tears pooling his eyes as he pleaded one word.

                “Dwalin…”

                For one moment, the shock and horror threatened to break Dwalin’s heart.

                Dwalin wanted to gather up his fiancé in his arms.

                Dwalin wanted to hug Ori’s tears away and apologize.

                Dwalin wanted to beg for forgiveness and repeat that he did not mean to injure his One, his precious treasure, his Heart, and lament over the injury as he would bundle up Ori to the nearest healer.

                Unfortunately, the memory of the muscular and angelic Steven Rogers smiling with Ori in his warm and inviting arms crashed through his stupor.

                And Dwalin’s heart hardened again.

                “You best go to your beloved Steven to fix that for you,” Dwalin stated flatly, almost matter-of-fact.  And for some reason, the lifeless tone was far worse to Ori than all the raging temper and senseless screaming.

                Dwalin abruptly turned around and strode out of the apartment.  Leaving Ori alone in the ruins of their home and their lives.

                Instead of immediately getting medical attention for his sprained wrist, Ori hugged his numb knees to his chest, buried his face in his arms, and wept piteously.

                “And with that, Dwalin left and moved into his brother’s apartments in the Royal Wings.  The next day, he went to Thorin and asked for our betrothal to be dissolved for reasons of irreconcilable differences.  Thorin was pained, according to Bilbo, but he granted the request with grace and honor and ensured that neither of us would be shunned or harassed for the divorce and bring shame to our families by his order,” Elder Ori stated, his voice threatening to quiver.  By Mahal, even after all these years, it was still an uncomfortable memory.

                Ori’s son, who was listening as he was leaning against the cavern wall, looked down somberly at his feet.  The children were sniffling and wiping their eyes, and even the Elf youngsters themselves looked a bit emotional.  One young male Elf then asked his question hesitantly.

                “How did you brother react when he found out that Master Dwalin left you?”

                “Which one: Dori or Nori?” the aged Dwarf asked with a grim smile.

                “Both of them, I suppose.”

                “Fortunately, after requiring a day to calm down his temper, Dori managed to deal with Dwalin in a rational and mature manner…”

                Balin felt his head swim with relief as he made up the stairs towards his apartment.

                After twelve hours of negotiating trade agreements, four meetings with the Mirkwood Elves, researching part border maps to settle a property dispute with the Firebeard Dwarves, and an endless line of citizens from Dale and Erebor with complaints, requests, or supplications for money, the Royal Advisor was more than willing to just go to his soft bed and sleep for the next twelve hours…

                Upon opening the door, Balin admirably did not react in the slightest as he took in the ruined and broken furniture in the living room, the cracked holes in the walls, and how in the middle of the parlor were Dwalin and Dori, brawling it out.

                “BREAK MY BROTHER’S HEART, WILL YOU?!” roared Dori as he continued to throttle Dwalin, “WELL IN RETURN, I’LL BREAK YOUR DAMNED NECK, YOU SHIT-FACED BASTARD!”

                After several seconds of quick thought, Balin did an about face and closed the door, leaving his brother and Ori’s brother to continue their fight amid furious cursing and pummelings.

                The border annexes between the Lonely Mountain and the Firebeard kingdoms could use another double-check, now that he considered it…

                There was an uncomfortable silence from the gaggle of children before one Hobbit girl announced with disbelief, “That was considered ‘rational’ and ‘mature’?”

                “Compared to what Dori originally wanted to do, yes,” Ori said.

                “But Elder Ori, I do not understand,” piped up one teenage Elf, “If Master Dori wanted you to break your courtship with Master Dwalin so Steve Rogers could court you, then shouldn’t he have been ecstatic?”

                “There is a difference in Dori’s mind between Dwalin breaking the courtship and I myself breaking the courtship,” Ori said with a touch of sadness.

                “And how did Master Nori react to Master Dwalin’s actions?” a Dale teenager quieried.

                “Nori…used a more indirect way of showing his disapproval,” Ori murmured, selecting his words very carefully.

                “Who waked the giant that napped in America?  We know it’s no-one but Captain America.  Who’ll finish what they began? Who’ll kick the Krauts to Japan?  The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!”

                Dwalin gritted his teeth so hard that they were beginning to grind against each other, each throbbing movement issuing forth bits of bone to pile against his gums and mouth.

                He would like nothing better than to take his Grasper and Keeper and cleave the skulls of all four of the Dale Men singing the damned ditty.  Not to mention every Dale resident who (for some very odd reason) kept warbling the song audibly enough for him to hear whenever Dwalin was within earshot.

                Unfortunately, after the seventh person complained to King Bard about his injuries inflicted by said Dwarf (Dwalin insisted that he was perfectly justified in breaking the Guard’s nose), Bard got Thorin and Balin involved and let them know that under no terms was this behavior acceptable whenever Dwalin visited the city.

                Balin then made the subtle threat that they still were looking for an Ereborian representative to attend the monthly meetings in Mirkwood.

                The thought of spending several hours each month listening to the debates between using sulfur ash or salt ash to rid the trees of earwigs was enough for Dwalin to just bite the proverbial bullet and continue stomping through Dale hurriedly, trying his best to drown out the crooning as the four Gaurds continued on yet another iteration of the hymn.

                “Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American Way?  Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right night and day?  Who will campaign door-to-door for America, carry the flag shore to shore for America, from Hoboken to Spokane, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan!”

                “I will not go into a rampage…” hissed the burly Dwarf to himself, “I will not go into a rampage…I would love to go into a rampage…but I will not go into a rampage…”

                As Dwalin passed by the chanting group, seething and holding on to his anger by the slimmest of margins, a voice from the shadows softly and discreetly spoke from them.

                “Excellent job, good sirs!  Did you see the look on his face?  I will treasure that for decades to come!”

                “I trust you are satisfied, Master Nori?”

                “Certainly!  And as promised, here are your payments,” the Ereborian Spymaster said as he discreetly placed a small pouch of gold in the Man’s hand, “Divide that between the four of you.”

                “Same time next week?  We are stationed in the rear gates when Master Dwalin finished his escort with Thorin over with King Bard.”

                “Of course!  Just be sure to practice a bit.  Some of you were a little flat on the lyrics.  I need perfect pitch and tune and lively singing, not some half-hearted ditty.  I want effort, good chaps!”

                “Are you not worried about wasting away all your money for this non-ending charade?” another sentinel asked, cocking his head.  Nori just smirked.

                “Surely you jest!” scoffed Nori, “I have not even made a dent in the profits I earned from the fan-clubs!”

Chapter Text

                “Thank Eru at last!  It has been simply forever since our last story with you Elder Ori!” one Mirkwood teenager exclaimed with immense joy and satisfaction as he served the longstanding Storyteller of Erebor a fragrant mixture of valerian and ginger tea as old Ori unwound in front of the fire in his regular armchair.

                Ori’s son, taking a break from managing the Guard Rotation, was watching serenely from the entrance of the Grand Cavern and eyeing the gathered mass of young Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Humans with fondness.  He could admit that he could relate slightly to the adolescents’ surging impatience.

                “So what story would you Children like to hear today?  Perhaps the tale of how Nico Minoru of the Runaways became Nico the Gray?” Ori asked innocently enough, but the entourage of youngsters all seemed to settle on one choice and one choice only.

                “Continue the tale of when Captain America and Thor Odinson visited Erebor!” one girl Hobbit child exclaimed.

                Ori, with a waggle of his frizzy eyebrows, pretended to not hear the request as he mused out loud, “Perhaps the tale of when Master Luke Cage and Master Iron Fist single-handedly stopped the Invasion of the line of Draugluin?”

                “No, we wish to hear what happened with Masters Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson!” a Dale girl begged, sitting closely with her fellow Dwarf friends.

                “Oh dear me, I simply do not know what to do…” Ori blabbered on, teasing, before he leaned back with his teacup, “Perhaps the tale of when the Punisher, Lady Yo-Yo, and Sir Mack helped Balin retake the mines of Moira?  Ah wait, no.  That has been deemed too violent for children underage…”

                “The tale of Captain America and Thor Odinson’s visit!  What happened after Master Dwalin broke off his courtship?!  Please tell us!” a Dwarfling begged, his eyes wide and shining with anticipation.

                “I have it!  You children want me to tell the tale of when Ladies Claire Temple and Christine Palmer along with Master Oin purified the Sirannon River and founded the Guild of Night Nurses!  That one is especially popular…”

                “ELDER ORI!” wailed the Children in the Storyteller’s Cavern, their moans so loud, it could be heard throughout the Lonely Mountain.  The old Dwarf cackled and laughed, slapping one knee lively with one hand as he spilled a bit of tea from his cup in merriment.

                “Ah, I am merely jesting, you impatient brats…” Ori teased, “Of course I shall continue the chronicles of Captain America and Thor Odinson from last week.”

                There were cheers and shouts of relief as the audience quietened down and hushed almost instantaneously.  Ori’s son was impressed at the effective turnaround.

                Ori calmly took a deep draught from his tea, savoring the congruence of subtle flavors on his tongue.

                It was strange how despite the number of times he told it over and over throughout the years, this story never failed to make the old dwarf’s heart clench with sadness, longing, and joy, all in a harmonious and euphoric combination of emotion.

                It was his greatest accomplishment, his shining achievement.

                Elder Ori then began, his eyes shining with tears.

                “Ever since Dwalin ended our courtship, Dori was practically making it his life’s mission to have Steven and I fall in love and begin an engagement and eventual nuptials to no ends.  First, he kept inviting Steven over to his quarters twice a week…”

                “And this is one of his pictures when he was just a wee babe of ten!” gushed Dori as he showed Steven the scribbled and messy painting of faded paint and ink smudges from the collection tome, “Oh, I remember how much I laughed and praised my little brother of such wonderful talent.  And you should have seen little Ori, covered in paint and hands and feet stained in ink, stark naked and without his diaper!  Oh, you would have thought he was simply adorable!”

                Steven smiled politely and nodded and chuckled at the right times as Dori went on and on about Ori’s past escapades.

                Like the time when Ori fell into a feeding trough for the hogs while chasing a butterfly, and Dori still had the soiled diaper on hand as a memento, crusty and faintly smelling of manure and bile.

                Or the small little lock of hair Dori cut and tied with a ribbon with one end blackened and charred to memorialize the time when little Ori tried to cook breakfast for his family for the first time, only to accidentally singe his bangs.

                Or the letter Ori received the rejection letter from the Guild of Bookkeepers, denying that he couldn’t be accepted into apprenticeship until he memorized his history more thoroughly when they used to live in Ered Luin.

                Or all the other little and insignificant yet mortifying details Dori had been gossiping to Steven when the good Captain had given in to Dori’s requests and pleas to have him over for dinner this week.  Unwilling to look like an ungrateful and rude klutz to the Ri family, Steven accepted without hesitation.

                Ori, seated between Steven Rogers and Dori on the couch, was looking none too pleased at this flagrant violation of his privacy and humiliation.

                Given the dark look of daggers from his eyes and the splotches of red competing with the freckles on his cheeks and the shadows eclipsing his sullen eyes, it was safe to say Ori was absolutely livid, fuming silently with crossed arms and gritted teeth.

                “And look here!  This was when he lost his first tooth!  Oh you would not simply believe the temper tantrum my little brother threw when it accidentally got knocked out!  From the way he was crying and wailing, you would think that I shaved him bald and it took over two hours and kicking and screaming before I could calm my baby brother down, cradling and rocking him all the meanwhile.  Ah, but ‘tis the responsibility of the eldest brother to watch over his melodramatic siblings,” Dori lamented as he showed Steven a page with a rather large incisor glued to the parchment.

                “I will kill you…” growled Ori in Khuzdul.  Dori didn’t even scoff as he smiled patronizingly.

                “If it means getting Steven Rogers to be your betrothed, then I can die happily.”

                Upon seeing the restrained hostility on Ori’s face, Steve wisely decided to not ask for a translation.

                “Then there was the time Dori took Steven to get fitted for new clothes at the finest tailor available in the Lonely Mountain…”

                Steve had to admit it.

                He was thoroughly impressed.

                The fabric was a beautiful sheen of pale silk and cotton, with miniscule threads of silver and gold woven within in intricate patterns throughout to match with the symbols of Khuzdul embedded at the cuffs of his sleeves and pants.  Despite the attire having metal entrenched within, it was so light and airy that Steve could barely feel anything touching his skin.  It was as if he was wearing nothing at all, fresh enough to keep him cool during the sweltering days of summer but warm enough to make him cozy during the brisk autumn winds.

                Despite his gargantuan size, Dori had no problems getting the tailor to fit Steve in his frame, a beautiful ensemble of a long-sleeved tunic and undershirt and leather tabards studded with shining metal studs in the shapes of stars and hammers.  The fabric in the back opened up similar like the coattails of a tuxedo, modestly covering the beige-colored pants (which Dori was ferociously and eagerly stitching up the seams).  And to top it all off, there was a delicate ring of the softest, creamy-brown fur at Steve’s collar and matching fleece boots at his feet, soft as goose-down, wrapped in shining strips of metal-laced leather along with hard soles of stone and iron.

                Apparently, Dwarves had excellent craftsmanship in things other than metals and jewelry.

                It was safe to say that Steve’s Dwarvish clothes were nicer than anything Tony Stark had.

                In fact, Steve envisioned this whole tunic and ensemble was fit enough for a King like the fairytales he ready with his mother when he was a child.

                The Avenger was both touched and awkwardly uneasy at such a lavish expense.

                And the unease was growing considering that Dori was running his hands all over his body for the past two hours, tutting and fretting and making sure every suture, every crease, and every detail met his eagle-eyed expectations and perfection.  In fact, Dori was getting a bit too involved and enthusiastic in Steve’s fitting, practically wrestling the pins and thread from the Head Tailor himself as he darned and measured with a disturbing zeal.

                Though grumpy and irritated, the Head Tailor reluctantly stayed behind in the background, muttering and griping silently under his breath.  Domineering, overzealous, stuck-up Dwarf Lord or not, the amount of money Dori was paying him was enough for the Head Tailor to bite his tongue at being shoved to the sidelines like this.

                Steve observed this, however.

                “Thank you for taking the time to accommodate both of us, Sir,” Steve said politely to the Head Tailor.

                The Dwarf gave a non-committal grunt and nod at Steve’s manners, but Dori just inwardly gushed and sighed.

                “Er…I’m quite impressed by the clothes, Mister Dori,” Steve tried to praise, ignoring the disturbing wide-eyed and manic look on Dori’s face as he hurriedly removed pins, “But this is too much.  Really, I’d be all right with something simple and plain.  This is too expensive for you to waste your money on a guest.”

                “Absolutely pish tosh, Steven!” Dori said, “You are a revered hero and Avenger!  Nothing but the best, and I shall spare no expense for such an attire that would make the Gods themselves weep with jealousy!  You and Ori shall be the shining stars amid the celebrations!”

                “But I don’t want to draw any attention to either of us.  This seems way too elaborate and rich for a simple Durin’s Day celebration.  It’s too much.”

                “Nonsense!  This is a standard suit all Dwarves and Dwarf-Friends must wear for Durin’s Day!”

                Steven got a niggling suspicion in the back of his head…

                In the backdrop, the Head Tailor blinked in realization at Dori’s enthusiastic words.

                “Durin’s Day?!” the Dwarf echoed incredulously, “But…but that’s not a ceremonial robe!  That’s a wedding - !”

                POW!

                Steve slowly glared at Dori with one raised eyebrow.  The Ri brother waved off his transgression facetiously, not the least bit abashed at hurling the metal footstool into the Tailor’s face.

                “It is nothing to worry about,” Dori dismissed, “Dwarves throw furniture at each other all the time as a show of brotherhood and tomfoolery.”

                “My nose…” garbled the Tailor nasally, squeezing his broken nostrils to stop the blood dripping down his mouth and beard, “You broke my nose…”

                “He’s just being melodramatic.  Now let us find a belt of gold and jade that would be sure to even make the Tree-Shaggers die with envy!  And a complementary gold diadem with rubies would be simply wonderful to contrast against your blond tresses!” Dori sidetracked.

                “And then there was the time that Dori tried to lock the two of us in one of the Royal Library storerooms…” Ori continued, rolling his eyes.

                “DORI!” yelled Ori at the top of his lungs, hammering the door, “YOU LET US OUT RIGHT NOW!”

                Dori’s voice was dripping with facetious insincerity as he rather melodramatically moaned with glib innocence.

                “Oh, by Mahal!  The door-latch broke off!  It simply disconnected itself in my own hand!  I must have a word with Nori about finding Guild Builders who use less than quality materials for flimsy products!  Oh dear, and this door is solid metal and rock!  Not even you can move it with your strength, dear Steven!  Do not worry!  I shall go get help post-haste immediately!  What horrendous timing that the rest of the staff in the Library are out to lunch, and the two of you are all alone in the storeroom with no way I can possibly provide assistance by myself!  Steven, Ori: stay put, and I shall get Thor and fellow Dwarves to rescue you both at once!  Steven, comfort my little brother for me and calm his fears!  You know how he can easily terrify of closed spaces and the dark!”

                Ori said a rather foul set of curses in Khuzdul as Dori ran out of the Royal Library, wailing theatrically all the meanwhile.  Frustrated and with his head swimming with exhaustion and from yelling, the Royal Scribe just limply slid down to the floor.  Given all the tension and strain he endured for the past several weeks of Dwalin nullifying their courtship, though Dori meant well in his own selfish way, this was the last thing Ori needed.

                Ori wouldn’t be surprised if it took Dori over an hour to get help.

                Grunting and straining against the door, muscles popping out, Captain America still endeavored to shove against the door with all of his weight to punching and kicking, but he was once again underestimating Dwarven craftsmanship.  The ingress of metal held fast, and the stone archways were solid and compact, refusing to bend and give even an inch.

                At the most, the door shuddered a couple of centimeters despite the deep indentations and imprints within from Steven’s kicks and punches.

                After several minutes, Steve ended his attempts, thoroughly winded and realizing that there was nothing he could do (plus his knuckles and feet were swollen and stinging from the dense thumping).  Thankfully, Ori had the foresight to bring a lit candlestick before the both of them were “accidentally” sealed in.

                Wiping the sweat off his brow, Steve tried to chuckle under the circumstances as he slid down to the floor next to the brooding Dwarf scribe, sitting next to his friend.  Sensing the tension, Steve tried to lighten the mood.

                “Mister Dori is getting a bit desperate in his hijinks, isn’t he?”

                There was no answer from the forlorn Ori, squatting on the stone ground with back against the bookshelves, hunched and despondent.

                Steven tried again, saying, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  Nat tried to set me up multiple times before she eventually figured out that Bucky was the person I loved more than Peggy.  Dori’s…just looking out for your best interests and trying to help in the best way he thinks he can.  He’s just worried, that’s all.”

                Ori didn’t speak, didn’t even look up, so still and cold and his mouth in a white- thin-lipped line.  Remaining silent was easier…

                There was a sudden movement before Steven was kneeling in front of Ori, concerned and troubled.

                “Hey.  Ori.  Look at me.”

                Ori didn’t answer, didn’t move.

                “Ori.  Look at me.”

                Stillness.  Steven felt his mouth go dry as he then begged.

                “Please.”

                Ori finally looked up and Steve felt a pang of guilt in his chest when he saw upon closer inspection that the Dwarf’s eyes were red-rimmed, splotchy, and swollen.  Steve did his best to try not to trigger anything as he asked the honest question.

                “Ori,” Steve asked gently, “How are you feeling?”

                Ori wanted to lie.

                He wanted to say everything was fine.

                He wanted to say that he was feeling all right.

                He wanted to tell Steven to not worry and fret and that he had hope that Dwalin would reconcile with him and that everything would turn out all right.

                The Dwarf then looked directly into Steven’s pained eyes of cornflower, and his resolve and bravado just cracked.

                Ori couldn’t help it.

                He started to cry, sobbing softly.

                And Steven’s heart just broke.

                “Oh.  Oh, Ori…” murmured the Avenger as he gathered the Dwarf scribe in his arms and hugged him close against his chest, rubbing Ori’s back soothingly and tenderly.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t whisper any empty promises or meaningless condolences.  Steven just sat there, holding the weeping Dwarf against his torso, nuzzling his cheek against Ori’s hair as the scribe continued to grieve, his shoulders and body shaking with grief.

                “Dwalin…” was all Ori could bawl out.

                I’ll make it right, Ori…

                It’s not hopeless…

                He’ll come back…

                There’s always a way to fix things…

                Steven so badly wanted to say these trite assurances, to make a promise that he couldn’t be sure he could keep, to utter a little white lie to soothe and comfort and put Ori in denial of his current wrecked life.

                Instead, Steve just held Ori firmly and cuddled the Dwarf against his chest in the stifling darkness, Ori’s gloom suffocating them both.

                Later that night, when Steve and Ori were “rescued” (much to Steven’s embarrassment), Steven carried a spent and miserably pessimistic Ori in his arms to his apartment (much to Dori’s hidden excitement and squealing).  After letting Ori cry and weep himself into exhaustion and making sure Ori was settled into bed, Steve literally stomped his way throughout the mountain, fuming, until he reached the doorway of Dwalin and Balin’s quarters.

                Stooping down on one knee, Steve solidly pounded the door with his fist and didn’t stop until he could hear Balin approaching and opening the gate from the other side.  Balin’s normally friendly gray eyes were now frosty and reserved the instant he spotted the Avenger.

                “What can I do for you, Master Rogers?” Balin asked, cool and distant.

                “I need to talk with Mister Dwalin,” Steve requested sternly, undeterred.

                “Dwalin is busy training the Royal Guard.  You may be able to catch him at the training grounds,” Balin stated aloofly.

                Steve however could be just as stubborn.

                “I tried there multiple times already for the past several weeks, and the guards always tell me that I just missed him or that he isn’t available.  I also tried cornering him at the taverns, in the Ereborian Throne Room, at Dale, and at the War meetings with the three kingdoms, but he’s never around.  Dwalin’s actually going out of his way to avoid me ever since he broke off the courtship with Ori.  So quit trying to cover for him and tell me where he is,” Steve replied with a touch of the stern authority that made him a Captain.

                “Then you can leave a message with me, and I can simply make sure I give it to him the next time I see him.”

                “Gee, why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Steve drawled sarcastically before his voice got severe, “I also tried leaving messages and notes for the past several weeks as well.  He doesn’t answer any of them.  So at this point, I’m not leaving until I see him and have him fix things with Ori.”

                “Strange, from what Dwalin describes it, you have fixed plenty of things with Ori enough as is,” Balin intoned, hands folded in front of his stomach disapprovingly.

                Steve felt his teeth clench as he set his jaw and growled, “Nothing.  Happened.”

                The Dwarf Advisor didn’t say anything, but the expression on his unsympathetic face was more than enough.

                “Do you honestly think I’m that kind of person?”

                “I cannot say.  Are you?”

                “Ori isn’t,” growled Steve, letting his temper show.

                Astonished, Balin blinked before he schooled himself, saying, “My apologies, Master Rogers, but I do not know where he is.  Truly.”

                “Then can you tell Dwalin to quit trying to kill me?” Steven asked bluntly, “I never told Ori this, but the past week, Dwalin’s attempted over thirteen times to commit homicide on my person.  The last thing I want is to have Ori go through more grief when I’m forced to take these attempts to King Thorin and have him be coerced to punish Dwalin for his crimes against me in further public disgrace to everyone.  Heck, Dwalin’s lucky Thor didn’t find out about this!”

                Balin’s eyes widened in horror, both at the blatant accusation and at the unheard taboo of attacking a guest in the Dwarven Kingdom.

                “I beg your pardon!  How dare you utter such a thing?!  My brother - !” Balin started fiercely.

                Steve didn’t even give Balin enough time to finish the sentence as he smoothly took the shield from his back and gracefully positioned it in front of his skull.

                Clang!

                The throwing axe bounced off the metal and ricocheted off the shield and vaulted pathetically against the stone walls before resting a few feet away from the Dwarf and the Avenger.  Balin’s eyes bugged out in surprise at the Dwarven throwing axe that came close to striking down Steven while said Captain looked as unperturbed and composed as if the weather changed to rain as opposed to an assassination attempt.

                “Dwalin, come out,” Steve declare with exasperation, “I know you’re there.  I can hear you breathing…”

                There was silence before Dwalin’s petulant curse rang out of the shadows, echoing everywhere in the caverns.

                “I’ll get you yet, you stupid fop!”

                “Dwalin, give it up,” groaned Steven, “I want to talk, that’s it.”

                Dwalin they shouted a few choice words in Khuzdul that shouldn’t really be translated into English.

                “Brother, you cannot be serious!” gasped Balin in scandalized distress, “You are actually attempting to assassinate Captain America?!”

                “It’s a standard Ereborian greeting!”

                “An axe to head is not a greeting of any sort!” groaned Balin, wondering if Dwalin’s actions were going to get the both of them kicked out and banished from Erebor within the following day.

                “You stay out of this!” snapped Dwalin as he fled before Steven and Balin could pinpoint his location.

                There was a horrified silence from the children after hearing that, although the lone Dwarf and Elf sweethearts then whispered from the background amid the crowd.

                “…by any chance, was your father joking when he said he would behead me during dinner last week?” the Elf girl asked hesitantly, and her Dwarf boyfriend nodded with an amused smile.

                “Aye.  Do not take it personally.  Us Dwarves say many things, but we rarely follow through them.  I am personally more worried about Amad and your mother getting along,” the young Dwarfling piped up.

                “I daresay they both are making progress, however.  They managed to last a single hour before they resorted with the arrows and axes to settle the dispute over which tableware to serve the main course.”

                “…maybe we should elope when we both turn of age,” the young Dwarf murmured with afterthought.

                “The Shire is supposedly nice this time of year,” nodded the Elf child.

                Elder Ori sipped his tea, trying to sweeten the suddenly bitter taste on his tongue before he continued to the rapt and eager audience.

                “Things were also not well for Dwalin, for I discovered later from both Balin and Nori that he began to drink heavily ever since the day he approached Thorin and asked publicly for the divorce.  Though Dwalin did his best to not have it interfere with his duties to the Crown and the Royal Guard, it became apparent.  Dwalin slept poorly and his nutrition also was ailing for he skipped communal meals or repasts with the original Company in fear of running into myself or Steven.  He became slower, less aware and duteous, and more prone to mistakes when sparring, arranging shifts, or running preparations with the recruits and trainees until even the second-in-command could not deny it when Dwalin’s languishing performance became overwhelming.”

                “Why did they simply not ask King Thorin or Gandalf for help and advice to relieve Master Fundinson of his duties until he recovered?” one young female teen from Dale piped up, confused.

                Ori gave a lopsided smile as he clarified, “The only other qualified candidates to take over for Dwalin thanks to their recent successes with the Orcs and Trolls would have been Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers.”

                “Never mind…” winced the girl.  She already could see how that would have been a further blow to Dwalin’s pride…

                Ori then continued, “Many of our kin were rightly concerned and did everything they could do to help Dwalin, but their efforts, though appreciated, were fruitless.  Not even attending the society meetings raised his spirits much.”

                “Wait, Elder Ori!” exclaimed a Hobbit lad in shock, “The Dwarves thought bringing Dwalin Fundinson to the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ and ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ meetings would help?!  Are they barmy?!”

                “It wasn’t those types of meetings,” Ori explained ruefully with amusement.

                “Fellow Men, Elves, and Dwarves,” Lord Dáin announced as he banged his gavel on the stone table, “Let us begin the first official meeting of the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers’ Club!”

                Dwalin had to admit that it was sort of cheering to see the entire tavern in Dale packed to the brim with sullen, disgruntled male Dwarves, Elves, and Men who congregated for this one sentiment, good Middle Earth residents united against a common set of foes.

                Thorin Oakenshield himself was next to him, heartily and bawdily cheering and yelling his praises as a chance to relieve his frustrations from having Thor Odinson in the Lonely Mountain.  Dwalin, on the other hand, just glumly remained silent as he gulped down his ale.  Morose and glowering at anyone who dared make eye contact with him, the Ereborian Captain of the Guard just eavesdropped as the boisterous cheers and demeaning insults towards Steven and Thor added fuel to the coals of cheated rage in his blistering soul.

                Lord Dáin called out to the assembly, holding his hands out to temporarily quieten the masses as he then proclaimed, “Now then, fellow comrades!  We are all here united in discontent from a common enemy!  So let us begin this meeting with verbal grievances of how those two dandies have affronted our good Men and kinfolk in our kingdoms!  Cousin, I believe you have the honors of being first…”

                “Gladly!” yelled an exuberant Thorin as he plunked down his empty stein before climbing on the wooden table and striking a majestic pose (in Kíli’s opinion) before raucously asserting. “Thor Odinson is a complete menace!  Ever since he and Steven Rogers have arrived, Erebor has been in utter chaos!  As well as the kingdoms of Dale and Mirkwood!”

                There was a chorus of agreements, as the belligerent and moody crowd raised their glasses in agreement.  Thorin, feeling more encouraged, released the bottled up feelings as he continued on, the alcohol and freedom finally unshackling his inhibitions and tongue.

                “Our lives and welfare were perfectly sufficient until those two upstarts emerged!  By Mahal, not even the Orcs and Trolls give us this much grief as those two sickeningly tasteless fops!  Thanks to their presence, our resilience and strength has been crumbling within due to their shams!  The blasted Gandalf promised us saviors and assistance in our endless wars, and instead, he brings us madness, unruliness, and new ways for us experience inane pandemonium!  Those two ‘Avengers’ are to blame for everything!”

                “Yes!  Preach the truth, Uncle!” cheered Kíli, raising his glass which prompted quite a few other Elves and Men to do the same.  Despite Fíli refusing to participate in the secretive meeting (the traitor!), Kíli was certainly having more fun than he anticipated.  He was even tolerating Prince Legolas of all people (and whom was sitting right next to him)!  And to his credit, Legolas was a pretty decent drinking comrade…

                For a Tree-Shagger, of course.

                Thorin Oakenshield continued, “Thor Odinson is the vilest of all underhanded scoundrels!  He steals my food!  He lavishly uses up our resources and space like a useless pile of rocks!  He has no self-restraint when it comes to warfare or royal decorum!  A Dwarfling would have a better sense of diplomacy and judgment than that addlepated boar!  The empty-headed vexation even relinquishes time and attention from my Consort and One, charming and fawning over his attention like a greedy mongrel picked up from the dung heap!”

                “Choice words there, your Majesty!” one Elf nodded with agreement amid the affirming applause, “He certainly reeks like it!”

                “Ever since those two have arrived, my Bilbo has completely disregarded and marginalized me!  ME, the King of Erebor and a Son of Durin!  It is absolutely unfair!  I’m the one who is banned from the bedroom into the guest quarters numerous times for daring to point out that Thor’s infinite flaws!  I’m the one deemed in the wrong in our brawls and skirmishes!  I’m the one who suffers while Thor Odinson gets off scot-free for daring to seduce my husband!  But does anyone appreciate me or take my side?!  Does anyone take any of our concerns in the matter?!”

                The answer was loud and bellowed in unison by the temperamental and brooding audience.

                “NO!”

                “Thor Odinson is a menace!  Plain and simple!  And the fact that my Beloved and the Female Folk of our Kingdoms cannot recognize nor admit it will bring us nothing but folly!  Everyone fawns over Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers as if they were of the Valar!”

                “I’ll say…” grumbled one of the Men over his tankard, his ale leaving a bitter taste, “And the Captain Steven Rogers isn’t much better!  That pansy is making the rest of us look bad!”

                Others then started to join in the disparagement.

                “The way he’s always so polite and gentle towards the children as well as always nodding greetings to the swooning Women of Dale.  Captain America has charmed nearly everyone in our fair city too!  By Eru, it is absolutely appalling!” another Man baulked.

                “Ever since he helped my wife find our missing goats, you would think that he just bequeathed her a chest of gold from the way her eyes shine whenever he’s in plain sight!  She never thanked me for fixing up the kitchen table and getting her pots tended by the blacksmiths!” another Man protested before calling the bartender for a refill on his drink.

                “Oh, and the accolades and fawning!  It honestly makes me want to vomit!” an Iron Hills Dwarf spat.

                One Elf cooed in a mockingly imitation of a lovesick lass, “Oooh, that Steven Rogers is so heroic!  So compassionate and strong!  And look how tortured he is!  How much he is in pain due to his missing lover, his friend, Bucky Barnes!”

                “Look at Thor and Steven’s muscles!  Look at Thor and Steven’s eyes!  I could simply get lost staring at such dreamy pupils of the seas and the skies for hours and hours!” another Dwarf parodied with contempt.

                “Why can’t you be as polite and well-mannered as Steven Rogers?  He always says please and thank you…” tutted another Man in a derisive falsetto, making kissing noises.

                “Maybe we should have Captain America train us,” chimed in an Elf with a sour expression, “Mirkwood has been lax in its hand-to-hand combat training as of late.  Oooh, and perhaps he’ll be shirtless again!  We simply must attend to watch!  It shall be wonderful to see a true Man around here!”

                “Oh, I think I can see the allure of falling in love with mortals like Lúthien!  It actually is quite romantic!  And I would gladly surrender my life to spend a glorious set of years if Thor Odinson or Captain America would be beside me and take me in their strong, brawny, arms!” another Elf spat while mimicking his female brethren.

                “Did you hear the story Master Steven Rogers was reading to the children?  His voice transcends anything from Arda!  His words glimmer like the stars, comfort like a fresh breeze in the spring, and his deep voice is the closest I can think of being close to Eru Ilúvatar himself!  Oh, dear Steven, take me!” sighed a Man sarcastically.

                “Thor also tells the most entertaining stories!  Oh, Asgard sounds simply wonderful!  Oh, I would sell all my belongings to just simply spend a single day amongst the stars and planets in his world!”

                “Pah!  Do our female folk even know how hearing that makes us feel?!” a Dale peddler nitpicked.

                “I’ll say!  What do they think Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood are?  A pile of pig manure?!” another Dwarf groused.  His neighbor, an Elf, blinked in surprise.

                “I never thought I would witness the day a Dwarf would have a good thing to say about our woods,” the Elf confessed.  The Dwarf waved off the surprise with one hand.

                “Ah, compared to those two Avengers, you Tree-Shaggers aren’t at all bad.  You’re tolerable enough for us to bond over a common enemy.  And if that is not a good enough reason to commiserate over alcohol, then there’s no hope for any of our races,” the Dwarf answered.

                His Mirkwood ally rolled his eyes but clinked his glass with the Dwarf nonetheless.

                “What else can I do but drink to that?” the Elf sighed lugubriously.

                “When do those two blond curs leave?  I am not quite sure I can abide much more of the stupidity, the distractions, and the endless, endless fawning!” moaned a Dwarf, already tipsy from the amount of beer he ingested.

                “It can’t be soon enough!” another male in the tavern protested, “Dale cannot take much more of these shenanigans and the relentless Orcs and Trolls raids!  I daresay that if anything, the mere presence of Captain America and Thor Odinson has caused the sudden influx of Sauron’s spawn!”

                “If only that!  Because of Thor Odinson, the Elves of Mirkwood have suffered their most humiliating debacle yet!” grumbled one Mirkwood guard as he angrily raised his mug of beer in the air, liquid sloshing around haphazardly, “Our King and the Royal Guard will forever be tarnished in name and dignity because of that idiotic, scatterbrained, drunkard!”

                “Why?  Whatever did Thor Odinson do to Mirkwood?” one Man asked, curious.

                “We do not wish to talk about it…” grumbled another Elf, taking a rather large gulp of wine.

                Kíli looked like he was deep in thought before he blinked and blurted out, “Hold, Tree-Shaggers!  Does this have anything to do with Tauriel’s gossip about Thor’s Asgardian wine and how the sentries ended up - ”

                “We have JUST SAID we do NOT wish to talk about it,” growled a third Elf Guard, though one noticed his face was flush and tinged with purple at the cheeks in humiliation.

                Kíli continued on, “So you did turn up naked?”

                “Enough.”

                “And the whole thing with the Elks’ teats?”

                “QUIET!” roared several additional Mirkwood sentries.

                “And how it involved a boar’s mouth and poison sumac in - ”

                “Finish that sentence and prepare to lose your tongue, Prince Kíli…” growled an Elf as he brandished out his short sword.  This naturally caused many of the Dwarves to spring up in defense of their prince, but then Legolas held up a hand to halt the impeding brawl.

                “Prince Kíli,” purred Legolas sweetly, “Is it true that Tauriel called out Thor’s name on accident while she and you were having one of your…intimate moments?”

                Kíli’s face turned as white as paper as he tried to incomprehensively stammer, “That’s – er – no – er – but – we didn’t – I mean I didn’t – she meant – oh, do shut up!”

                The Mirkwood Elves all guffawed uncharacteristically as Legolas continued, “Did she perhaps ask if you would also be willing to dye your hair blonde and to the exact fair shade as our resident Asgardian?”

                “THAT IS A FLITHY LIE!” boomed Kíli indignantly, red in the face as the Elves howled, “NOTHING BUT LIES!  LIES, LIES, LIES, LIES!”

                Glóin then broke in, wailing over his empty tankard, “Because of that blasted Captain America, my wee Gimli has told me that he no longer wishes to fight with an axe!  My own son has said that he wishes to fight with a shield!  A shield!  He has forsaken the weapons of us Durin folk!”

                This brought forth a whole slew of gasps and exclamations of outrage and horror from his fellow kin.

                “By Mahal!”

                “I actually daresay I’m going to be sick…” warbled another Dwarf as he appeared ready to faint right then and there.

                “That…is quite honestly the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.  And I fought in the Battle of the Five Armies!” said another.

                “If my son ever did that to me, I’d disown him and shave my own beard out of shame…” murmured Palli the Ereborian Guard.

                Glóin just wailed in response.

                “Quick!  Get Glóin another ale!”

                “Forget the ale!  This requires the hard stuff!  Get the firewhiskey!”

                “One glass or two?”

                “Forget the glass!  We need the entire bottle!”

                “By the Beard and Anvil of Mahal, that is the absolute last insult that has broken all my resolve!  Either Thor Odinson and Captain America return back to their world willingly or we send them back with bruises!” Glóin resounded wrathfully, and this brought forth a new slew of desires for violence.

                “I’d like to shave both Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers bald!” a Dwarf called out.

                “Bolly yes!  We should!  Then those two ponces wouldn’t be so pretty anymore!” a Man chimed in.

                One Elf cheered, “I am always in for the chance to use their faces as target practice!”

                “Hold!  I am the Prince of Mirkwood!  I get the honor of getting the first shot with my bow!” Legolas commanded.

                “No!  We should tar and feather them!”

                “Pelt them with pig dung!”

                “No, pelt them with rocks!  A BIG rock!”

                “I like the way you think, Dwarf.”

                “I say we castrate them!  Then they’ll be less of a threat to our Women!”

                “Um…that sort of is not really a possibility since it’s clearly obvious that Thor Odinson and Captain America are a pair of limp-wristed milquetoasts.”

                “…you are right.  Never mind, it merely a threat to King Thorin and Captain Dwalin.”

                “It stinks to be you, Cousin.”

                “Oh be quiet,” Thorin snapped at Dáin.

                Lord Dáin then crowed as he and another Dwarf brought out two hideous effigies, each hanging by a rope noose around their necks from a metal pole.  The dummies were made of rough burlap and stuffed with hay and had mangy straw glued on the top of the heads to mimic hair, repugnant eyes and sad expressions etched in charcoal, but there was little doubt as to what they were unflatteringly portraying as one of the strawmen was dressed like Thor Odinson (complete with the red cape and metal helmet) while the model of Captain America was garbed with the cowl, shield, and red, white, and blue costume.

                Dáin then announced, “Let us now move to the next item of the itinerary!  We shall burn these dolls of the blasted Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers to help appeal to the Valar to rid our beautiful lands of these Avenging pests!  Granted, it would be better to actually set those two on fire, but we shall have to make do with this alternative for now.  Conversely, before we symbolically cremate the upstarts with cleansing flame and reduce these useless twats to ash, we shall give an opportunity for all attendees to write their grievances and any insults you feel particular for our society’s cause.  Nothing is more restorative and therapeutic than airing out your grievances on the objects of your hassles!  Just form a line right at the table in front where quill and ink are readily available…”

                There was a sudden and mad rush as the crowd of men surged forward to grab at the ten quills and inkpots at the wooden tabletop before setting themselves upon the mockups of Thor Odinson and Captain America, having drunken and wayward fun like a bunch of crude barbarians as they hooted and whooped vulgarly.

                “Watch me draw a moustache on Steven Roger’s face!”

                “Does anyone know how to spell the word ‘sycophant’?”

                “This figurine’s all wrong in the crotch area!  Let me correct it with a note saying it’s smaller than average!” chortled a rather immature and drunk Elf as he crudely wrote Sindarin in between the dummy Thor’s legs.

                “Quit rushing me!  I need to make sure the word ‘sex-obsessed simpleton’ is neat and clear enough for everyone to view…”

                “Nice depiction, chap…although can Thor’s head even fit in that part of a donkey?”

                “Well, his brain certainly is small enough…”

                “You’re written long enough!  Let us have a turn in insulting Captain America and Thor Odinson!”

                “Hey!  You can’t use the word ‘worthless’!   I wanted to use that one!”

                “Just spell out ‘good-for-nothing’, then!  It’s the same thing!”

                “Let’s roll these two dummies in the sows’ pens before setting them alight!”

                “Good idea!  Pigs dung for two pigs, I say!”

                “Mind if I insert this fork into the dummy’s crotch?”

                “Let’s stab them some more!  Eru only knows how much we need the relief!”

                “Put them both on the floor!  Let us beat the tar out of them too!” cheered several onlookers, and immediately, the straw mannequins were flung on the wooden ground of the tavern while the mob began kicking and punching the two dolls with exuberant glee (and Glóin even started using the handle of his axe as a bludgeon).

                Thorin laughed from afar, feeling more elated and joyfully mean-spirited than he had in months before he turned to Dwalin and patted his long-time friend on the shoulders, elbowing him playfully in an effort to get his old friend to smile.  Grimacing and scowling, Dwalin just motioned to the bartender for another refill of his ale.

                “Come now, Dwalin!” Thorin crowed, “Surely this will lessen your gloom?  Witnessing how much the other Dwarves, Men, and Tree-Shaggers hate Thor and Captain America in an act of unity is a fine time to feel a bit happy!  Come, we shall even give you the honors of setting fire to the two figurines!”

                “Piss off…” slurred Dwalin, now incredibly inebriated as the alcohol he had been ingesting for the past hour.  Thorin frowned as he then gently but firmly laid a hand on top of the tankard as an intervention and spoke quietly before Dwalin could punch his King in the face for the interference.

                “Please, do not…” Thorin warned compassionately in Khuzdul, “Balin and I had trouble convincing the War Council that you would still be able to continue on with your duties in leading the Erebor soldiers against the Orcs.  You constantly drinking yourself into a stupor has been difficult for all of us to keep clandestine.  I do not want to relieve you of your duties and find you in further disgrace.  Please.  Stop destroying yourself and fight for your rank, your title, and your honor.  Fight for Ori.  Once the damned Captain America leaves Arda, you and Ori can reconcile.”

                “Piss…off…” Dwalin garbled, barely inaudible and close to tears of humiliation, “Leave me be…Ori made his choice…nothing left…”

                Thorin frowned before he then spoke in the calm, deep voice that displayed the wisdom and reasoning of why exactly he was the King of the Lonely Mountain.

                “And what if you are wrong?  What if you are mistaken?  What if what Ori and Steven have sworn is true?  That Ori did not betray you or commit infidelity?  Then what justifies your behavior now?  Would it be worth it, throwing your life away if Ori is truly telling the truth?  We both know Ori is no liar…”

                “Don’t care…” Dwalin hissed gutturally, wishing he could be alone in his self-pity.

                “But we do…” Thorin emphasized.

                Dwalin pondered for a few brief seconds, actually wrestling with his indecision.  For a brief but glorious moment, it was almost as if Thorin’s rationale and good judgment would finally break through.  However, it was not to be as Dwalin then mentally pushed the thought away, and with it, all implications.  The Ereborian Captain laboriously abandoned his drink and departed the tavern, walking uneasily out the door and deep in his gloominess and muddled thoughts.

                Thorin felt his worry increase at the idiosyncrasy.

                Dwalin didn’t even try to head-butt him.

                “That is odd…” one Dale girl commented, “I have never heard of such a club, and yet the two fan-societies of Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers are still active to this day.  Where is the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers’ Society now?”

                “Bilbo and the ladies of all three kingdoms put a swift end to that society…” Ori smiled impishly.

                “Nori, you traitor!  How could you have tattled on us?!” Glóin roared, red in the face.

                Glóin would have tackled Nori in an attempt to throttle him if it wasn’t the appearance of Bilbo Baggins, Queen Dís, Tauriel, Princess Sigrid, and many, many female Elves, Dwarrowdams, and Women silently glaring at the members of the “We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers” with stern expressions and crossed arms as they flanked alongside the Ereborian Spymaster.

                The bar was deathly silent, so tense one could hear a pin drop to the floor.

                From the Shire.

                Not that the males inside the tavern were cowering and pressing themselves against the far wall in an effort to shy away from their angry spouses and family members.

                They were not cowering, swear to Mahal.

                And no, Legolas wasn’t uncharacteristically using Prince Kíli as a shield to shrink behind from Tauriel’s blazing stare.

                Thorin himself was furious as he roared, “I’ll have your beard for this, Royal Spymaster!  In fact, you’re finished!  You won’t even have a position fit to feed our mangiest Rams in the shoddiest stables!”

                Nori flatly looked at both the King and the Royal Banker before he pointed out, “Thorin, this is Dís and Bilbo we’re talking about.  Did you honestly think I could keep the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers’ meetings secret from them?”

                “Don’t give us that!” spat Glóin, “You’re still sore over the fact that we banned you from the betting pools!”

                “Why, my dear Glóin!  I have absolutely no idea whatever you are talking about!” mock gasped Nori so facetiously that it made Glóin itch to punch the Spymaster in the face.

                Bilbo made it clear as he stepped forward, nose twitching back and forth angrily, and spoke in the no-nonsense tone of voice.

                “Thorin Oakenshield, we come to formally mandate that you put an end to this travesty of a society meeting.  Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers are welcome guests and heroes who have done nothing to deserve such juvenile contempt and cruelty.  And quite frankly, Dís and I along with our friends feel this entire farce is in poor taste and insulting to Erebor’s good name itself.  Now, unless you wish to forfeit your access to hot, buttered cheese scones and our Royal Bed for the next year, I suggest you and the other staff of the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers Society’ terminate your shenanigans permanently.  Here.  And now.”

                Thorin just stared at his husband and Consort before he straightened his posture and puffed up his chest.

                “And if we don’t?” Thorin asked rather haughtily, head held high and hands on his hips defiantly.

                Bilbo’s eyes widened a bit in surprise before narrowing.

                There was a small silence before Dís’ voice rang out with a mixture of cold neutrality and amusement.

                “Excuse me?” Dís probed suspiciously.

                There was no possible way her brother, bull-headed as he may be, could possibly be this stupid…

                Thorin stood straighter, overconfident and refusing to look appear the slightest bit abashed as he addressed the female-folk and Bilbo.

                “I will not,” Thorin declared superciliously with a charming smug smile, “I am the King of Erebor, and my word is law.  If I feel that the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers Society’ can remain, it will remain.  There is nothing against the laws of the Lonely Mountain or etiquette for a simple organization meeting over a common interest.  In no way does this guild pose a threat and treason to Mirkwood, Dale, or our fair kingdom.  It is all harmless and in good fun, and if the esteemed Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers are so offended and distressed by such a trivial ribbing, then perhaps they should not be such delicate newborns.  There is nothing criminal with the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers Society’, so if I say that this society can continue, it shall continue.  And that is that.”

                Thorin then patronizingly opened his arms wide, gesturing to the men in the back as a gesticulation for support.

                “So what are you all going to do about it?” Thorin leered.

                Dís mentally sighed.

                Apparently, her brother was that stupid.

                And a rather not-amused Bilbo was already planning to banish Thorin out of the Royal Bedroom for at least two weeks for this indignation…

                The Men, Elves, and Dwarves behind Thorin Oakenshield then immediately joined in.

                “Yes, the King of Erebor has a point.  Why should we?” Legolas chimed in, adding extra emphasis on the word “king” as he tried to pull rank, standing a bit straighter.

                “You lassies are always trying to ruin our fun!  It’s all harmless duff!” a Man bellyached.

                “Thorin’s right, Bilbo,” Glóin harrumphed, preening and smiling despite the warning death glare from his wife, Täli, “And how exactly do you all plan to stop us?”

                “Absolutely nothing, as far as I can tell,” a Mirkwood guard bragged.

                Kíli guffawed, “That is absolutely right!  None of you can supersede the word of the King himself!”

                “Yes, by Eru!  Do your worst, girls!  We dare you!” laughed another Man.

                There was a short hush afterwards before Princess Sigrid of Dale then smirked.

                It was a bit unnerving to see a sweet girl give such an evil smile.

                Sigrid then said, “We will halt the production and distribution of all alcoholic beverages in all three kingdoms.  Indefinitely.”

                “That means no ale and mead in Erebor…” Tauriel stated with much pleasure.

                “That means no whiskey and any sort of beer or liquor here in Dale…” pointed out Täli delightfully, inspecting her nails.

                “That means no wine in Mirkwood,” Dís emphasized, “All three kingdoms will be dry as a bone and all taverns will be denied all shipments as production and brewing of anything remotely distilled or spirituous will be ceased and terminated until the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers Society’ is abolished and nullified permanently.”

                “So it appears that you have two choices, Thorin: either give up this farce of a club or give up your liquor,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms across his chest and with one corner of his mouth raised upwards.

                There was a perplexed and horror-stricken stillness as the Men and male Elves and Dwarves slowly had the blood from their faces drain, leaving them pale and sick with mouths slightly open and agape.  Thorin himself was like a carved statue of wax, pallid in skin and so sickly devoid of anything except alarmed bewilderment as his arms hung limply at his sides, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly in setback, one eye as wide as a dinner plate and twitching.

                “…er, can they actually do that?” asked Grugim the Dwarf out loud to no one in particular.

                Kíli shakily laughed as he blurted out rather unconvincingly, “They’re bluffing.  There is absolutely no way in all of Arda - ”

                “Gandalf said he would help us,” Bilbo shot back self-assuredly, wiggling his eyebrows.

                “…they’re not bluffing,” whimpered Kíli, his face growing pale and horrified.

                Glóin paused before nodding wearily.

                “That would do it…” Glóin admitted.

                “Needless to say, the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers’ Club was instantaneously disbanded and dissolved that night immediately by a unanimous vote.  Not a single Elf, Dwarf, or Man disagreed with the veto…” Elder Ori laughed, slapping his knee with his free hand so hard that a few drops of tea dripped out of his shaking palm.

                The other children howled uncontrollably with glee and mirth, their laughter reaching the tops of the stone cavern.  Even Ori’s son in the background chortled loudly.

                “Remind me to never get on the Hobbits’ bad sides…” one Dale girl chirped, earning toothy smiles from the Fauntlings surrounding her.

                “Keep us fed with seven meals a day, and you shouldn’t worry about that…” one Hobbit boy leered.

                “Is everyone here?” asked Bilbo hesitantly as he, Thorin, Thor Odinson (who was lingering a bit too closely by Bilbo’s side much to Thorin’s ire) and the rest of the Company were gathered in the Royal Quarters.

                Well, nearly everyone…

                Nori lazily was picking his fingernails with a dagger as he droned stonily, “Almost.  Ori’s still crying in his quarters with Master Rogers trying to console him, Dori’s over with a representative from the Iron Hills, trying to settle a deal on the boars to serve for the wedding feast, and I don’t know nor care where Dwalin is right now.”

                “Eh?  What was that?” asked Óin loudly as he leaned over closer with his ear trumpet.

                Nori ignored the Dwarf Healer as he continued to lethargically pick away at his fingernails.

                “Thank you for diverting Dori’s attention so that he does not find out about this…” Bilbo acknowledged, “It would make things much easier if he never finds out our attempts to have Ori and Dwalin reconcile.”

                “I’m surprised you are not involved with the wedding plans,” Bombur asked innocently, “I thought you were just as joyful when Dwalin broke the engagement with your little brother.”

                Nori frowned as he admitted with reluctance, “I was at first.  By Mahal, I could never understand why my little brother fell in love with that shit faced bastard of a Guard Troll.  But after seeing Ori brokenhearted like this for several weeks, I’m starting to reconsider my stance considering that even though Captain America is a good Man, Dwalin is the only one who ever made Ori happy and smile.”

                “Which is why we’re holding this impromptu emergency meeting,” sighed Bilbo, “We’re all worried about the state between Dwalin and Ori, and perhaps we, as their closest friends and family, can all reach a solution to have them resolve this whole mess before things get any worse.”

                “Of course, perhaps if the people who were the primary instigators of this mess actually took responsibility for their careless actions, Dwalin would not be in this entire farce to begin with…” growled Thorin rather blatantly as he glared at Thor Odinson wrathfully.

                Thor naturally took offense, and it was amazing how quickly the Asgardian Prince dropped the fun-loving, goofy, rash façade and grew solemn, stern, and mildly angry and unsympathetic as he sized up against the Dwarf King.

                “You dare blame me for this, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield?” Thor asked taciturnly, frostily.

                “No, I blame that narcissistic, fraudulent, grandstanding leveler named Captain America for all this, you louse!  Because of your precious friend, Steven Rogers, my precious friend, Dwalin Fundinson, is ruined and wasting his life away by drink while your good friend is cavorting his adulterous treachery on good, innocent Ori!  It is clearly unmistakable that this misfortune would have never occurred if your noble Steven Rogers did not seduce our Scribe with his honey lies and deceitful stories!” Thorin bellowed before he grimaced and spat on the floor at the mention of Steven’s name.

                Thor’s deep eyes were like a tsunami of emotion and umbrage as the Asgardian Prince growled, “Say whatever you will about me, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield, but never insinuate anything less of the honor of my shield-brother…”

                Before a fight could break out (and Kíli and Glóin looked ready to defend Thorin – or take bets), Bilbo’s voice rang sternly.

                “Thor!  Thorin!  Not now!”

                “But Brother Bilbo…!” whined Thor, giving puppy-dog eyes immediately.

                Bilbo was not having it however.

                “Thor, apologize to my husband.  Please,” Bilbo emphasized unsympathetically, and one could clearly hear the intonation that “please” in this case meant “or else”.  Thor did a hurried and fearful about face before he bowed sincerely to the Dwarf he was just seconds ago from punching.

                “My apologies for my harsh words, King Thorin.  I verily retract my anger and ask for your forgiveness for my earlier misdemeanor.”

                Thorin smirked at the prostration…until Bilbo austerely addressed his husband as well.

                “Thorin…” warned Bilbo.

                Red-faced and with his teeth grit, Thorin jerkily bowed (although it more of a tip of his head rather than a full-fledged obeisance) before he hissed lowly, “I…also apologize…that you were offended.”

                Thor narrowed his eyes at the backhanded insult while Bilbo rolled his upwards and decided to let it pass.  By Yavanna, the fact that an insincere apology was the best resolution…

                Thankfully, the discord was temporarily forgotten as Bilbo then spoke to the others in the Company as he requested, “Any ideas on how we can help Ori and Dwalin?”

                Sadly, nothing too beneficial could be offered…

                “Lock them both in a room somewhere and let them out after they make up?” proposed Kíli.

                Balin flatly gave the Prince a deadpanned look as he pointed out, “You are assuming Dwalin would be that foolish to fall for such an obvious trick.  And I happen to like my beard and face the way it is.  Dwalin would not go quietly.”

                “Perchance a love potion?” Bofur asked, turning to Óin, “I mean, if you happen to have one on hand, perhaps slip it into Dwalin’s drink when he’s not looking and - ”

                Óin’s face was stony as he growled, “Stop right there.  First of all, I have no such medicines.  Secondly, such disgusting and nonconsensual acts goes against my Healer’s Vow.  And third, when Dwalin finds out of the deed, I shall point out to him that it was your idea and will gladly watch him tear you apart with his bare hands and then hang your carcass by your manhood on a stake in front of the Lonely Mountain’s Gates for all to see.”

                “…so, is that a ‘no’ then?” asked Bofur sheepishly with an awkward smile.

                Óin decided to pretend he didn’t hear that.

                “Don’t feel too bad about it, Bofur…” Nori chimed in imperturbably, “Dori asked Óin for the same thing in his efforts to have Captain America fall in love with Ori last week.  And when that didn’t work, Dori even went to the Mirkwood Tree-Shaggers and asked if they had anything that could induce Master Rogers to fall in ardor with Ori.”

                “By Mahal…” blinked Thorin upon hearing that, “I had no idea Dori was that desperate to wed his brother with Captain America.”

                “At this point, Dori could make a deal with the Necromancer and that wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

                “Do not joke of such things…” signed Bifur with a scathing look at the Spymaster.

                “We could encourage them to finally relieve their frustrations by a spar of contest.  All the fighting and screaming and pounding has to give way through their stubbornness to their feelings.  That is how my darling wife and I settle our disputes…which led to – ahem – moments of intimate bliss,” Glóin recommended.

                Nearly all the Dwarves groaned once again at Glóin’s adoration.

                “Odd.  I thought you were currently at odds with Täli ever since she found out your involvement with the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers Society’.  So exactly how many nights your darling wife said you were to have no dinner?  As well as no bliss?” bragged Óin smarmily.

                Glóin’s face turned red as he bared his teeth and gave Óin a death glower that would have instantly dispatched the healer a rather gory and agonizing death.

                “Actually, a dinner may be a perfect solution!” Bombur said, his face brightening, “A romantic dinner of chicken, pork, lamb, and ham, nice blocks of cheese and toasty bread, complemented with a fine, smooth red wine by candlelight!  And Bofur and Fíli could serenade with the flute and fiddle!  It would be a most passionate event that could help invigorate the past feelings!  I shall gladly cook it if it can help!”

                “You might want to eschew the wine entirely considering Dwalin has ingested enough to flood the entire city of Dale.  He had to be treated three times already for alcohol poisoning so far ever since he nullified his courtship,” Nori pointed out bluntly.

                “As much as it offends my Hobbit respectability to admit this, I daresay food won’t work for this situation.  We need something a little more profound and innate…” sighed Bilbo.

                “Isn’t Dori also a problem?” signed Bifur, “He’s taking every attempt to exhort Ori and Steven Rogers together with every ounce of their free time.  There is no possible way we can get Dwalin and Ori within the same vicinity without his interference.  Dori is absolutely set on his desire to keep them detached permanently.”

                “The sad part is that Dori’s attempts to get Steven and Ori to marry would be funny if not for the fact it is rather pathetically transparent,” groaned Kíli, rolling his eyes.

                “I remember…” mused Óin, “His response to finding out that Ori drew Master Rogers naked was hilarious to say the least.  That was the first time I ever heard a brother’s outrage over how his younger sibling did not have sexual intercourse when given the opportunity.”

                “If only Dwalin would believe that…” Glóin grumbled.

                Bofur couldn’t help but comment, “Well, someone’s got to tell Dwalin he’s over-reacting about this whole blasted mess.  So what if little Ori saw Master Rogers naked?  We’ve all seen Bilbo naked during our journey to reclaim Erebor when bathing in the river or changing clothes, and none of us have ever slept with him.”

                Bilbo winced at the comparison.

                Thorin’s eyes narrowed menacingly at Bofur…

                Bifur rolled his eyes before he signed, “Not for a lack of trying on your part, brother.”

                Now both Thorin and Bofur were glaring daggers at Bifur.

                Kíli then turned to his pondering brother, who was remaining silent throughout the whole discussion.  He asked, “Fee?  Any thoughts?”

                Fíli ruminated a bit, his moustache twitching back and forth, until he then spoke out loud, getting everyone’s attention.

                “The thing is we are merely addressing the pretense of the issue, not the root of it,” Fíli stated, “Has Dwalin even explained why he felt so threatened by Master Steven Rogers’ presence with Ori to begin with?”

                Everyone else was silent, pondering, which brought Fíli to his next point.

                “A Dwarf’s One is sacred, something that no Dwarf worth his axe could ever mistake or treat frivolously, so I do not believe that Dwalin feels he is mistaken that Ori is his One and same vice versa.  However, feelings are powerfully misleading, and we Dwarves are not as emotional or in tune with our spirits as you are, Bilbo.  As Princess Sigrid has taught me, just because a Woman says she is fine does not indicate she actually is.  So perhaps Dwalin’s anger and hostility over Steven Rogers’ friendship with Ori may be a deeper indication of perhaps he is insecure about himself.  Address that guilt, and it is possible Dwalin will realize his fault in this mess and feels brave enough to take steps to resolve his bond with his One and request forgiveness.  After all, it is reasonable that one cannot truly love someone if you cannot truly love yourself first.”

                It was funny how none of them, not even Nori and Bilbo, had considered that possibility.

                They were all so focused on the crisis that they did not reflect on the possible and underlying basis.

                “That…was actually quite exemplary, Fíli,” murmured Bilbo with a smile.

                “But do we have any time to do so?” Balin pointed out, “Such philosophy is sound, but with the Orcs and Trolls constantly attacking us, there is no ample prospect to have Dwalin work through his stubbornness and self-doubt in addition to his duty of the War Council and planning Erebor’s safeguards!”

                “Ooooh…” moaned Glóin, rubbing his temple to ease the migraine, “Curse the stubbornness of Dwalin, curse the naiveté of Ori for drawing Captain America naked, curse both of the sloppy idiots for dragging the lot of us in this lovers’ quarrel, and curse all of Arda for this entire farce of a misinterpretation happening now at the worst occasion!”

                Thor Odinson perked his head as if trying to process what he has been told.

                “Hold, Master Dwarves,” he asked slowly, like a befuddled child, “This whole annulment and travesty is due to a simple…misunderstanding?”

                “Yes,” growled Thorin impatiently, doing his best to not add an insult to the end of his sentence (lest Bilbo banish him to the guest room for another two weeks).

                “And Master Dwalin is angry because Master Ori drew Steven naked?”

                “Yes…” trailed off Balin, not sure where this was going.

                There was a pause before the frowning Asgardian Prince suggested tentatively.

                “Surely if Master Ori has drawn others as bare, Master Dwalin would have no cause nor reason to suspect infidelity, correct?”

                “I suppose…” shrugged Nori, one eyebrow raised in confusion.  Seriously, trying to follow Thor’s logic was like trying to follow the magical pathways through the forests of Mirkwood.

                Thor’s face then maniacally brighten before he excitedly raised a fist in the air as if he had a mental brainstorm.

                “I HAVE IT!” Thor roared grandiloquently in triumph, causing the others nearby to wince at the volume, “I KNOW EXACTLY HOW WE CAN GET MASTER ORI AND MASTER DWALIN TO FORGIVE EACH OTHER!”

                “That was loud enough for me to hear without my trumpet…” grumbled Óin, rubbing his deaf ear while wincing at the capacity of Thor’s bass.

                “…how?” asked Bombur warily as the others in Thorin’s Company looked on with confused caution.

                With great concentration and eagerness, Thor knelt down so that he was within Bilbo’s eye-level and roughly clasped the Hobbit’s shoulders.

                “Brother Bilbo...” Thor boomed with glee, “Hurry!  We must go see Master Ori at once and have him draw you and I naked!”

                Thorin’s eye absolutely twitched.

                “Oh dear…” sighed a Dwarf out loud.

                “That led to the Great Wrestling Bout of Sore Crotches and Bitten Ears between Thorin Oakenshield and Thor Odinson,” Ori stated with a wistful smile, “As well as Thorin Oakenshield being kicked out of the Royal Quarters for a full month.”

                “Elder Ori, I’m starting to sense a pattern here,” one Dale teenager commented flatly.  His companion, who was sitting next to him, scoffed.

                “If this surprises you, then you clearly haven’t heard enough of these stories.”

                One young Elf child piped up suspiciously, “If I didn’t know any better, I daresay that Thor aggravates Thorin on purpose.”

                The children politely and respectfully waited for their Elder to refill his teacup from his son and to take a soothing sip before he continued to the turning point of his climactic finish.

                “Unfortunately, before anything could be done regarding Dwalin and I, by horrendous and unfortunate timing, the Orcs had attacked, and this time, it was almost as large of an army as when they first banded together for the Battle of the Five Armies…”

                “There’s too many!” yelled Tauriel as she fired a volley of arrows from her position at the rear, protecting a group of women as they fled, screaming towards the open sanctuary of Erebor with the other Dale residents.

                In the background, the outer walls of Dale were badly crushed, reduced to rubble, as well as a good portion of the buildings had been demolished into smoking rubble.  Though miraculously, not a single Man, Woman, and Child from Bard’s kingdom was injured or killed as Bard and the Dale sentries evacuated everyone into the safe haven of the Lonely Mountain.

                And that impossible achievement was possible only by…

                “Captain America!” cried a little girl in joy as the good Avenger, decked in full uniform and cowl and helmet, rushed forward, carrying a squirming puppy dog in the crook of his arm before bequeathing it to the child.

                “He’s safe, just as I promised…” Steven panted with a smile as the girl cried uncontrollably with relief as she hugged her beloved pet.  Captain America then turned to Bea and Mafria, the two Dale tavern maidens, as he hefted his shield.

                “Take her and make sure she gets to Erebor safely to her parents.  Go!” commanded Captain America.  Both Bea and Mafria nodded.

                “We will!  Be careful, Master Rogers!” called Mafria.

                “Come on!  We’ll help you find your Ma and Da,” Bea urged as the two young Women escorted the girl and her dog up the road towards the Lonely Mountain.

                “Thank you!” the girl yelled over her shoulder at the departing Steven Rogers as he flung his shield at a battalion of Goblins, covering the rear of the retreating civilians along with the other Elves, Men, and Dwarves valiantly fighting the horde and blocking them from assaulting the refugees.

                “Close the Gates!” roared the Dwarf Guard who was helping to operate the front entrance of Erebor, only to be ferociously shot down by Thorin.

                “NO!” he roared, “LEAVE THE GATES OPEN!  THAT IS AN ORDER!  LEAVE THE GATES OPEN UNTIL EVERY MAN, WOMAN, DWARF AND ELF IS SAFELY IN THE MOUNTAIN!”

                It was a testament to how much Thorin’s statement caused a few Elves (including King Thranduil) to raise an eyebrow at the Dwarf monarch.  Still, it was difficult to find anyone to oppose.  All were fighting for each other, side by side, and against a common enemy…

                “Oof!” Prince Fíli grunted in pain as he was tackled by a heavy and obese Goblin from his blindspot, and the blond-haired Dwarf was sent sprawling before being pinned to the ground, with the Goblin straddling his chest as it raised a wicked knife above its head with both hands.

                But just before the Goblin was about to bring down its dagger right into Fíli’s neck, there was a faint whistle in the air before the foul demon croaked and sputtered, a lone crossbow bolt embedded into its right eye and gorging into its brain.  With a sigh, the scalawag toppled backwards, dead and drooling blood and putrid saliva from its open jaw.

                Fíli hurriedly was extracted from underneath the Orc’s corpse with some help as Bifur rushed to his aid, dragging him to his feet with one burly arm before Fíli looked behind him to see to his utter amazement Princess Sigrid firing another two bolts from her crossbow, scoring a direct hit as a Goblin and another Orc toppled to the ground.

                “My heroine…” called out the fair-haired Dwarf as he twirled and parried with another Goblin’s wooden spear before it could reach him.  Princess Sigrid blushed at the compliment.

                “The combat lessons from Da and Master Steven Rogers are quite worthwhile, I daresay,” she called out as she sidestepped an Orc’s attempt to grab her before she rammed the crossbow upward towards its snout, breaking it.

                “Shall I made him a golden bracelet and pin as a rewards then?” Fíli asked as he tripped his opponent before stabbing it hard where the spinal cord met its head.

                “Captain America is not allured by gold,” Sigrid said as he brought her knee into the Orc’s groin, “He hates all that actually.  He prefers a pot of tea with a good book.”

                “A golden teapot then?” Fíli suggested as he flung a knife at Sigrid’s foe, the blade sinking between the Orc’s shoulder blades.

                “Still tacky, I’m afraid…” Sigrid commented as she used a judo-maneuver (instructed to her by Thor Odinson) to trip the Orc onto it’s back before Queen Dís rushed forward and finally dispatched it with her axe.

                “There are more coming!  We have to retreat!” roared Bifur in Khuzdul, and with a signal of his hands, the Dwarves high above understood before they blew the gigantic trumpets and horns above, the rich baritones echoing throughout the Iron Hills and Gray Mountains.  At the signal, everyone hurriedly withdrew, slashing and firing at the enemy as they hurriedly fled for the Front Gates.

                Regrettably, the battalion of Cave Trolls caught on to the tactic as they charged as one, bulldozing their way through like a wave of muscle and rock.  Dís paled; there was no possible way all of the Guards could avoid the incoming surge…

                Rumble, rumble, rumble!  Kra-koom!  Kra-koom!  KRA-KOOM!

                Suddenly, there was a unified howl and cry of pain as the entirety of the Trolls was inundated by a blitz of lightning, white and deadly, raining upon them at once from the sky.  Within less than a minute, the electrocuted Trolls and Darkspawn were rendered into charcoal and blackened skeletons as Thor solidly landed in front of the Gates, saving the crowd from slaughter.

                “Run!  Keep running!  Do not look back!” the Asgardian commanded as he hefted Mjolnir in both hands as Steve landed next to the Asgardian Prince.

                “Thor, batter up!” Steve yelled as he lobbed his shield upwards, and Thor swung with his hammer like a baseball bat, sending the shield rocketing forwards and cleaving a multitude of Orcs and Goblins in its wake.  Steve roared out to the retreating Elves, Men, and Dwarves.

                “GO!” Captain America roared, “Once everyone is inside, close the Gates and barricade them!  Thor and I will hold them off!”

                “Master Rogers, what about you two?!” called out Tauriel as she fired another arrow into the eye of an Orc before it could let loose its poisoned shaft from its own bow.

                “Thor can fly us to the ramparts at the top of the Mountain!  Go!  We’ll be fine!  Just make sure everyone else gets behind the Front Gates and blockade yourselves in!  We’ll meet everyone in the War Room!”

                “You heard Captain America!  That is an order!  Do as he commands!” Queen Dís commanded as she, Fíli, and Princess Sigrid scrambled on top of Beron’s back (with Beorn in bear form) before galloping away.  Legolas landed from his position amongst the cliffs and rocky peaks as he settled next to Tauriel.

                “I just checked from above!  All the others were able to retreat safely!  There is no one remaining except us, the Orcs, and Thor and Captain America!  Run!” the Mirkwood Prince commanded, and the two fled, being the last of the stragglers that barely made it past the enormous and gargantuan metal doors as they slammed shut.  As the Dwarf Sentries began instantly setting the locks and bars across the egresses, King Bard immediately raced up towards his eldest child as she climbed off Beorn.

                Bard grabbed Sigrid by her shoulders before he furiously roared in his daughter’s face, incensed, “WHAT IN THE NAME OF ERU WERE YOU THINKING?!  YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!”

                But before Sigrid could angrily retort back, Bard choked back a sob as he brought Sigrid close to his chest and hugged her tightly, incredibly relieved that she was not harmed.  Thorin quickly went up to Dís and Fíli as they eased themselves back onto the ground while Beorn transformed back into his human state.

                “The Gates will not hold them forever,” Beorn warned, “There are far too many of the enemy gathered around.  Even the Mirkwood Forests have been besieged and surrounded by sheer numbers.  If anything, it is far greater than the unified Orcs and Goblins when they attacked us a year ago.”

                “Then we must act and quickly,” intoned King Thranduil, decked in battle armor and stained with black blood from his skirmishes earlier, “They may have attacked my forests and Dale, but they are actually herding us to Erebor.  That is not unintentional.  I fear this is where they can easily wipe us all out in one final confrontation.  We need to fortify and be prepared to make our stand against the Orcs and Trolls.”

                “But how did they arise so quickly and without our detection?” Queen Dís asked before the answer hit the others simultaneously.

                “The Earth Eater tunnels…” murmured Bard in dread, “And though Captain America and Thor Odinson were able to locate and track them, I do not think we have destroyed all of the underground labyrinth.  Which means they could still be miles and miles below the surface just waiting to strike from below and devour us all.”

                “We need to act and fortify our defenses now.  Get every Elf, Dwarf, Man and Woman available to the armaments…” Fíli intoned.

                “Wait!” Thorin yelled, bringing all the side chatter to a standstill, “Where is Bilbo?  Was he not with you?!”

                Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly as he intoned, “We did not spy him upon the battlefield, so we thought he was with you.”

                “Oh by Mahal…” Thorin shuddered, blood draining from his face as he prayed his Beloved was not kidnapped again.

                Meanwhile, Ori was busy directing terrified humans to one of the caverns when one of his staff members of the Royal Library came rushing forwards, breathless.

                “Master Ori, come quick!” the Dwarf yelled over the din, “Captain America has urgent news!”

                “I am too busy!  Please, not now!” Ori snapped a little waspishly as one Woman barreled past with a rude shove in her efforts to find any of her missing family members in the frenzy.

                But the Scribe’s heart was stiff with ice when he heard the messenger’s next news.

                “It’s Master Dwalin.  He was caught with an arrow to the chest.”

                Oh by Mahal…

                “I’ll find my way to the Infirmary…” Ori announced with an about-face.

                The Dwarf assistant corrected, blinking, “No, he’s not in the Infirmary!  You didn’t know?  Too many are injured due to the attacks on Dale, and they have flooded the Sanatorium!  There is no room there, so Master Óin had to go branch out to other spaces for the overflow!  Master Dwalin is in the Library with Captain America tending to him!”

                By Mahal, it was worse than Ori thought.  If Dwalin was willing to let Steven get close to him…

                Both Ori and his assistant immediately made their way through the numerous crowds, all of the passageways echoing with panic and orders to fortify the Lonely Mountain as Dwarves and Humans mingled and scurried about in complete pandemonium.

                Thankfully, the masses lessened and thinned out before the Royal Library staff member led the distraught Ori though the nearly empty hallway and into the Archive’s front doors.  Ori, nearly in tears, rushed through into the main foyer, already going through the numerous things to not say during this period of awkwardness…

                But all that came to a confused halt as Ori noticed that the Royal Library was completely empty and devoid of everyone else except his staff.  With several walking towards him with cold expressions on their faces as another Dwarf from behind closed and bolted the door.

                Ori suddenly felt a surge of unease as he then remembered that they could never find the supposed Dwarves who helped assist the Orcs and Alfrid Lickspittle kidnap Gimli, Bilbo, and Bain…

                Something hard clouted him in the back of the head, and taken by complete surprise, Ori pitched forward and crashed to the stone floor.  Shivering in pain, Ori weakly grabbed the back of his skull in an effort to quell the burning in his cranium as he weakly looked up.

                Only to see his Head Assistant kick him hard in the temple.

                At that, Ori’s vision flashed in stars before he lost consciousness…

                Thor flew high above the bulwarks high above in the ramparts above the Front Gates of Erebor, Mjolnir in one hand and Captain America grasping at his other while dangling below.  Landing solidly on the fortified stone floor, Thor managed to land on his feet while Steve gracefully released his hold and rolled a bit before gracefully landing on his feet acrobatically.

                Both of them were covered in gore, dirt, and many, many bruises.

                Despite Thor and Steven’s assurance that they could handle being left behind, the Goblins and Orcs were very, very relentless.  Despite their past successes, the two Avengers made the mistake of underestimating their enemy this one moment, and as a result, Steve would have liked nothing better than to soak in a tub of hot water with tea and one of Bilbo’s scones.

                Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place.  Already, at least half an hour passed since the Front Gates were sealed shut and blockaded…

                “We need to get to the War Room and gather all the leaders to see which one of our tactics will be the best to deal with the horde,” Captain America murmured, popping a muscle kink out of his back where one Goblin tried stabbing him in the spine with his spear (Steve was lucky his armor was now reinforced ever since he fought against the Winter Soldier in Washington).

                Thor gingerly fingered a jagged gash in his armor where one Cave Troll managed to club him (thankfully, all Thor received was a sore bruise) as he commented, “We’re all trapped here within the Lonely Mountain.  We need to act now and quickly!  The vile beasts are already starting to clamor and scale the highland walls!  Although…”

                Thor paused before he said the same thing that was niggling the back of Steve’s mind as well.

                “Such a gigantic army, catching us almost completely by surprise, and yet no casualties as if they are holding back…could this have been a diversion of some sort?”

                Before Steve could voice his agreement, the doorway to the bastion flew open before a distraught Dori, his hair wildly out of place as if pulled and yanked out in frustration, bolted towards the two Avengers at full-speed and helter-skelter.

                Steven and Thor then noted the wild, glazed look in the aristocrat’s eyes and the way his cheeks were stained with tear-tracks and the heavy, laborious gasps coming out of his mouth as Dori tore towards them without a single care of his appearance or dignified aspect…

                Something was wrong as the portly Dwarf rushed over and grabbed at Steven’s hands like a drowning man clutching a life preserver in the middle of the sea.

                “Steven!” Dori wailed, “Save my brother!  Please, for the love of Mahal and Stone, save him!”

                “Mister Dori…” Steven asked calmly in his baritone as he knelt in front of Dori, soothingly placing his hands on Dori’s shoulders, “What happened?”

                Dori’s next words caused Steve’s heart to skip a beat.

                “Ori’s been kidnapped.  We caught the Dwarves responsible in the Royal Library, but my brother is still missing!”

                It was amazing how fast Thor and Steven immediately tore through the Mountain, so fast that Men, Women, and Dwarves barely has time to dive out of the way of flatten themselves against the corridors as the two Avengers (with Dori being carried in the crook of one of Thor’s arms like a football) sprinted as fast as they could towards the Royal Library.

                Inside, gathered in the Archives, were King Thorin and his Company, Grugim and Palli along with a few select members of the Ereborian Guards, Queen Dís, Gandalf, King Bard, and King Thranduil along with Tauriel and Legolas.  They all formed a semi-circle pincher around a group of ten Dwarves which Steve immediately recognized as the Dwarves assigned as part of Ori’s staff and helpers in the Library.  Only now they were all of their knees, hands and feet manacled together in irons.

                Dwalin, to Steve’s surprise, was not amongst them.  He was glaringly absent.

                “Whatever has happened?” Thor asked forcefully as he strode forward, Mjolnir in his hands.

                Bilbo then spoke, “It turns out that the Royal Library Staff were in league with the Orcs all along!  When the Goblins and Trolls attacked the Mountain, I decided to use my Ring to sneak around and perhaps see if any collaborators were planning anything within our walls.  I managed to slip inside the Library and witnessed Ori’s staff attacking him before they tied him up and escorted him through the secret passageways behind Ori’s office!”

                “Why did you not follow them?” King Thranduil asked as the traitorous Dwarves were being thoroughly and roughly searched by Gandalf, Nori, Fíli, Óin, Glóin, and Bifur.  Bilbo shook his head.

                “Not only could I not risk leaving the rest of the staff to whatever further damage they could do, but they took Ori down one of the passageways where it was activated only by a Dwarf rune!  I cannot read nor manipulate Khuzdul if I do not know what to look for!  So I hurriedly found Nori, and we managed to ambush them all when they unlocked the Library doors!”

                “No one is blaming you, Beloved,” Thorin cut in, giving Thranduil a glare, “And you have brought a great boon.  These Dwarves were behind your kidnapping along with Bain and Gimli so many weeks ago with Alfrid Lickspittle.  I am sure of it!”

                “Master Nori…” Gandalf intoned as he managed to take out a magnificent bronze medallion on a fancy steel chain from the folds of one turncoat’s tunic, bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms and Dwarven name in Khuzdul.

                Nori shook with horrified realization as he recognized the seal.

                “Blacklocks…” The Ereborian Spymaster hissed.  Captain America, Thor Odinson, Bard, and Bilbo all cocked their heads in confusion at the unanimous exclamations of surprise from all of the other Dwarves.

                Thor then asked, “We do not understand.  Master Nori, whatever is the significance of these Blacklocks?”

                “They are one of the Seven Dwarf Houses who live in the East, past Gundabad in the Oracarni Mountains!  But they are so far from Erebor and Dale that we have little dealing with them!”

                “Their hair…it is black at the roots…” Óin intoned as he sniffed with his large nose, brushing back the bangs of one sullen Library Assistant, only to reveal the very faint tips of ebony underneath the chestnut brown fur, black popping ever so slightly above the Dwarf’s scalp.

                Óin continued, “I can still smell the dye.  It’s faint, but it is there.  These Blacklocks dyed their hair and beards to ward off suspicion and to ensure that they would never be recognized.”

                Steve steeped forward to the captured Dwarves, eyes blazing like cold fire and ice.

                “Why did you kidnap Ori?” Steve growled, “Where is he?”

                It was then that the Head Assistant, the one Dwarf who helped Ori around the Library more than any of the other staff, then broke out in a lecherous grin.  With a nod of his head, the Blacklock indicated to a tarnished copper box at a nearby table.

                “See for yourself, Master Rogers,” the Head Assistant intoned.

                Nori then nodded at the box, saying with a rare and notable quiver in his voice.

                “I have checked the contents.  There are no traps or poison.  But…it’s not good.”

                The fact that the Spymaster of Erebor was perturbed made the hairs on Steve’s arms raise in trepidation.

                Steve, to his credit, forced himself to remain calm, his hands not even betraying with a tremble or tremor as he grasped the open tin box and peered inside.

                Six braids of chestnut-brown and purple ribbon stared back at him, crudely hacked off with jagged pieces at the ends.

                Ori’s braids.

                Sullied by the most forbidden taboos of Dwarvish culture.

                With the severed tresses was a rough piece of parchment, Westron written in crude, muddy venom.

                Thankfully, Steven could discern Westron easily enough to read it as he recited the content out loud for everyone to hear.

                “Captain America.  We have your Dwarf Scribe.  Follow us to the Gray Mountains.  Come alone or your Beloved Friend dies.”

                There was an apprehensive hush before Prince Kíli piped up.

                “It’s a trap,” murmured Kíli out loud.

                Legolas scoffed at the Dwarf Prince derisively, saying ever so mockingly, “Oh, well done!  You certainly are smarter than you look!”

                Gandalf frowned in deep thought as Kíli and Legolas began to bicker once again.

                Orcs communicated in Black Speech; no Orc in Arda’s history knew how to write in Westron…

                “To think that the Library Staff were behind all our troubles with the Lonely Mountain, Dale, and Mirkwood…” Bard mused, “I never would have suspected them.  Actually…I never even noticed them.  We’ve always been holding council in the War Rooms, the throne room, and even the Guards training grounds of the Mountain itself.  But none of us ever encountered these Dwarves at all!”

                “There was no reason to,” King Thranduil stated, “They were ignored and faded in the background because few Dwarves within the Mountain hold writing and history archiving as important or vital during warfare, especially if under constant assault.  This was a perfect position for them to gain intelligence and report back to the Orcs because they observed us, while we failed to observe them.”

                “I daresay…” Nori admitted, a bit humiliated in his pride, “I thought the traitors had to be either Palli or Gruigim of the Guards.”

                “Hold…” growled Palli, “You, the Royal Spymaster of Erebor, and one of the most cunning and savviest yet troublesome Dwarves born of Mahal, thought we were their traitors?!”

                “You have motive and opportunity…” Nori shrugged, a bit defensively, “If Dwalin was unable to perform his duty as Captain of the Guards due to grief depression or loss of temper, you two as Second-In-Commands would be assigned and promoted to his place by Royal Procedure.  From your new statuses, it would be ideal for any spy for the Orcs to get close enough to Thorin and the Royal Family to assassinate them.  You two were the most likely suspects.”

                “Did it ever occur to you that if we were the most likely suspects, then it couldn’t be us?!  Spies would make themselves as inconspicuous and unmemorable as possible!” snapped Grugim.

                Nori had to concede that one.

                Bilbo Baggins tried to reason with the captured collaborators, gently prodding, “You cannot be working for the Orcs!  Whatever deal they have with you, they will betray you at first chance!  They did not come to Alfrid Lickspittle’s aid, and they will surely discard you as well!”

                Only to have another Blacklock Dwarf spurn the Royal Consort with disgust.

                “Do not lecture us with your blasphemy, you succubus!” the anonymous Dwarf spat with malice.

                Thor brought up Mjolnir with a dangerous tone, the metal head pining through the tension, “Apologize to my Mjolnir brother, wretch.  Or suffer the wrath of a God.”

                Thorin, as he hated to admit it, was once in full agreement with Thor as one hand unconsciously went to Orcrist’s handle.

                “God?!” shrieked another Library staff helper, turning vermillion, “You are no God!  You and Captain America are nothing more than false prophets, unfairly protecting Halflings, Men, Commoners, and even the damned Elves over Dwarves who serve Mahal faithfully!”

                And there it was: the xenophobia, the fear and budding anger of outsiders, the humiliation of foolish pride over miners and the lower caste such as the Ur and Ri families being selected as Thorin’s top advisors and Royal Council over long-stranding nobles, the outrage of the riches of Erebor so far from their grasp that called out to the innate greed and gold-sickness that led to desperation…

                To his surprise, Thorin then felt a tinge of sympathy, the memories of banishing his gentle and kind Bilbo with his hateful words of venom when Bilbo gave away the Arkenstone along with the shameful and abhorrent promise of genocide to the Shire…

                Steve just stared wordlessly at the box in his hands, unresponsive and unmoving, like a statue of ice, his face slack and blank.

                The War Council and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield immediately brought up their thoughts.

                “You must not go, Captain America.  We need you and Thor here to defend the Lonely Mountain and its inhabitants,” King Thraunduil stated.

                “Ori’s out there!  We cannot leave him!” Glóin protested.

                “One Dwarf’s life in exchange for everyone else is a small price.”

                “You would not say such a horrible thing if it were your son, Tree-Shagger!” a furious Bifur snarled in Khuzdul, shaking a finger.

                The Mirkwood ruler was hardly perturbed.

                “But it is prudent.  The fact that they are asking Captain America specifically and that they kidnapped the one Friend he values above all others to ensure that he arrives means that they plans to kill or incapacitate him.  Prince Kíli is right when he says this is a trap, and one that may ensure Captain America does not return if he leaves to liberate Master Ori in a reckless mission.  They shall kill him the instant they spot him, and not even the esteemed Steven Rogers can do such a feat,” Legolas pointed out.

                “Wait!  Perhaps we can do both!  Erebor is quite solid in its fortress and defense!  Have Captain America and his Commandos leave to rescue Master Ori and then return back to assist our forces as speedily as they can!  We are not helpless!  We can fight and hold them off until Thor and Steven are done with helping Ori!” Bilbo suggested.

                “No warrior of honor in Asgard would ever condone leaving a friend and ally in need,” Thor stated in agreement, “I shall go with my Brother Steven.  Whatever the Orcs have planned, I verily doubt that it is a match against the might of Mjolnir.”

                “No!” shot down Bard urgently, “If you do that, then we will truly be defenseless!  It has only been a little more than a year since the Battle of the Five Armies!  Our numbers have not yet recovered yet fully, and yet the Orc and Goblins have only increased!  We do not have enough Men, Women, Elves, and Dwarves to fully meet against them!  You both must stay, for the good of all three of our Kingdoms!”

                “And the note stated for Steven Rogers to come alone!  If Thor appears alongside Captain America, it would immediately endanger Ori!” Bombur pointed out.

                “Actually…” Gandalf said with thought, “the Orcs may very well be counting on that possibility.  Given the amount of foresight and cunning the Darkspawn have been exhibiting as of late, whatever plans they have to assassinate and eliminate Captain America, they probably also have such plans for Thor as well.  Which means that whatever weapon they have to neutralize our Avengers must be big, very big.  Perhaps even as dangerous and unstoppable as Sauron himself.”

                “And we know that Sauron was secretly the Necromancer in disguise who asissted Azog try to kill Thorin and the Company…” Queen Dís realized with horror, “Which means that even if he fled to the East with no word from Saruman, it could still indicate that his influence is what is driving the Enemy to herd and attach Erebor itself.  Because we are the one strategic stronghold against the East and North.  If the Lonely Mountain falls - ”

                “We all die and will be forever vulnerable to future attacks.  Dale, Mirkwood, Rivendell, Gondor, the Shire, and all lands to the West, war and chaos throughout Arda which is exactly what Sauron would want.  All these excursions, all these attacks, the sudden surges of our foes.  They have been planning this ever since the Battle of the Five Armies…” Fíli pieced together.

                Suddenly, the situation and cost of this one chessboard was truly becoming more and more macabre…

                But Azog was dead, so who…?

                “Correction: only the blood traitors shall fall.  The true Families of Durin shall stand tall amid the ashes of you and your disgusting friends and associations with the Elves,” another Blacklock Dwarf sneered.

                Thorin Oakenshield quickly brought Orcrist to the skin underneath said enemy’s neck, the edge of the blade nicking the skin and drawing a spot of blood.

                “What did your plans with the Orcs entail?  What does the enemy and Sauron have planned against all of us?  Speak or I will shear off your hair and beards, and then after letting you grieve for the next several days without food and water over your disgrace, I shall deliver you to Thor Odinson and have him deal with you.”

                “That is uncharacteristically uninvolved for you, Thorin,” Balin blinked, raising one bushy eyebrow.

                “If interacting with Thor Odinson does not count as infernal torture, I do not know what else does.”

                Exhaling out his patience through his nose, Balin rolled his eyes while Thor and Bilbo glared at the raven-haired King for the underhanded insult.

                The double-crossing and disloyal Dwarf just hacked and spat at Thorin’s direction, missing the King’s body by a narrow berth.  The Dwarf monarch did not even hesitate as with a few quick movements, the Blacklock’s long mane of brown hair fell to the floor in multiple tattered pieces, his scalp and a good portion of his beard now a messy jagged set of tufts sticking out like a ripped dandelion-head.

                While a few of Thorin’s Company flinched, the defector remained firm, his eyes steely and like dark granite, his chin and nose turned upward.  In fact, all of the Blacklock spies appeared defiantly unyielding.

                It was then that Nori realized that the Royal Library staff would not break, would not bend.

                Unlike Alfrid Lickspittle and the Men who kidnapped Bilbo, Gimli, Bain, and Steven Rogers, these Dwarves sided with the Orcs and Sauron because of conviction of their superiority, of their cause, of a righteous crusade against miscegenation and intermingling they deemed as blasphemous that ascended higher than gold, riches, titles, and pride.

                These Blacklocks would gladly die for their cause before they gave anything vital.

                Thor made Mjolnir spark and crackle with electricity and lightning, causing a few around him (especially King Thranduil) to flinch as he advanced towards the other Blacklocks.

                “I suggest you traitorous scum tell us everything you know and grant King Thorin’s request…” Thor growled, “I assure you that being struck by lightning is highly unpleasant and excruciating.”

                “It won’t do much good, laddie,” Bofur interjected with a hand on top of Thor’s to arrest his threat, “These Blocklocks will die rather than talk.  And it shall take time to interrogate them, and we don’t even have much of that.”

                Almost as if waiting for such an answer, Dori then lunged and grasped the lead assistant’s throat with both of his stalwart hands before he began to squeeze intensely.  Within two seconds, there were faint crackling noises of tearing cartilage and bone as the traitor’s face began to flush red, the blood building pressure in his veins.

                “Stop…” gurgled the Blacklock Dwarf weakly, turning a disturbing shade of red mixed with faint tinges of blue, “Please…please…can’t…I…surrender…”

                Dori laughed, and it wasn’t a jolly laugh.  Cold, cruel, and completely, wrathfully, murderous.

                “Oh, no, no, no, no, no…” growled Dori as he squeezed tighter, “You do not surrender for delivering my baby brother to the Orcs.  No, YOU DIE!”

                “Dori, stop!” roared Bifur in Khuzdul as he, Bofur, and Bombur pried Dori’s death grip off his victim, “We need them alive for questioning!”

                “What is the point?!  We do not have time to flush out any other remaining moles while the Goblins and Orcs are trying to find their way in.  It shall only be a matter of minutes before they find a way to get into the mountain!” Kíli said, fingers tightening into a fist.

                “Master Rogers, please tell me you have an impressive plan!  By Mahal, any plan will suffice!” begged Bombur.

                Steve just continued pondering, his eyes and lips furrowed together in concentration as he set down the box lightly on the table.

                “Oh, let Steven and Thor go rescue Master Ori!  We don’t need them!” hissed Grugim.

                “We cannot take on the Orcs and the Trolls and their armies by ourselves!  And Master Radagast says the Eagles won’t be enough this time!  There are far too many!” Tauriel highlighted before she then turned to the wizard in the room.

                “Mithrandir, can you create a spell and wipe them out?!  Like how Lady Galadriel rescued you from the Orcs at Gol Duldur?!”

                The Gray Wizard frowned as he shook his head.

                “Magic cannot solve everything, Tauriel.  Our enemy are far too numerous in numbers.”

                “Then what is magic for?!  What is the use of wizardry if it cannot save a city of innocents?!” Glóin snapped.

                “That is what heroes are for.”

                “Heroes are all well and good, but it means little if we are slaughtered.  We need to fight intelligently, Incánus!  I fear we cannot win this battle with brute force alone, at least not without more information on what the foul beasts are entailing!” Thor pointed out.

                “Oh do shut up, Odinson!  If it were not for you and Master Rogers, we would not be in this mess in the first place and dear Ori would have never been abducted!  YOU TWO are the cause of all this!” Thorin roared, and by all that was holy, it appeared that Thor was ready to lose his temper as he rounded with a stormy and volatile expression on his craggy face.

                “Your Majesty, I’ve had enough besmirching.  If you know whatever is good for you, you shall shut up and be quiet,” growled Thor with clenched teeth.

                “Thorin!  Thor!  Stop it both of you!” Bilbo snapped, but that reprimand wasn’t going to work this time as attitudes were now erupting to full and wrathful ugliness.

                “Do you wish to settle this, son of Odin?!” Thorin snarled, brandishing Orcrist.

                Thor smirked as he shot back, “I don’t duel beings that are weaker than me, Thorin of Oak’s Shield.  There’s no honor in an unfair fight like the Burdens of Stone contest where you performed unadaquately.”

                “You take that back, you fair-haired dandy!” Kíli snarled as several others of the Company rushed to Thorin’s defense.

                “Kíli, stop!  Leave him alone!” Dori shouted.

                “It figures that you would turn your back on the King,” sneered Palli the Guard.

                “Why don’t you shut up?!” Nori growled.

                “Don’t tell him to shut up!  You shut up!  As far as I’m concerned, you’re both turncoats!” Glóin scorned.

                “Stop!  Fighting won’t make things any better!  The enemy will have the advantage if we quarrel amongst ourselves!” Bard tried to step in between, but it wasn’t deferring the arguing in the slightest.

                “Master Odinson, do us a favor and make every Dwarf in this room shut up…” groaned King Thranduil theatrically.

                “You keep your mouth shut as well, Tree-Shagger!” Glóin snapped.

                “Make me, Dwarf,” the Mirkwood King responded in a bored, superfluous tone, inspecting his fingernails.

                “Oh, well because you asked so nicely…” growled Kíli as he and a few of the Dwarven Guards were about to brawl it out in a mass scuffle while Legolas and Thor looked ready to counteract.

                But before blows could be exchanged, Steve finally looked up from his trace of staring at the box with Ori’s braids and gave a fierce nod to Gandalf wordlessly, his eyes now hard and flashing.  Upon the signal, the wizard raised his staff over his head, summoning a rainbow colored burst of a firecracker.

                Flash!  Crackle!

                With a series of popping and a burst of sparkling embers, all the arguing was immediately brought to a standstill as Bilbo and the Company, Thranduil and his Elves, Bard, Gandalf, and even the Blacklock prisoners looked at both of the Avengers in the lull while the glowing outline of a tiny, roaring lion faded in smoke and sulfur.

                Steve stepped forward at full attention like any respectable Captain.

                For that one moment, Bilbo would have sworn that Steven Rogers appeared so regal, so resolute, so hard, that if one tried to stab the Man with a sword, the blade would have snapped in half upon contact with Captain America’s body.

                Steve spoke in an authoritative voice, clear and rigid.

                “I have a plan.”

                It was funny how everyone in the room, Elf, Man, and Dwarf, instantly focused on Captain America without question upon those words, not even a trace of hesitation in their features.

                Later on, none of them could say why exactly they immediately trusted the Avenger.

                They just did.

                Balin spoke for all of them when he stepped forward, his voice solemn, “What do you require, Captain America?”

                Steven then spoke, the gears inside his head whirring madly as his mouth kept in tandem with his thoughts.

                “Bofur, Balin, Gandalf: take the Royal Library staff to the dungeons to be kept under lock and key.  Palli, Grugim?  I need your help to gather only the Royal Guards you can spare from the upcoming battle and whom you trust fully and have been screened by Nori to be on our side to watch over these Blacklocks.  Do not allow anyone into the dungeons, except if ordered by Thorin Oakenshield or someone from his Company themselves.  King Thorin, your Majesty: I need a secure room.  More secure than the War Room, where all of us present, right here, right now, can be let in on what I’m thinking without any worry that any of your servants or any Ereborian citizens can hear or spy on us.  If this plan works, we can save everyone, Ori, Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood alike.  But Thor and I can’t do this alone: we need all your help and we need to do it.  Quickly and secretly.  Once the Blacklock Dwarves are jailed and once we are all gathered where we can’t be observed or eavesdropped, I will let you know what I’m planning.”

                Every Dwarf, Elf, Human, and Bilbo nodded as Bofur, Balin, Gandlaf, Palli, and Grugim heavily dragged the double-dealing Dwarves off the floor to be escorted, carrying out Steve’s request.  Steve then felt a pair of hands desperately clasp around his, and he looked down to see an anguished Dori (with Nori alongside him).

                “Steven…get Ori back safely…please…” Dori beseeched pleadingly, his eyes shining with grief.

                Steve squeezed softly as he spoke the only thing he could promise in this dire situation.

                “I’ll try…” Steve promised, “I can’t do anything more than that.”

                Steve then turned to the others in the Library.

                “Does anyone know where Mister Dwalin is?  I will need him on this,” Steven asked strongly, facing the crowd.

                Dori’s eyes went wide with outrage as he literally expanded like a frog, his chest puffing up with anger and shock as he slowly rumbled, “Absolutely no chance in the Void will I allow - !”

                Nori then tossed his reservations to the wind as he blurted out, “He’s hiding in the training grounds of the Royal Guards’ quarters!  Do what you need to!  Just save my brother!”

                Steven barely nodded his thanks before he took off in a gallop, praying to God and all that was holy that he had enough strength to bring Ori back home or die trying.

                “I am not losing another pal…” Steve muttered to himself.

                Despite the blood matting his head and his skull swimming in so much agony that Ori felt his brain would split in two, the Dwarf scribe managed to tug off his other knitted glove and tossed it as discreetly as possible, letting the colored, fingerless mitten of yarn and wool fall gently amid the dirt and rock.

                Good.

                None of the other Orcs and Wargs noticed as they galloped on the left of the forked road, missing the subtle clue Ori left behind.

                Unfortunately, that was all Ori could do.

                And with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t reach for anything else on his person to leave behind on the trail.

                Due to the gag stuffed in his mouth, Ori breathed deeply and thoroughly through his nose, trying to calm down his thudding heart and doing his best to not hyperventilate in fear.  They had been cantering for over half an hour (and who knew how long while Ori was unconscious and slung over the back of a galloping Warg behind its Orc rider like a knapsack or a slab of meat).

                Despite it all, Ori mentally reminded himself to stay strong, to not despair and give up hope.

                He was a member of Thorin’s Company that reclaimed Erebor from the wyrm, Smaug and survived and triumphed over the Battle of the Five Armies.

                If he were to die, he would die with dignity and bravery as Mahal intended.

                Finally, after many rocky bumps and jolts that made the scribe’s stomach churn with nausea, the Orc troop and their Wargs finally arrived in the camp.  Roughly and unceremoniously, Ori was dragged off the Warg and carried under the crook of one Orc’s arm.

                Ori’s eyes widened a bit in shock as he passed by the numerous Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls, all of them beadily staring at the Dwarf like a tantalizing piece of meat, growling and uttering discontent murmurs under their breath.

                There were so many.

                Ori couldn’t help but notice it was a literal sea of foul creatures, the ground barely discernable amid the pasty skins, the tarnished armor and their drawn and equipped weapons.  Many, many weapons.  Not just swords, pikes, spears, axes, and polearms, but actual battering rams, Cave Trolls with stone helmets tied to their craniums, Wargs dressed in spiked headgear and collars and tin gauntlets, even crudely built catapults of wood from the Goblins.  Packed in like sand or brick and mortar, the air was heavy with the putrid stench of feces, sweat, urine, and ash, and though the soldiers were respectfully stepping aside to form a narrow passageway through, it was so claustrophobic that Ori couldn’t help but cringe against his kidnapper carrying him, trying his best to shy away from the numerous beasts surrounding his position.

                But there were no tents, no fires, no obvious signs that could give away the Orcs’ position to Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood.  Other than the gaping maws in the nearby rock walls and dirt, large openings of black left by the Earth Eaters, everything remained as undisturbed and colorless as any typical valley of rock.  No smoke, no signs of living or encampments amid the chilly gray rock and surrounding cliffs would deter any causal passerby from…

                Ori blinked.  He recognized the stone and peaks all around.

                The Orcs and their hidden army were currently residing in the Gray Mountains, a strategic position not too far from Erebor where his friends and family were currently under siege.

                They were close to the Lonely Mountain.  And waiting for attack via the Earth Eater tunnels.

                And there was no way to warn his friends and family.

                Ori was then flung roughly to the ground, his shoulder and side screaming along with his head as he was banged against the stony surface.  Pebbles and the rough terrain scraped against Ori’s face as he crashed into the floor.  Stars flashed through his eyesight amid his pounding headache before a guttural pair of voices uttered and hissed above the bound and gagged Dwarf.

                It was eerie how deathly silent the neighboring crowds became when an Orc then growled in rough Common, for Ori to be easily understand the words that chilled his heart to the core.

                “So…this is the Beloved of Captain America…” the tall Orc growled, and Ori weakly looked up to see a hideous and revolting face with rancid, rotting teeth thick with slime.  Thickly brawny and packed with muscle and a barrel-like chest, the strapping Orc donned impressive metal armor and clawed gauntlets of steel and copper created by the traitorous Blacklocks while atop his shoulders was a fur stole of Warg hide.  The spawn of Morgoth leaned over until his face was nearly touching with Ori’s, the metallic scar dancing from the top of his head down to across his right side of his race to match the spiked collar and mace in his hand.

                Ori’s eyes widened as he took in the General’s jaundiced eyes gleaming with anticipation…and his pale skin that was as white as the moonlight.

                Like Azog the Pale Orc.

                “Do not worry…” sneered Bolg in Common, “Unlike my father, your death will be relatively painless.”

                Despite the rag stuffed in his mouth, Ori let out a muffled whimper of true fear.

                There was a long pause as Ori the Storyteller finished the last dregs of his tea and leaned back comfortably against the soft armchair and down cushions, his old skin and bones soaking up the snug warmth of the fire.

                “And then?” asked a Dale child breathlessly as she and the neighboring children leaned closer a bit, anxiously awaiting the next words and for the story to continue.  Even Ori’s son was tilting his bushy head in an expectant and hopeful manner, like a puppy dog begging for another treat.

                The hoary Dwarf then grinned waggishly, his wrinkled face blooming with delight.

                “And we shall leave off there, children.  I shall continue the tale next week, all right?”

                The promptly brought a sea of thwarted groans and querulous moans.

                “ELDER ORI!” lamented the Girls, Boys, Dwarflings, Fauntlings, and young Elves.

                “Please, Elder Ori, you simply must continue!” one Elf begged, his brown eyes wide and suppliant.

                “This is not fair!  I do not want to go to bed!  I want to hear more!” one Hobbit lass squealed.

                A Dwarf child griped, “Please continue!  You are absolutely cruel to leave it there as a…what do you call it?  A cliffer?”

                “A cliffhanger…” corrected a young fellow Dwarrowdam.

                Elder Ori was not the least bit sorry as he cheekily winked and alluded, “Well then, this merely ensures that you shall return the following week for the continuation.  Now, off to bed with you, Children.”

                “Elder Ori!” protested a good number of children, but bombastically jolly, Ori’s son played along as he strode up and encouraged the children to rise from their seated positions on the Warg-skin rug and go to their respective homes, giving a few lighthearted and gentle swats and tugs on their collars and ears as a finality.

                “Come now, you scamps!” Ori’s grown son good-humoredly roared, “Leave my poor old Father to his rest where he can recover his voice and strength after a good two hours of storytelling!  Waiting for the next story shall not kill you impatient louts.”

                “But we shall have to wait for a year before we can hear the next chapter!” complained one Dale boy.

                Ori’s son blinked, the grizzled Dwarf Captain confused, as he clarified, “You only have to wait a week until the conclusion of the story, not a year, young one.”

                “Well, it simply feels like a year…” one Hobbit boy griped.

Chapter Text

                “They are everywhere!” yelled Sigrid as she blasted one Heartless with her stingers before the beast could pounce on her father.  Thankfully, her armored Wasp costume was enough to hold the lumbering demon at bay before Bard gorged through its chest with his sword.

                “Fall back!” Bard roared, signaling to the trumpeters to blow their horns to beckon the Dale soldiers to retreat from the incoming horde of shadow creatures, “Fall back!  There are more coming!”

                What the monarch said was true.  Numerous Heartless were crawling everywhere throughout the warzone, alien abominations that were slender and emancipated like the underground Goblins which slid across surfaces like untouchable shadows to hulking behemoths like the Cave Trolls that were massively inexorable, crushing everything in their path and sending Elves, Men, and Dwarves flying.

                There were so many that even Thor’s lightning from Mjolnir at full-strength could only clear a quarter of the armies threatening to overwhelm them.

                Much with the help of Gandalf, Radagast, the Avengers and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, and Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, their magic and weapons could only barely keep every one of the enemy at bay, their exertions only the slightest bit effective in giving the combined armies of Mirkwood, Erebor, and Dale a wee bit of respite as the Heartless roared and shrieked against the combined illumination from the spells and bullets tearing across the skies and fields.

                Tauriel, spent and on her last arrow, begged before she let her shaft fly, “Eru Ilúvatar, please, if you love us, send us help now.”

                “We do not need just help!  We need a damned miracle!” yelled Beorn the Bear Man as he ripped the head off one Heartless Troll while Agent Melinda May effortlessly slammed another Heartless into the ground with a simple judo move.

                Just as the battle was precariously on the knife’s edge…

                “Thorin!” screamed Bilbo as one Heartless managed to send Thorin flying, and without a second thought about his own safety, the Hobbit rushed over to his husband’s side with Bofur following close behind.  The Ereborian King was breathless and stunned from the blow to his stomach, already quite sure that his abdominals were severely bruised and his gut had caved in from the direct hit.

                Bilbo, without needing a word or confirmation, gently tried to lift Thorin up from the ground, murmuring, “Lean on me.  You can’t walk.”

                Thorin’s one attempt to protest that he was perfectly fine just ended with him vomiting a stream of bile, dripping down his chin.  Bilbo just grimly wrapped his arms around Thorin’s torso as Bofur swung his hammer away at any incoming demons.

                Unfortunately, one Heartless then took it upon itself to eliminate the weakened Thorin…

                “Bilbo!” yelled Legolas in warning as the hulking Troll began lumbering towards the Dwarf King and the Hobbit, its spiked mace ready to crush the two of them.  He was too far to run and grab them, but doing the next best thing, Legolas fired arrows at the Heartless’ head, scoring a direct hit as the shafts embedded into its throat, face, and left eyeball.

                Despite the pain, the demon titan carried on, intent on eliminating the target once and for all.  It would not be dissuaded.

                Agent Coulson added on to Prince Legolas’ attack, firing high-caliber blasts with his energy rifle, all the meanwhile yelling at the Hobbit and then through his earpiece communicator, “Bilbo, get out of there!  We can’t stall this thing!  I need air-support for two Dwarves and a Hobbit, NOW!  Air support, does anyone read me?!  This is Coulson, over!”

                “Bilbo?” Thor instantly asked, perking his head up as he looked over his shoulder.

                This one moment of being distracted cost Thor dearly as one Heartless behemoth then ferociously swung hard with its club.

                WHAM!

                Thor didn’t even see it coming as the force of the blow sent him flying horizontally into the distance.

                And face-first into the nearest mountain with a tremendous crash, a cloud of dust erupting upon the Asgardian’s impact.

                “Ow…” commented Jessica Jones, wincing.

                “That’s gotta hurt…” admitted Trish Walker before she delivered a fierce elbow-strike into the face of her opponent.

                Falcon then swooped down from the skies, the wind whistling in his ears as he roared, “I got – HEY!  Get off me!”

                The Avenger yelled this as over five Heartless managed to defy gravity by soaring upwards from the ground and tackling and latching upon the soldier, and now Sam Wilson was struggling to fight for his life as he grappled against the group of creatures that threatened to crush him as he crashed ungracefully to the ground.  Despite the velocity and rough terrain, Sam managed to not break any bones in the landing as the Heartless clawed and scratched at the foot-soldier.

                “Captain Falcon!” yelled Gimli and he and Prince Bain rushed forward to their friend’s help with sword and axe effortlessly cleaving the Heartless jumping on top of Sam’s body.

                “BILBO, RUN!” hollered Dwalin as he tried to make his way through the fracas, tearing and cleaving his way through the enemy all the meanwhile.

                “I can’t leave him!” Bilbo cried out as he tried to loop Thorin’s arm over his neck in an effort to drag his husband away from danger, but with a sinking heart, Bofur knew that Bilbo would never be able to outrun the monster.

                He and Thorin would be crushed before they could even make it over the hill as the Troll got closer and closer, the ground now rumbling with each footstep.

                Bofur then concentrated on the golden shine of Bilbo’s hair, the wrinkles and lines on Bilbo’s face that only accentuated his wisdom and gentle patience, the way his eyes were shining with tears as he only thought about his own Dwarf husband…

                It wasn’t so bad, having this as his last sight.

                “Bilbo, run.  Don’t look back.  Take Thorin and run.”

                Bilbo’s head snapped up as he looked back at Bofur standing a bit behind, his eyes unreadable but still with a shaky smile on his face.  The Consort of Erebor asked numbly, “Bofur?”

                I love you.

                Bofur decided there was no need to say it; it would have ruined the moment.

                Bofur unsteadily took a breath before he then turned to face the charging Heartless.  With a roar at the top of his lungs, Bofur rushed forward, his mattock gripped tightly in his hands, looking like a mouse attempting to pitifully tackle a Warg.

                At the very least, he could buy Thorin and Bilbo some time to escape.

                It would be a quick death.

                A noble death.

                It was worth it, really.

                “NO!” cried Bombur as Bifur prayed for Mahal for a miracle, for some divine intervention to save his brother.  Bombur then cried out to Gandalf who was busily trying to extract his sword, Glamring, from a Heartless’ body.

                “Tharkûn, save my brother!”

                Gandalf raised his staff as he was about to cast a spell…

                Though there was little chance he would survive, Bofur felt no regrets nor remorse as he swung hard at the Troll’s body just as the ogre brought down its club down upon his diminutive opponent.

                SHHHOOOOOM!

                There was a sudden flash of radiance, brighter than the moon, brighter than the sun, as it engulfed the entire warzone.

                “What the hell?!  AAACK!  Status, report!  Whatever is happening?!  I can’t see!  Keep focused everyone!  Bofur!  Bilbo!  Thorin!  F.R.I.D.A.Y, scan now!  Unable to detect the nature of the abrupt illumination, Mr. Stark, except that it is most likely magical in nature…”

                Despite the sudden attack, all of the heroes and allies could honestly say they never felt such a warmth, a radiance of ease and soothing calm, from the sudden brilliance.

                Within several moments, the conflagration lessened and vanished, and with it, all the Heartless.

                Every single monster and fiend was been completely obliterated and disintegrated by the strange light…

                Ant-Man flipped up the faceplate of his helmet before he asked in an unsure and hesitant voice, “Uh…so…did we win?”

                “I do believe we have…although I am unsure why…” Lady Galadriel murmured.  She hadn’t been this irresolute and shocked since Gandalf had arrived with proof from Radagast about the Necromancer.

                In the distance, Thor grimly and woozily picking himself from the mountainside and croaked in a warbled voice, “…Bilbo?”

                King Thranduil, his exquisite armor covered with blood and grime, then honed in on the alien source of illumination, as he looked at the Dwarf named Bofur before blinking in shock.

                “By Eru Ilúvatar and all his children…” the monarch of Mirkwood gasped as he pointed at Bofur, drawing everyone’s attention to the Dwarf miner.

                Bofur himself was astounded to see that in his hands, instead of his familiar and treasured mattock, was a beautiful and alien weapon unlike anything any Dwarf, Hobbit, Man, of Elf had ever witnessed.

                It was an amalgam between a sword and a key.

                The key formed the blade of the rapier, and it was exquisitely carved granite, grayer than the Lonely Mountain and pure without a single flaw or crack.  But it sparkled due to the minute pieces of sapphire embedded in the rock.  The mouth of the key was ingeniously shaped by carved sapphire crystal, forming the blunt end of a gigantic hammer-head, almost exactly like the head of Bofur’s previous mattock.  And at the top of the head of the key with a shining pike, a sharpened point of mithril (that made almost every Dwarf within the vicinity a bit envious).  The hilt of the bludgeon had a golden rain-guard which connected the key to the actual grip of the implement itself, and the entire cross-guard of the weapon encircled around the entire smooth grip of the sword, forming a squarish-ring, and upon a closer look, Bofur was surprised to see that the entire gold ring was actually metal artistically carved into a chain of stars and hammers.  And hanging from the pommel, which had a brilliant gem of sapphire, of the treasure was a gold keychain, and at the end was a flat, small metal mithril disc with the symbol of the Crown of Durin the Deathless on it.

                Bofur was speechless, his eyes so wide they one could see all the whites all around his pupils.

                What in the name of Mahal was he holding?

                “Oh Bofur!  Thank Mahal!” cried out Bifur in Khuzdul as he and Bombur dashed forward and hugged their stunned brother, the two so beholden that Bofur was alive and that everyone in the battlefield was now safe and sound.

                “Bofur…” a baritone voice called out weakly, and Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur turned to see a bleeding but now fully conscious Thorin Oakenshield, being propped up by both Dwalin and Bilbo in either side with his arms draped over their necks for support.

                Thorin was no fool in guessing that Bofur saved his life.

                The Ereborian King swallowed with difficulty before he spoke again.

                “Thank you…” Thorin croaked before giving a weak smile.  Bilbo nodded, his smile radiant despite the tears running down his face.  Bofur couldn’t help but smile back, despite the numbness running throughout his body.

                Nick Fury narrowed his good eye.  He had heard rumors about such a weapon before…

                Gandalf cocked his head a bit as his eyes narrowed at the strange armament in Bofur’s hands before the Gray Wizard commented, “Quite an achievement, although I cannot say that such a strange anomaly that precisely obliterates our latest foes is not a coincidence.”

                “It is not, Master Wizard…” a voice politely called out, taking everyone, even the Elves with their enhanced sense, by surprise.  Everyone in the battlefield whirled around before they blinked.

                Standing before them with a young girl and…and two walking, upright animals wearing black and blue clothing and police armor?

                Even Beorn blinked, seeing the female rabbit and the male fox so much more humanlike compared to his servant animals at his home.

                The girl shyly waved her fingers, a bit hesitant as her Golden Pelydryn bauble swirled around her, saying, “We apologize for scaring you all such as this, but things are dire with the given Heartless invasion in this world, and time is of the utmost importance.  I’m Princess Eilonwy and these are my dear companions, Officer Judy Hopps and Officer Nick Wilde.”

                “Now if you don’t mind…” the anthropomorphic fox said in a whimsical yet blasé voice as he chewed on a wooden toothpick in his mouth, “We’re in a bit of a hurry here, so let’s get all the small talk aside.  Congratulations.  You’re now one of the newest Chosen Ones to be a Keyblade Wielder, help save the universe from destruction of other Heartless like the monsters you just fought, we need to go before Xemnas sends someone to assassinate you and your family, there are infinite worlds that exists beyond this one, you’re ultimately going to be pitched in a final war that could unmake all life as we know it, yadda, yadda, yadda.  That said: any questions, or can we go now?”

                It was as if the fox was taking extra care to make his speech absolutely dispassionate.

                “Nick, next time, let me do the talking…” the female rabbit murmured, blanching a bit, at the fact that Nick’s statements made many Elves, Men, and Dwarves’ eyes widen in fear.

                All Bofur could manage to utter through his frozen throat and exhausted body was barely a squeak.

                “Key…blade?” repeated Bofur, dazed.

                “And that’s how I became one of the Keyblade Masters…” finished Bofur, still cheery and lighthearted as ever despite the wrinkled and stooped back of the Dwarf and how every strand of his hair was a light silver.  As the children in the room clapped and applauded, Ori and Ori’s son (who was watching in the background) both couldn’t help but feel a slight pain of depressing melancholy.

                Only Bofur and Ori were the only two left of the original Company of Thorin Oakenshield alive (although the status of Thorin and Bilbo’s fate in Valinor with Frodo was technically unknown), with Kíli passing away peacefully in his sleep as Tauriel stayed by his side last winter.

                It was a somber thought, knowing that it wouldn’t be much longer now…

                The children, thankfully, were oblivious to the thought as they clamored and begged for another story, a final treat before bedtime.

                “Tell us of the time when you helped Esmeralda the Romani destroy the Golems in the Crypts of Paris!” one boy from Dale yelled out.

                “No!  Master Bofur, please!  Tell us the story of when you helped Lady Hopps and Sir Wilde give birth to their son!  We have never heard the details of such an adventure!” a Hobbit lass pleaded.

                “What about the story of how you single-handedly killed Shere Khan and purified the entire jungle realm?” one Elf inquired, wishing to hear more about the talking and carefree animals such as Baloo and King Louie.  Bofur grimaced as he absentmindedly rubbed the scarred tissue on his neck where Shere Khan sunk his teeth into his collarbone, flinching at the memory of how he nearly lost his life protecting Mowgli.

                One Dwarf child sitting in the front row asked with wide eyes, “Master Bofur, is it true that Queen Elsa of Arendelle asked for your hand in marriage after you saved her kingdom?”

                Bofur smiled and nodded, replying, “Aye, she did.  I always regretted turning down her offer though.”

                “Why did you?”

                Bofur’s grin faltered slightly and became a bit forlorn as he answered ambiguously, “T’wasn’t right to accept.  I was in love with another.”

                Ori and his son felt their hearts twinge a bit in sympathy.

                After all this time…

                Bofur then cheerfully laughed as he calmed down the mass spectators by waving his hands as he then spoke with merriment, “By the Beard of Mahal, give an old Dwarf a chance to catch his breath and enjoy being back home for a little while.  Besides, I wish to hear a story myself, if you little ones do not mind.  Ori, I hear you have yet to finish the tale of when Thor Odinson and Captain America arrived to Erebor for the first time.  Be a dear and finish the saga for all of eager listeners, will you?”

                Ori’s son couldn’t help but smile behind his beard as he served Bofur a nice steaming cup of peach-lavender-bergamot tea (one of Dori’s most famous and creative mixes) flavored with milk and sugar and refilled his father’s cup before allowing to retreat back as the sea of cherubic faces looked up at the Storyteller of Erebor eagerly with wide, puppy eyes.

                “As you wish, dear friend…” laughed the old Dwarf, looking livelier than he had in weeks and so very happy to see one of his dearest friends and kin again.  With a few sips of his tea of moisten his lips and tongue, Ori continued with a fond smile amid a rapt audience.

                “While I was under Bolg’s captivity, Steven told me exactly what happened when he found Dwalin after learning of my abduction…”

                Steve Rogers was thankful that Nori’s Spy Network was very accurate as he peered around the dim murkiness of the Royal Guard training grounds only to immediately spot a disenfranchised and despondent Dwalin Fundinson, sitting limply on the cavern floor, two empty bottles of firewhiskey next to him, each drained to the last drop.

                And Dwalin was currently opening a third one.

                “Dwalin, you need to come with me.  The Orcs and Goblins surrounded us and are attacking the mountain.  King Thorin, King Thranduil, King Bard and the Company need your help.  I need your help,” Steve requested firmly as he strode forward the Captain of the Ereborian Guard.

                “Piss off.  They can handle matters without my assistance now that they have you and the esteemed Thor Odinson.  Leave me be, you traitorous lily-livered boy,” Dwalin muttered, not even bothering to look up from his task of opening the bottle of alcohol.

                Steve had enough as he knelt in front of Dwalin with urgency.

                “Dwalin, for God’s sake, listen to me!” protested Steve, “Ori’s been kidnapped!  The entire Library staff was working with the Orcs all along, like how Alfrid Lickspittle and his kidnappers were!  Ori’s in danger, and I need your help to rescue him!  Do you understand?!  The Orcs have Ori hostage!  They will kill him!”

                “So go on and do it like the hero and Avenger you proclaim to be.  Leave me be.  Ori is no concern of mine.  He is your responsibility now,” Dwalin said listlessly without anger or emotion as he finally tugged loose of the cork from the mouth of the bottle and began to guzzle the firewhiskey straight.

                To his credit, Steve maintained his temper as he roughly snatched the bottle from Dwalin’s hands and flung it aside, shattering it into fragments from the distance as he then leaned up close to Dwalin’s face and spoke with intense restraint, each word stabbing through the wall of silence and stubbornness between the Avenger and the Dwarf.

                “Dwalin: Ori does not love me.  He loves you.  He.  Loves.  You.  I am only his friend, but I care for him too.  Ori is going to die if you do not help make things right.  Nothing had happened between us, and nothing ever will.  Ori is and always will be faithful to you, and he misses you so damn much.  And now he will die unless you help make things right and save him and reconcile with him, your One.  Do you understand?  It’s not too late.  Make it right and help me.”

                Dwalin just gave Steve a despondent, dead look.

                “You owe me another bottle,” the Dwarf just stated, without feeling and without even showing a flicker of fire and fight and the courage and bravery grit that made him a warrior.  He just hung limply in between Captain America’s hands like a sack of flour.

                It was clear Dwalin was still severely depressed, as if he lost the will to live.

                And by everything that was holy, Steve was very, very tempted to beat the living daylights out of Dwalin until he regained his senses.  Instead, Captain America stood up and gave Dwalin a look of pure disgust and loathing as he spoke in a cold voice that would have made the Red Skull pause.

                “Is that how it is?  You’ll let Ori die?  You’ll abandon your One?  Over a misconception?  Over a misunderstanding?”

                “Shove off and jump off a cliff, you walking saint…” Dwalin declared fiercely as tears glistened in his eyes, now actually being a bit hysterical as his voice went slightly hoarse, “Why can you not leave me be?  Why must you remind me why Ori left me?  Why must you remind me of my shortcomings, an ugly ass of a Dwarf?  Why can you not leave me be?  Go!  And find help elsewhere!  I will not be reminded how Ori left me and abandoned my faithfulness and love for your adoration, just like everyone else in this damn mountain!  There is nothing for you here, Captain America, so go and be with my – with that lying, unfaithful Scribe of a Dwarf.  Just go.  Please.”

                Dwalin ended this last word with a supplicating tone, close to begging as he dropped his head towards the ground again, his arms and hands listlessly limp in front.

                Steven just stood there, stony and imposing as he frowned at Dwalin.

                Then, as abruptly as a flicker of lightning or a gust of breeze, the Avenger’s demeanor changed as he smirked.

                “You’re right…” Steve decided, “Ori is a lying whore.”

                Dwalin’s head snapped up so fast that one could almost be amazed that his neck bones didn’t break from the sudden movement as he gawked at Captain America, stunned, flabbergasted…and oh so very insulted.

                Steve then continued, his posture slack and relaxed, as if he was not a military commander but a lazy, easy-going bum as he shrugged.

                “It was way too easy to convince the bookworm that I loved him.  For a Dwarf who studies all day, he sure lacks any brains when it comes to common sense.  I mean, c’mon!  All the other residents in Middle Earth were right to be suspicious.  What could I ever have in common with a brainy nerd?  What could a librarian ever attract in me, Captain America, the guy who punched out Hitler and fought an alien invasion in New York?  Nothing!  Absolutely nothing!  And don’t get me wrong.  Ori sure tasted sweet, but…I’ve had better.  You really think I had something special with that little pipsqueak?  I’m the steak, a prime hunk of beef, a Man’s Man!  I’m not getting tied down to an anti-social, soft-spoken wimp. I’ll break things off with Ori gently when I leave with Thor, though.  He’ll understand it’s what military soldiers do: a lover in every port and city.  Oh, but I’m sure he’ll bounce back once the next Dwarf or Man comes with some shallow flattery for him to fall for.”

                Dwalin was now twitching, his face alabaster as the blood drained from his head in livid indignation as his cheeks burned vermillion while the veins in his forehead absolutely pulsed out an ugly purple.  He did not even feel the pain of grinding his teeth as he heard each word from the bastard’s mouth, his wrath bubbling and simmering dangerously.

                Steve sauntered away slowly, like a tantalizing target, his back turned to Dwalin as he carried on, “Don’t be so shocked, Dwalin.  You’ve heard what the other Dwarves have called him behind his back.  He and his family are just poor white trash, not from any noble lineage and low as dirt.  Even being one of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield who liberated Erebor doesn’t change the fact that they’re not worth a single gold coin, their family name tied with beggars, prostitutes, and slackers who would work their lives as servants or blue-collar jobs.  No wait, I take that back: a blue-collar job would be too good for Ori to even manage.  Seems like the Royal Library and Scribe is the best job for him: it’s the one place to not get any recognition or praise since he’s not interested in the more important stuff like metal working or fighting or working in a forge like a true respectable Dwarf.”

                “You…” hissed Dwalin vehemently as one corner of his clenched jaw built up a small bubbling wad of spit as he then reached for Grasper and Keeper, his palms wrapped around the handles so tightly that the metal actually groaned and bent underneath the budding pressure.  Every insult, every blasé offence, every nonchalant slight was breaking through Dwalin’s stoic depression and shattering it like fragile glass, only to reveal the undertow of hellish anger and lava in his heart.

                “Oh, but Ori was just so good at using his tongue and mouth!” groaned Steve with a bark of derisive laughter, “Seriously, I never expected how eager he was at it and how easy it was for him to spread his legs!  He must have gone down on the rest of the Company during the trip to reclaim the mountain from Smaug.  With Nori being a thief, and Dori being a stuffy, nouveau riche know-it-all, it only makes sense that Ori would be that willing to be a social climber.  Figures that he must have gone on his hands and knees for anyone else in the Company if it meant that he and his family could get ahead.  I wonder if he even propositioned himself to Bilbo and Thorin for a threesome.  And I can picture how many times he serviced the Princes, Kíli and Fíli.  That must be why he’s such good friends with them, now that I think about it.  Ori Rison, the Royal Concubine of Erebor!  Pfft!  Well, better than being a librarian, I guess.”

                Dwalin wasn’t just seeing red.  He was one-hundred percent done and seeing a dark haze of crimson, fresh like the blood he was going to spill when he hacked Steven Rogers to miniscule pieces as his wrath, his exasperation, his umbrage was now nearly frenzied and overwhelming, begging to unleash in a miasma of violent bloodshed.

                Dwalin was barely handling on to his madness and sanity by a mere thread.

                Steve’s voice then went to a mocking falsetto as he derided, “You should have seen how much Ori’s face lit up when I complimented him, and it was so pathetically easy.  I’ve had more challenging times charming kids in Russia.  Oh, Ori, your art is so wonderful!  Oh Ori, you’re so fantastic at organizing and running the Royal Library by yourself!  Oh Ori, can you draw me if you ever get a chance?  It would mean so much - !”

                “YYAAAAAAAA!” bellowed Dwalin, roaring like thunder and foaming at the mouth, as he rushed at Steven with his axes raised and ready to cleave flesh.  He swung wildly at Steven’s legs, hoping to dislocate and shear the whelp’s knee and cripple him into an easier target, but Steve merely sidestepped, missing the blade by a good berth and leaving Dwalin with nothing to assault but empty space.

                Aggravatingly enough, Steve’s back was still to Dwalin and Steve was still talking.

                “Oh Ori, your hands are so smooth yet cold!  Why don’t we cuddle on the bed against the fire?  Oh, this is yours and Dwalin’s bed?  Well, I’m sure what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him…” Steve teased.

                “MISCREANT!” roared Dwalin as he blitzed again, raising his axes high above his head before swinging down directly at Steven’s spinal cord in his back.  Like an acrobat, Steve just pirouetted like a dancer and narrowly avoided the attack, leaving Dwalin to crash on the floor in a heap.  Still incensed, Dwalin hurriedly got up and tried to murder Captain America again.

                “Oh Ori, you knit such pretty designs!  You could sell these for a lot of gold!  You’re just that talented!”

                “WRETCH!” screamed Dwalin as he threw Grasper at Steven’s head.  The axe tore across the air in a blink of an eye, and yet, by the damned luck of the Valar, Steve inclined his head ever so slightly, and the machete missed by an inch only to embed itself into the far wall.

                Dwalin failed.

                Again.

                “Oh Ori, your kisses are like candy, so sweet and tender!”

                “PIG!” Dwalin hollered as he seized his remaining axe with both hands and swung at Steve’s pelvis.  He missed as Steve swiveled out of the way.

                “Oh Ori, your hair smells like chestnuts and is so soft like goose down!”

                “JOITHEAD!”

                Dwalin missed again as he tried to scythe off Steve’s feet.

                “Oh Ori, whisper poetry in my ears.  Your Dwarvish lyrics are like angels’ song!”

                “VARLOT!”

                Dwalin missed again as he narrowly tried to chop Steve’s arm.

                “Oh Ori, come help me learn this word in Khuzdul!  It’ll be our secret, just the two of us!  No one else has to know about you breaking a Dwarvish taboo!”

                “STRUMPET!”

                Dwalin missed again as he leapt high into the air, ready to drive Keeper directly downwards on top of Steven’s skull, but with a quick stride, Steve eluded the hit and left poor Dwalin to whack nothing but the stone ground.  To add further insult to injury, the Dwarf swung his axe so hard, the head of his weapon was stuck fast into the rock and could not be pulled out the base, no matter how vigorously Dwalin pulled at the handle.

                Steven ambled up close-by and leaned down slightly towards the Dwarf, one eyebrow raised arrogantly.

                “You missed me, Mister - ”

                That was all the Avenger could brag before Dwalin’s fist shot out and promptly embedded itself into Steve’s nether-region, with Dwalin taking additional care to dig his metal knuckle-guards deep into Steven’s crotch.

                Though Steve flinched a bit, he didn’t buckle under the pain as Dwalin expected him to do.  Dwalin blinked at the blonde who was still standing of his own accord without a single groan of pain escaping out of his lips.

                “I wear a cup, Mister Dwalin,” Steve intoned flatly.

                Dwalin was completely overwhelmed as he howled and abandoned his axe before he charged back on his feet and pounced towards Steve Rogers, ramming himself into Steve’s stomach.  But like a seasoned fighter, Steve fell backwards, taking the full momentum of the tackle before seizing Dwalin’s wrists as he landed on his back.  With a simple flip and wrestling maneuver, Steve rolled backwards before Dwalin found himself face-down on the floor on his stomach with Steven sitting on top of his back, pinning Dwalin’s hands behind Dwalin’s back with a clutch of steel.

                No amount of thrashing and cursing could enable Dwalin to free himself out of Steven’s hold or his heavy body pressing against him.  Steve noted nonchalantly.

                “Not much a good time,” Steve commented, “Ori was a lot more eager when he rolled around with me.”

                Dwalin, purple in the face and with one vein sticking out of his forehead in anger, roared to the heavens, his frenzied and manic voice echoing throughout the Lonely Mountain (where quite a few other Dwarves, Elves, and humans could actually distinguish his hollering through the thick rock).

                “YOU LEECH OF A MANURE HEAP!  YOU BLIGHT OF STONE AND GOLD!  YOU FUNGAL PARASITE FROM THE REAR OF SMAUG HIMSELF!  I WILL KILL YOU, YOU HEAR ME, YOU DECEITFUL DROPPING OF A RAVEN’S NEST?!  I’LL KILL YOU!  YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO RESIDE IN OUR MOUNTAIN’S STABLES WITH THE SOWS!  YOU ARE NOT FIT TO TRAVERSE THROUGH THE UNKEMPT WALKWAYS AND SPIDER WEBS OF MIRKWOOD!  YOU ARE NOT EVEN GOOD ENOUGH TO LICK THE MESS OFF ORI’S BOOTS, YOU MOTLEY-BITTEN, YEASTY RATSBANE!  YOU DARE SULLY AND DECEIVE THE MOST HONEST AND COMPASSIONATE DWARF OF ALL OF ARDA?!  YOU DARE ADMIT YOUR GAMES AROUND MY ONE AND HEART, AROUND THE DWARF SCRIBE THAT SHINES BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN AND GOLD IN THE ENTIRE MOUNTAIN?!  I WILL MAKE YOU PAY AND PERISH A THOUSAND DEATHS AND HACKS OF MY AXES ONCE I AM FREE FOR EVEN DARING TO LEAD ON DEAR ORI, YOU PILLOCK!”

                Completely drained and spent, Dwalin wheezed, his face red-hot and as crimson as a sunburn willing himself to not curl up in shame at being bested by the insufferable, double-crossing Captain America.

                But the instant this canker-blossom released him…

                There was a minute of silence in the room before Steve then asked the armor-piercing question.

                “If you claim Ori is the most honest Dwarf you’ve ever known, then why the hell didn’t you believe him when he told you nothing happened between us?”

                Dwalin paused.

                One second passed.

                Then two.

                And then Dwalin’s face broke as he started to cry, hanging his head in shame.

                After all the days of self-pity, simmering resentment with unbearable frustration, and the dishonor and regret of seeing Ori whimper and plead for Dwalin as he left their apartments with his injured wrist…

                By Mahal, what had he done?

                What had he done?

                Dwalin bawled, ugly tears and snot dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

                Dwalin sobbed like a baby, the dam of stubborn denial finally cracking before the torrent of mortification and disgrace.  His entire body was quaking and heaving underneath Steve’s grip, feeling colder with each breath and snivel, and if Steve wasn’t pinning him down, Dwalin would have gladly ripped out every strand of his beard and hair with his bare hands for it wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest.

                Over and over, Dwalin just sobbed one word over and over, begging to Mahal and all of the Valar for forgiveness and respite.

                “Ori.  Ori.  Ori, Ori, Ori, Ori, Ori…”

                After a few minutes of uncontrollable weeping, Dwalin calmed down enough for Steve’s voice to go through, tender and understanding.

                “It’s not too late, Dwalin.  You can still make it right, but we don’t have much longer.”

                Releasing him, Steve respectfully stepped back two steps (in case Dwalin was going to attempt to assassinate him again) before he reached out and offered a hand.

                “Dwalin, I need your help.  Come with me, and help me save Ori from the Orcs.”

                Dwalin them gave Captain America a poisonous look, eyes blazing with a rekindled fire.

                “Piss off.  I’m not going anywhere with you.”

                Despite the insult, Steve smirked.

                It was a start.  Better than a mawkish drunk.

                But the Avenger leader was not in the mood for any more foolishness, so he just gave an amused tilt of his head before delivering his ultimatum.

                “Mister Fundinson, either you help me willingly, or I will carry you under the crook on one arm like a piece of luggage for the entirety of the mission.”

                Dwalin glared.

                “You wouldn’t dare, you Dancing Bluebell…” snarled Dwalin.

                “Are you comfy there, Mister Dwalin?” Steve asked as he rode King Thranduil’s Elk up the cliffs, “I’m not squeezing you too tight, am I?  I just don’t want to accidentally drop you.”

                “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…” repeated Dwain over and over under his breath with gritted teeth in Khuzdul.  He would have gladly tried punching Captain America from his position if not the fact that he was tucked firmly underneath Steve’s armpit and with one of the Man’s muscular arms wrapped firmly around his torso, pinning Dwalin’s hands to his side uselessly.

                The dark skies were leaden with black and dark gray against a bloodshot tone, almost eerily similar like the atmosphere during the Battle of the Five Armies.  The air amid the Gray Mountains was cold and frigid.

                And Dwalin absolutely disliked that it was unnervingly silent, like a tomb…

                Dwalin was outfitted (coerced by a no-nonsense Balin and Queen Dís) in his personal furs and armored tunic, with Grasper, Keeper, and his cumbersome yet powerful Warhammer fastened to his back while his belt sash was stuffed with throwing knives and daggers.

                Steven Rogers, however, was uncharacteristically decked in simple leather with steel Dwarvish chainmail atop his chest and upper-body.  Upon his dark leather coat were buckskin undergarments consisting of tight long sleeves and long pants that squeezed and caressed against his muscles like a second skin.  To complete the strange assemble were rawhide boots with soles of iron and fingerless pelt gloves and steel arm gauntlets, all silent and could creak and bend with barely a whisper upon the wind.  The polished red, white, and blue vibranium shield of the Avenger was the only weapon Steve had on his person, latched on his back by his harness along with a strange bags of tricks given to him by Gandalf.

                Steve Rogers was not wearing his Captain America uniform of the Avengers…

                And for a very good reason…

                Dwalin continued to fume, mortified.

                It was appalling enough that he and Steve Rogers were riding alone underneath the cold air and overcast sky in this foolhardy mission, but Dwalin additionally had the misfortune of an audience tagging along.

                Though silent, one of Radagast’s Rhosgobel Rabbits and Thranduil’s Elk were giving the Dwarf an amused side-eye of interest.  Roäc the Ereborian Raven was flying low on Steve’s left, cawing with some derisive laughter.

                “Tis a welcome bit of merriment in these dark times…” Roäc chuckled, and Dwalin’s face burned purple with humiliation as he wondered how severe the penalty would be to murder a respected Bird of the Lonely Mountain.

                Steve Rogers gracefully ended the tension.

                “Roäc, please ascend a bit, but do not go high enough for any ground troopers to spot you.  Put yourself in front of any high peaks as cover, and fly no higher than those.  Looks for any signs of anything unnaturally caused, tracks, a footprint, disturbed rock or mud, smoke from a campfire.  All right?”

                “As you wish, Master Rogers,” Roäc cawed softly.

                “Thank you, my friend,” Steve answered and with that, Roäc took to the skies.

                “I can’t believe we are doing this…” groaned Dwalin, face flushed despite the chilly air rappelling across, “Why am I doing this?”

                “Because you need to make it up to Ori,” Steve replied stonily as he held on a bit more tightly to Dwalin as they careered across the Gray Mountains, the Elk’s cloven hoofs rapping lightly on the shale.

                “No, I mean why are we riding on the King Tree-Shagger’s Deer?” groaned Dwalin as he eased himself against the cervid’s leaps and graceful bounds, “We should have taken the Rams!”

                Much to Dwalin’s ire and resentment, perfect Steven Rogers had the perfect answer already.

                “The Rams of Erebor need chariots to fit the both of us, but that would make too much noise and draw attention of any nearby the Orcs and Goblins.  We need this to be a stealth mission if we’re going to rescue Ori.  Secondly, using caravans would be too bulky and cumbersome to ride through the narrow cliffs and pathways of the foothills. Third, Elk have a very keen sense of smell, better than a dog’s, so when I asked King Thranduil if we could ride Bambi, it was so that we could track any scents in the area within a wide scale since there’s so much ground to cover.  If our Elk-friend can smell anything remotely like the Orcs and their allies, then that’s where we’ll find Ori.  And I asked Mister Radagast for one of his rabbits for aid because rabbits have an excellent sense of hearing.  And of course, Roäc will spot any enemies from above with his keen eyesight.  With these three on hand, it helps increase the odds that we’ll find Ori quickly because they can detect any clues and signs better than we can.  It pays to make friends with the animals if you have to.”

                “They are only helping you because you feed them, you pox of a stinkworm…” grumbled Dwalin. 

                “Whatever works...” shrugged Steven, not the least bit offended.  Though it was probably Dwalin’s imagination, the Dwarf could have sworn that both the Elk and the Rhosgobel Rabbit both simultaneously delivered Dwalin a rather huffy glare for the last statement.

                After several minutes of exploration, the itinerant faction paused upon a large fork within the cliffs, the divergent leading to two separate paths to the massifs with no preferable viewpoint.

                “Damn it…” muttered Steve as he analyzed both routes, trying to note which one would be the most likely choice for the Orcs and Wargs to trek through.  Unfortunately, the trails were littered with stone, pebbles, and hard shale slabs, and that sort of terrain did not leave indicative pawmarks like mud and dirt would.

                One incorrect decision could mean life or death for Ori…

                But then Dwalin’s eyes widened as he spotted a bit of purple on the pathway to the right.

                “There!” Dwalin shouted, and though Steve shushed the Dwarf for the noisy yell, irritated, the blonde then dismounted the Elk and released Dwalin before the two of them tore down the footpath to the clue.

                Steve let out an exhale of relief as Dwalin picked up the filthy woolen mitten on the ground.

                Ori left them a pointer.

                “Good Ori…” whispered Steve, “He’s using his head and didn’t panic.”

                “He wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you!” Dwalin snapped accusingly, his voice hoarse with grief as he cradled the garment in his large hands like it was a fragile, baby bird, dying inwardly.

                Steve narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything as he jerked his head back and mounted Thranduil’s steed.

                With great reluctance, Dwalin accepted the hand Steve offered out to him as the brawny Man effortlessly hefted Dwalin onto the wapiti and placed him in front.  Together, the Avenger, the Dwarf, the Elk, and the Rhosgobel Rabbit raced down the track.

                It was getting remoter and colder, and as much as Dwalin hated to admit it, the shadows amongst the foggy rocks and eerie howling of the empty winds across the Gray Mountains was making him jumpy.  And Dwalin couldn’t even begin to imagine how poor Ori was dealing with his kidnapping ordeal, scared out of his wits.

                Soon (though to Dwalin and Steve, it felt like agonizing hours on pins and needles), the path ended abruptly with a steep and high rock wall.  They arrived at a vertical dead end, the blockade too abrupt and precipitous for even a Warg to ascend comfortably, and Steven himself wasn’t sure himself if they needed to climb here or backtrack.

                “What now, you fop?  Care to admit you made a mistake at Ori’s expense?” growled Dwalin critically, and Steve’s jaw set firmly as the Avenger exhaled through his nose wearily, doing his best to not lose his temper.  Instead, reaching out and stroking the Elk’s neck softly, Steve asked soothingly.

                “Hey, boy.  Do you smell anything?  Did the Orcs and Wargs pass by here?”

                The Mirkwood Elk snorted softly and nodded once, looking at the passengers riding his back.

                Then abruptly, the Rhosgobel Rabbit next to them thumped the ground repeatedly with her hind foot, getting everyone’s attention.

                “What is it, girl?  You hear something?” Steve probed, attentive.

                The hare twitched her ears before she turned around and faced westward towards the surrounding side, her head pointing towards a rocky valley that sloped upwards with jagged spikes and precarious peaks with no safe passage.  There, aloft, was Ori’s second mitten, miraculously plastered against a rock by the wind.

                “Good girl!” praised Steve before he pointed behind him, ordering softly, “Here’s where you get off and go back.  Trace our steps and return back to the meeting place with Misters Beorn and Radagast.  Take care to remember the way here so you can guide them.  Do this, and I’ll plant a new crop of carrots and lettuce just for you and your family in Bilbo’s gardens.”

                The hare squeaked happily before she tore off, swiftly as the wind.  With a soft command, the Elk then rappelled upwards the valley, dancing amongst the cliffs and edges like a leaf, softly and without a sound, his cloven hoofs swift, sure, and steady.

                Soon the three travelers were almost at the crest of the dizzying divider when Roäc swooped down and landed ungracefully on the Elk’s head between its antlers.  The moose huffed, but he thankfully stopped, balancing himself expertly sideways against the precipice between his hooves against the edge.  Dwalin did not dare glance down; he was pretty sure the vertigo would have made him cross his eyes and blur his vision instantly from the extreme zenith …

                Roäc cawed softly, “Go no further.  There are Goblin sentries not far from your position as scouts.  I dare not advance without being spotted, but if there are sentinels here, then the legions of Sauron are not far.  Be careful to not trigger any alarms of warning, Master Rogers.”

                “All right,” whispered Steve as he dismounted from the Elk with Dwalin tucked under his arm (much to a sputtering Dwalin’s ire) and leapt a bit off towards a small crag.

                “Put me down, you - !” Dwalin hissed loudly only for Steve to hurriedly hush his ally before he whispered to Roäc and Thranduil’s steed.

                “You both did well.  Now, Roäc, go back to Erebor.  Wait for Thor’s signal, and then when it’s safe, fly to the Royal Balcony and pass Thor the message.  Glide low amid the valley so no one can spot you until you safely get far away from here.  As for you, Bambi, follow the path back to the mountain to the secret passageway of Erebor Bilbo showed you and wait for them there.  You both will get corn and all the clover you can eat for this.  Thank you.”

                The Elk mooed before giving Steve a farewell lick on the cheek and Roäc nodded before the two animals took off, flying and jumping soundlessly downwards as Steve carefully set down Dwalin on the narrow cliff.  Dwalin gave Steve a confused look, wondering if Steve was a complete idiot.

                “Bambi?” he echoed with disgust.

                Steve shrugged before he knelt down and motioned Dwalin to latch his arms over his neck to carry him on his back.

                “I liked the movie when I was a kid.  Seemed appropriate.”

                Though Dwalin had the sudden thought of using the moment as an opportunity to choke Steven, he ultimately reigned in his desire for vengeance as he looped his arms lightly around Steven’s neck as the Avenger hoisted the Dwarf upon his back.  With swift stamina and as quietly as a tumbling pebble, the Man scaled upon the rock wall, bouncing and grappling up the sheer, steep drop.

                Upon reaching the very edge of the cliffs above, Steven motioned for Dwalin to carefully descend from his back, and with some assistance, both the Dwarf and Man cautiously peeked up only to hurriedly duck out of sight upon the sight of over five Goblins patrolling their vicinity, dangling inches below by their fingers.  Despite being fleshy paunches, flaccidly rank with sweat and dirt, they were as tall as a human Man and also incredibly well armed with pikes, swords, and one was carrying a wickedly crude iron mace on a giant club.

                “This is tiresome!  Captain America and Thor Odinson best come,” grumbled one Goblin in Black Speech as he kicked up some dirt sourly and dangerously close to Dwalin and Steven’s positions.

                “No, I doubt they will approach.  They would not be foolish enough to leave behind the Lonely Mountain for a single Dwarf,” pointed out another Goblin as he yawned, clearly drowsy from the monotony.

                “Do bot discount his Dwarf friend,” a third Darkspawn stated as he lowered his pants and began to urinate, a steady stream of foul liquid actually passing above Dwalin and Steven’s position, “The Blacklocks were not mistaken when they reported how close Captain America values his lover.  Like any other Man, he will be blinded by sentiment.”

                “Pah!  Let us continue our rounds!  There is nothing here!” the frontrunner of the pack commanded, and the others gave various grunts of agreement as they turned around to follow.  The Goblin that was urinating was just about finished before Steven grabbed the front of his loincloth and yanked him into the abyss.  The Goblin fell into the chasm below, too stunned at the surprise attack and too late to utter a scream as he plummeted to his death.

                Steve turned to Dwalin and nodded as they both peeked over the edge to see the retreating Goblins, walking away from their locations with their backs to the two Captains.  Hurriedly, the Man and Dwarf pulled themselves onto the firm terrain, now on a steady plateau.  Dwalin was about to charge with his axes, but with a fierce grip on his shoulder and a shake of his head, Steven stopped the Dwarf before he signed in Iglishmêk (much to Dwalin’s ire at Steven’s sudden knowledge of their secret language).

                “Follow me.”

                The Goblin lagging at the back of the group didn’t even get a chance to blink before Steve seized him from behind in a chokehold before snapping his neck, and the foe died without even a moan.  Leaving the corpse behind, Steve then repeated the process on the next Goblin in the rear.

                And the next one after that.

                And the next one.

                And then three more.

                Dwalin was about to try his luck when, sensing something amiss, the chief turned around before he spotted he was now devoid of seven of his troops along with the two heroes.

                “Sound - !” was all the trailblazer could yell before Dwalin’s Keeper flew through the air and embedded into his head right between the eyes, and the principal Goblin toppled over before Steven’s shield ripped through the air and bounced off the heads of the two other miscreants, cracking their skulls, right before they could blow their klaxons to alert their nearby comrades.

                Steven’s heart was thudding out of his chest as he exhaled while he extracted his shield from the bloody neck of a Goblin corpse.

                That was too close.

                “Help me hide the bodies…” Steven signed in Iglishmêk, but Dwalin, unable to wait and stall any longer, furiously ripped his axe from the Goblin’s skull whirled on Captain America in anger.

                “Why?!” he snapped only for Steve to furiously shush the Dwarf before he whispered urgently in Dwalin’s ear as he hissed.

                “If there are any other scouting troops, we can’t leave any evidence behind.  A trail of corpses would give away to the Orcs that we’re here!  Now stop being difficult and do as I say.  Please.”

                Dwalin looked like he was going to goad Steve’s unmentioned threat, but sour-faced and with puckered lips, he and Steve lugged all nine of the bodies and tossed them over the cliffs where they tumbled down and disappeared to the steep drop below.  Dwalin then sniffed the air before he pointed in the same direction the two remaining Goblins were going to sound their trumpets towards, a series of small hills.

                “I smell them…” Dwalin said, pointed in the direction with a finger, and Steve nodded as he felt the wind buffeting against their faces.

                “We’re downwind.  That’s a plus…” Steve whispered as they slowly and stealthily made their way towards the stench, slinking through while keeping an eye out for any remaining scouting parties nearby.

                After several minutes, Dwalin and Steve reached a small hill where the stench of the foul Darkspawn was rather overpowering, making Steven’s eyes water, along with the faint ringing of blades and steel and armor mixed with the occasional howling and growls of Warg steeds.  Steve motioned to Dwalin to crouch low, and on their hands and knees, the two slowly crawled upwards before peering as far as their dared above the hill’s crest.

                Dwalin’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as Steven held his breath in shock.

                Before them amid the dales and basins right in the middle of the Gray Mountains ranges was an immeasurable sea of Orcs, Trolls, Goblins, and Wargs, the expanse nearly limitless and extending beyond the horizon.  Amid the black bedrock and snow-covered quarry was a literal field of pale, slimy complexions, dark steel and armor, and mangy fur.  Each and every one of the foul creatures were armed to the teeth, and much to Steven surprise, he could detect a few catapults, battering rams on wheels, carts loaded with explosives, and other bits of crude yet ingenious technology.

                Dwalin paled.

                This was actually much, much more menacing and grander than the numbers Thorin and Company fought against in the Battle of the Five Armies.  All the Darkspawn of Melkor from Moira, Gundabad, the Misty Mountains, and possible even Mordor must have congregated here so close to Erebor, Mirkwood, and Dale over the past year in their desire for vengeance for their humiliating loss.   As much as he hated to admit it, Steve was a little doubtful that even Mjolnir could wipe them all out in one blow.  And thanks to the Earth Eater tunnels, all of their foes were allowed to regroup and repopulate their numbers without any detection, taking advantage of the relatively short year of peace and rebuilding and restructure.

                Dwalin leaned higher as he scanned the swarming and rumbling assemblies.

                Where was Ori?

                Steve hastily dragged Dwalin down and out of sight by the back of the Dwarf’s tunic, much to Dwalin’s provocation and ire before Steven descended down halfway the hill (with Dwalin struggling in tow) before deciding it was safe to talk.

                “That is a lot of Orcs and Goblins, far too many for the two of us to take down…” Steve whispered.

                “I don’t - !” but Dwalin’s heated outburst was swiftly silenced as Steve harshly wrapped one hand around his lower jaw.  Thankfully, though a few Wargs’ ears perked up, there was no indication that Dwalin’s frenzy alerted the enemy of their presence.

                Still, the fact that Dwalin nearly jeopardized them and Ori was enough to make Steve’s blood in his veins roar with a thousand furnaces as he glared at the Dwarf Captain (who was vainly trying to extract his mouth from underneath Steven’s hand).  Bringing Dwalin close enough that their noses were touching, Captain America hissed furiously in Dwalin’s ear.

                “Do you want Ori to die?”

                Dwalin glared a bit before lowering his eyes.  Steve then growled, his voice soft as the wind but no less vehement.

                “Then you follow my lead.”

                Steven then took out his knapsack before removing several paper packets of pepper from Bilbo’s kitchens, tightly folded but nearly bursting at the seams as well as a multitude of multi-colored rods and parcels with small strings attached that looked suspiciously like…

                “Are those…fireworks?” Dwalin asked in a hushed tone.

                Steven smirked as he mouthed, “Gandalf.  Part of my plan.”

                Now Dwalin knew that they were absolutely both going to fail…

                Meanwhile, General Bolg with his trusted commanders were seated in a bit of a secluded area separately from his vast legion, seated upon cushiony pallets of Warg skin, and with poor Ori still tied up and lying on his side in front of Bolg as the sacrificial lamb.  Though a few Goblins eagerly licked their chops like an appetizing sack of meat for dinner as they ogled at the Ereborian Dwarf, they knew better than to act as Bolg just gave all his soldiers a beady stare.

                “Any word from our Scouting troops?” Bolg asked in Black Speech to one of his lieutenants, Fimbul.

                “None, my Lord – wait…here comes one now…” Fimbul trailed off, and indeed, the entire crowd hushed and dropped to murmurs and whispers as the frantic Orc, riding on his armored Warg, galloped from the distance over the peaked horizon with great haste and speed.  From the way his soldier was callously making way without care as well as the tracker’s expression of distress…

                “I recognize him.  It is one of our Hunters, Urzut,” Fimbul stated with narrowed eyes.

                “Something is wrong…” growled Bolg with agitation as he rose from his seat while the crowds of Darkspawn parted ways for the messenger before Urzut leapt off his ride.  The Orc hurriedly knelt in respect before Bolg, one fist planted in the dirt, before he shouted his urgent report.

                “Lord Bolg!” cried out Urzut as he looked up, “We were misled!  Captain America is still back at Erebor fighting in the front lines!”

                That one sentence got everyone’s attention as Ori felt his heart clench, threatening to stop.

                There was a general outcry of shock and rage that quailed immediately before the enraged son of Azog, eyes wide and his clawed hands twitching with tense rage, hollered at the top of his lungs.

                “WHAT?!” roared Bolg.

                Back at Erebor, the Goblins and the Orcs and the Trolls were all having a rather difficult time as they assaulted the Lonely Mountain.

                Despite their numbers, the combined forces of the Elves, Men, and Dwarves were giving it as good as they got with arrows, blades, and the occasional rockslide they invoked to bury and crush the foes below.

                And that was not including Thor Odinson with his damned hammer and…

                Clang!  Smash!  Pish, pish, pish!  WHAM!

                “Damn that shield!” howled a Goblin in rage, wiping the blood off his face where his nose used to be (before the red, white, and blue shield of Captain America tore it clean off) as the metal discus ricocheted and bounced between several Orcs and a Troll’s kneecap before returning back into the hands of said Avenger.  Enraged, the Darkspawn tried to blitz and tackle the uniformed Super-Soldier, but a battalion of arrows from Kíli, Tauriel, and a few Elf and human archers besieged the enemy.  As numerous foes toppled dead or busied themselves with their injuries, it allowed the red-white-and-blue costumed soldier to scrabble upwards the rock wall like an nimble cat before hurling his shield at several of the rickety wooden ladders that Goblin troops were using to ascend towards the parapets, splintering them upon impact.

                “Your spell in working, Master Radagast…” Beorn intoed as he tossed a heavy bolder of granite over one of the battlements, enjoying the sickening thud of the projectile crushing enemies, bone, and flesh in its wake.

                Radagast the Brown smiled as he used his staff to guide the shield from its trajectory back into the Captain’s hands.

                “It is a mere movement spell.  Hardly anything strenuous,” Radagast stated.

                With that, the eccentric Istari then summoned a flock of finches and swallows to dive from the mountaintops to flock and assault the Goblins below.

                Bifur, who hurled a spear directly into the eye of a Cave Troll below, asked in Khuzdul, “Does anyone know why Nori has a replica of Captain America’s shield to begin with?”

                “He had it commissioned so that he could sell it to the highest bidder in the next ‘We Love Steven Rogers Society’ meeting…” Bombur answered as he and the entire kitchen staff along with his wife lugged enormous parts of hot, bubbling cooking oil before they dumped their payloads over the abyss below.  The screeches of pain from the Goblins below was actually quite satisfactory…

                “Ask a stupid question…” Bifur sighed, rolling his eyes before he hefted another spear.

                With the shield bouncing back into his hands, Captain America managed to ascend quickly up the steep rock wall as Thor, in a moment of brilliant inspiration, send a bolt of lightning down below which instantly ignited the cooking oil Bombur and the other Dwarves tossed on their enemies.  While the scum burned and screamed as they were immersed in flames, the Avenger in full costumed glory stood tall for all to see, far out of the reach of arrows and spears from the enemy deep below.

                Despite the appearance, “Captain America” was starting to tire out.

                It was so odd to only use a shield instead of his trusty bow or his swords…

                “How does Master Rogers wear this blasted mask and helmet?!” Legolas griped in Sindarin as he scratched fiercely under the cowl, “It itches!”

                “Do not take it off!  For the sake of all that is holy, do not take it off!  We need to keep the foul beasts fooled while Steven and Dwalin make their way to where Ori is being held captive!” hissed Gandalf fiercely in Sindarin as he slashed Glamdring across the throat of one Orc that managed to push himself onto the balcony.

                “I still think I should have been the one to don the Captain America armor…” grumbled Kíli as he used his foot to viciously shove a bold Goblin off the rampart wall, sending the creature shrieking to its death below.

                Legolas’ response was ever so smug as he pointed out, “You’re far too short, pigwidgeon.”

                A vein began to throb above Kíli’s left eyebrow.

                “Let us see if that armor is arrow proof…” the Dwarf Prince muttered as he aimed a shaft at Legolas’ rear end.

                “Let us also see if breaking your jaw with a shield will finally get you to stay blissfully quiet for once!” snapped the Mirkwood royal.

                As the disguised Elf and Dwarf began another round of insults and name-calling, this actually caused a few of the enemy below to look on with sudden interest.

                “Are we sure that is the Captain America?” asked one confused Orc, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “Something seems a bit…different.”

                Indeed, that Orc wasn’t the only one.  Quite a few Goblins, Orcs, and even one of two Trolls paused in their siege as they stared upwards at the quarreling Kíli and Legolas with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes.

                One Elf hissed fiercely in Sindarin, “My Prince, they are starting to suspect something is amiss!  Quickly!  Stay in character and say something Captain America would say!  Hurry!”

                Legolas wanted to vomit in disgust upon hearing that request, but he quickly ad-libbed the first thing he could say as he posed in a majestic fashion.

                “Fellow Men, Elves, and even you Dwarves, we must not despair!  For they have the might and numbers, but they are inconsequential to our weapons of love, loyalty, honor, and a willing heart!  United we shall stand, and we will fight!  The price of freedom is high, but to ensure that your children and your children’s children shall live a life of peace and prosperity is a price I shall willingly pay!  And if I am the only one, then so be it!  But when I see the bravery and honor of the Elves, I am willing to bet I am not!  Fight, my friends!  Fight for love, for your families, and for the future of Mirkwood and Dale!”

                “Aye, my shield-brother speaks correctly!” roared Thor who was next to the disguised Legolas and solidly patted him on the shoulder (causing Legolas to wince a bit in pain), “Let us gather against a common foe and fight like true Men and Ladies of Valor!  A tankard of ale afterwards to the party of the victor!”

                While the Elves and Men cheered loudly enough to dramatically show their enthusiasm, a majority of the Dwarves just pouted and grumbled, giving Legolas the evil eye.  They clearly caught on the subtle insult of omission in not declaring Erebor in that last sentence.

                “You are an absolute piece of maggot-pie…” sneered Prince Kíli.

                Prince Legolas then had a very wicked idea as he put on the cheesiest smile he could (showing his teeth) before he stooped down and hugged Prince Kíli enthusiastically.

                “I LOVE YOU, PRINCE KÍLI, MY DEAREST FRIEND!” Legolas declared loudly in Common for everyone above and below the embankments to hear, further humiliating the raven-haired Dwarf.

                “Shove off, you ponce!” snapped Kíli as he elbowed Legolas away.

                Down below, a few Orcs and Goblins blinked.

                “I daresay it seems to be Captain America…” one Goblin commented, “No Dwarf could fake that sort of hostility.”

                “The bloke certainly throws that damned shield like Captain America…” grumbled a Cave Troll as he held a hand against his aching and bleeding temple.

                “It is Captain America,” growled the Orc General, “What other warrior would be that saccharine and naïve?  Enough with the foolishness!  SCALE THE WALLS!  BRING FORTH THE BATTERING RAMS AND THE GRAPPLES!”

                The wave of Sauron’s minions crashed and rammed against the Front Gates with new vigor, but thankfully, the united heroes kept them busy with several new ploys.

                “NOW!” King Thranduil yelled as he, Bain, Gimli, and numerous citizens from Dale tossed overboard numerous barrels and beehives where they smashed and splintered against the enemy and floors below, encasing many in the sticky, gooey mess of pure, sweet honey.

                The Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls were stunned at the harmless act (although a few were enjoying the unexpected treat as they eagerly licked the sweet treat from their hands).

                “Yum!” a Cave Troll muttered in glee as he slurped down.

                “Is this…honey?  They’re actually throwing honey at us?!” an Orc asked in disbelief causing a few of his comrades to laugh derisively.

                “Captain America and Thor Odinson are truly as stupid as our spies reported!” sneered a Goblin, “This is nothing more than a useless tactic, a useless distraction of desperation!”

                He wasn’t laughing for long as Beorn then sent a massive swarm of his giant honeybees below, and the insects, salivating upon the smell of sweet nectar and honey, set themselves upon the enemies below, stinging and crawling all over them, and the laughter soon turned to screams of pain as the Goblins, Orcs, and Trolls swatted and flailed uselessly as each puncture of venom form the bees drained their life bit by bit.

                Meanwhile, the battles continued on both above and below…

                “I suppose it is safe to assume that I am now worthy to be the next Captain America, do you not agree, Tauriel?” Legolas flirted arrogantly with a toothy smirk.

                “It shall take more than the costume, you vain, pigeon-livered duckling,” grumbled Kíli as he fired an arrow directly into an Orc’s throat, causing it to topple backwards off the cliffs to its death.

                Unfortunately, with his sharp hearing, Legolas heard the insult, and not surprisingly, to Tauriel’s annoyance and worn patience, this began another round of sniping and insults.

                Although, surprisingly, it almost seemed like friendly banter…

                “You are simply jealous because you cannot even don the Captain’s armor, pignut.  Even the hammer of that odiferous Thor is taller than you!”

                “Speaking of Thor, you simply must ask him for tips about managing long, fair hair.  I mean, it takes one dandy to give useless beauty tips to another, and all that.”

                “Not a bad idea!  Perhaps the gorbellied Asgardian can also give you advice on how not to smell as badly as him with your rank musk that could even send an Orc fleeing in agony!”

                “Perhaps if you truly wish to emulate Captain America, you must start wearing the same rags and knotty-patted clothes!  With that new attire, you shall blend in perfectly with the other mangy Elk in your forests!”

                “As if I wish to appear as a homeless, leeching vagrant like you and Steven Rogers!”

                “You’re as weather-bitten as Steven Rogers’ face!”

                “You’re as muddle-headed as Thor Odinson on his rare bright days!”

                “Go suck on Thor Odinson’s tree stump!”

                “Go lick Steven Rogers’ rocks!”

                “Enough.”

                This last statement was uttered strongly by a glaring and done-in Tauriel as she gave both Kíli and the disguised Legolas a reprimanding look that would have even cowed King Thranduil and Thorin Oakenshield.

                “Fight the Orcs, not each other.  Kíli, for the sake of Eru, get back to your position on the bulwarks and continue to snipe any enemy archers in the distance and stop antagonizing my Prince and Friend.  Prince Legolas, continue to offer aid with your shield along the Front Gates within Radagast’s sight, and for the sake of Mirkwood, respect that Kíli is my One and behave as the diplomatic Prince you were trained as.  You’re both grown warriors, so act like it!”

                “He started it…” grumbled Legolas and Kíli pig-headedly, casting their glances at anywhere else other than Tauriel.  The She-Elf made a face of aggravation before wickedly making a suggestion.

                “Perhaps I should be by Thor Odinson’s side…”

                “NOOOOO!” protested Legolas and Kíli in unison (no, they were not whining, no matter what Tauriel said afterwards).

                “Then go fight the Orcs and do your tasks,” Tauriel pointed out in a straightforward tone as she got a fresh supply of arrows for her quiver.

                However, before she left, Tauriel could not help but throw a little tease over her shoulder.

                “Although Kíli is correct, my Prince: it shall take more than the costume,” she uncharacteristically giggled.

                With that she left, leaving Legolas fuming and Kíli smug.

                Kíli wiggled his eyebrows tauntingly.

                Legolas shook a gloved fist at the Dwarf, silently promising retribution.

                Steve has to admit one thing as he spied upon the Orc general from his position.

                Bolg seemed to be an excellent strategist; he only took two seconds to recover from the setback before he roared his order.

                “TO THE EARTH EATER TUNNELS!  MAKE WAY TOWARDS THE LONELY MOUNTAIN!  TO ARMS, TO ARMS!  TO THE EARTH EATER TUNNELS!  FOLLOW THE EARTH EATERS!  AND CRUSH THE DWARVES, ELVES, AND MEN AND THE HOBBIT AND FRIENDS!  KILL THEM ALL!  KILL THEM ALL!  RIP EREBOR APART!”

                The Orcs, Trolls, Goblins, and Wargs all cheered and bellowed in one cacophony of malicious bloodlust as they immediately picked their weapons and tools before stampeding posthaste towards the gigantic maws within the sides of the mountain range.  As many as there were packed in like canned sardines, the openings to the catacombs of the Eartheaters below could encompass all of them comfortably as they traversed downwards underneath the safety of the packed stone and Earth below, ready to trek onwards towards the Lonely Mountain.

                Soon it was vacant except for Bolg, Ori, and Bolg’s most trusted battalion of minutemen devoid in the massive clearing.  From what Dwalin could see discreetly from the distance, it consisted of at least a hundred muscular Orcs and a score of Wargs.  Ori whimpered softly to himself as he felt his skin prickle from the sudden eeriness of the silence all around him as Bolg and his Guards stared beadily at the Dwarf Scribe.

                One Orc stepped forward, drawing his sword as he advanced towards Ori, and Ori backed away pitifully despite his bonds.  But with a bark and a slash of his sword, Bolg cut down and beheaded the impudent soldier before Ori could fall victim.  As the decapitated Orc Hunter toppled dead at Bolg’s feet, Bolg raised his sword towards his other soldiers, snarling in Black Speech.

                “No!” Bolg growled, “The Dwarf is mine!  It shall be far better to take the Beloved of Captain America right in plain sight of the Lonely Mountain for every Dwarf, Man, and Elf to witness!  And see helplessly as I gut this Dwarf right in front of Captain America himself!  Only I shall reap the reward of breaking the Avenger’s spirit and crush his soul!  So hold!  The Dwarf is mine, do you hear me?!  MINE!”

                With that, Bolg sheathed his sword before he lowered himself on the ground in front of his captive.  At first, Ori was confused at what Bolg was doing as Bolg positioned himself on top of the Dwarf…

                Ori jerked as Bolg sniffed Ori’s hair and bit down harshly on the side of Ori’s neck, straddling the bound and gagged hostage between his legs.

                Bolg growled in Westron as he licked at the blood dripping down Ori’s skin, one clawed hand groping and squeezing Ori’s nether-regions through the fabric of his pants.

                “How sweet can you possibly taste?  How much pleasure do you bring to your beloved Captain America as he ravages you?  How much pleasure do you bring with your mouth?  Your scent?  Your body?  I can only imagine how entrancing you must be to gain the attention of such a formidable warrior from another world.  And now I will see myself…” mused Bolg repulsively.

                Ori struggled and bucked, but a backhand across his face sent him sprawled on the cold floor.  Dazed from Bolg’s blow, Ori couldn’t do much but make muffled sobs as Bolg began to ravish the poor Scribe, clawing, kissing, biting, and trying to rip Ori’s tunic and trousers off.

                “You can struggle all you want, Dwarf-Whore…” growled Bolg murderously as he claws dug deeper down Ori’s trousers, brushing against his male organ while sinking his teeth deeper and deeper into Ori’s shoulder, “I’ll make you beg for death as I split you apart.”

                Despite the gag in his mouth, Ori made a series of muffled screams, pitiful, sharp, and so heartbreakingly-wretched and desolate that it made Dwalin and Steve’s hearts clench with icy fear.  Ori resisted, but it was like trying to fight off an Oliphant as Bolg was heavier, more solidly built, and stronger as he pulled down Ori’s pants, crushing the Dwarf’s body against the cold ground.

                The other legionnaires in the backdrop praised and shouted support.

                “Take him!” one Orc salivated in Black Speech.

                “Violate his body until the Dwarf bleeds!” cried another in bizarre entertainment.

                “Split him apart!”

                Bolg leer was sickening, pure sadism.

                “Keep resisting, little one,” Bolg sneered as he licked his dead and flaky tongue against Ori’s ear, “It just makes me more eager to taste you…”

                As Bolg forced the Dwarf’s legs apart despite Ori’s effort, Ori’s final thoughts were on Steven Rogers, on Dori and Nori, on Dwalin, his gruff, brave, strong…

                “Fill him!” adulated a third Orc, as she hopped up and down with orgasmic adoration, “Fill the whore with your mighty seed until - !”

                Clang!

                The Orc died without even finishing the sentence as she toppled forward, the stem of her neck connecting to the back of her skull snapped and severed lethally while the telltale red, white, and blue shield bounced from the dead Orc right back to…

                “Captain America?!” screeched several Orcs as they turned to the west to see Steve Rogers galloping towards them, decked in leather and chain mail as he caught the shield deftly in his hands.  Evan without his telltale uniform, the muscular build, hair of wheat and straw, along with the blazing eyes of the icy sky were unmistakable.

                Ori blubbered loudly through his gag in relief.

                This instantly brought a flurry of activity as Bolg roared his orders while the Orcs scrambled in mad panic at the swift sneak attack.

                “WE WERE FOOLED!  HURRY, GO TO THE EARTH EATER TUNNELS AND GET OUR TROOPS TO RETURN!  WE’VE BEEN DECEIVED!  TELL OUR COMRADES TO RETURN BACK AS SPEEDILY AS THEY CAN!  AS FOR THE REST, YOU FOOLS, KILL HIM!  KILL CAPTAIN AMERICA!  A PLACE AS MY RIGHT HAND TO THE ONE WHO ENDS THE AVENGER FROM ANOTHER WORLD!”

                Eagerly, the Orc battalion sprang to action while the Orc named Fimbul galloped towards the Earth Eater tunnels, blowing his horn for all he was worth, trying to signal their soldiers to return.  Thankfully, they were still a considerable distance below to even hear the warning calls.

                Bolg grabbed the terrified Ori by the collar of his robe as he growled in the Dwarf’s face.

                “Do not even have the audacity to hope, you sniveling wretch.  Master Rogers will not leave here alive.  That I promise you…”

                A good ten or so Orcs aimed with their bows and poisoned arrows and fired, trying to maim the blond Man, but thankfully, Steve used his shield to stop a majority of the arrows from hitting him as he knelt down, managing to duck his entire body behind the vibranium shield.

                Upon seeing Steve halt, the archers reloaded their arrows while another faction charged forwards with swords and clubs, a few still riding on their Wargs as the furry beasts howled with the delight of ripping Steve to shreds.

                Until from behind, Steven hurled the two bags of red pepper with a powerful flick of his wrist in quick succession, both paper parcels hitting the lead Orcs and their steeds and bursting upon impact.  The foul enemies screamed in pain as their faces, eyes, and nostrils were filled with the irritating powder, and even the Wargs whimpered and whined pathetically as they rubbed and clawed at their faces with their paws as the suffocating miasma of spices made them choke and their eyes water.

                The archers then raised their bows as they prepared to fire again while a third group of Orcs and Wargs charged from another angle, trying to flank and surround Steven from his position…

                Kapaf!  Bang!  Paf, paf, paf, paf!  Boom!  Boom!  KABLAM!

                All of the Orcs in Bolg’s troop were instantly besieged by a multitude of glittering and scorching hot fireworks, the sparklers emerging into large shapes of lions, dragons, birds, and various whizzing popwheels and rockets of various shades and colors.  The entire field all around them was alight with a haze of the rainbow as Dwalin took full advantage of Steve’s distraction as he ignited and activated the fireworks from his hiding spot in the East.

                And the Orcs were caught in the dead center of it.

                Steve just smiled as he hurriedly tore in between the chaos, wearing his goggles over his eyes and one of Bilbo’s handkerchiefs tied over his nose and mouth that masked his face from the intensity of the fireworks and red-pepper cloud as he set himself upon the Orcs, punching, kicking, and using his shield to break skulls and bones as speedily as he could.

                Stuck out in the open, the Orcs tried to fight and hack their way out of the field of sparks as multicolored fire scorched and blackened their skin while rendering them temporarily blind, the flashes and sudden illumination overwhelming their retinas.  The Wargs weren’t much better as their fur began to singe and smoke with embers as they rushed away in mad panic.

                Finally utilizing all the fireworks Gandalf bequeathed them, Dwalin emerged from his hiding space on the hill as he rushed forward with Grasper and Keeper, trying to spot Ori in the crowd.

                Where was Ori?

                “There’s another Dwarf helping!” roared an Orc as he pointed at Dwalin, and said Dwarf was temporarily distracted as a Warg and two strapping Orcs rushed forward.

                Dwalin narrowly avoided the Warg’s lunge and the rider’s sword before he easily embedded Grasper in the side of the Orc riding atop.  As the Orc howled, Dwalin used the axe to climb on the Warg’s back as they rushed by, and with a second flick, easily killed the rider by hammering Keeper into the Orc’s skull.  As the gaucho toppled off his saddle without a sound, Dwalin then raised both axes over his head before driving both of them deep into the Warg’s head, right between the eyes while atop the Warg’s back.  The furry beast gave a strangled cry before it collapsed in mid-run, sliding and tumbling forward due to the momentum.  Unfortunately, the Warg crashed to skidding halt and sent poor Dwalin nosediving off before unceremoniously crashing face-first onto the floor with the heavy, dead Warg pinning his legs underneath to the ground.

                Dwalin was now trapped.

                The second Orc saw her chance as she charged with her mace, ready to end Dwalin’s life.

                “Dwalin!” roared Steve from the distance as the shield shot through the air and embedded itself right in the middle of the Orc’s torso, causing her to halt, blood leaking out her mouth as it seeped into her broken ribcage and lungs.  Shaking off the dizziness, Dwalin managed to forcefully pull himself from the Warg’s corpse as Bolg roared in the distance.

                “Captain America is weaponless!  Kill him!  He has nothing to defend himself!”

                Steve cursed under his breath as several Orcs rushed him; though he didn’t regret saving Dwalin, he put himself in a rather tough spot.  He managed to latch onto a charging Orc’s back before snapping her neck and then hurling the body at the feet of two other Orcs, causing them to trip and stumble, but it was apparent that Steve needed an armament and fast as the crowd surged all around him.

                “Captain, use my axe!” roared Dwalin in the background as the axe Grasper then flew forward, swift and sure, before it sank into the head of a charging Orc.  Steve barely had time to lunge forward and wrench the axe from the dead enemy’s head before another weapon clattered to a stop ten feet away from Steven’s feet.

                “And my Warhammer!” Dwalin roared as he took Keeper and Steven’s shield in both hands before he advanced slowly towards one Orc archer as it began to fire towards the Dwarf.  Eyes alight with hope, Steve actually dashed in temporary retreat as he ran away from the Orcs before dodge-rolling on the ground and narrowly avoiding the throwing knives hurled over his head in an attempt to nail his back before he snatched the heavy Warhammer from the ground.

                “Thank you!” Steve shouted breathlessly as he gripped the axe Grasper in one hand and Dwalin’s Warhammer in the other and set himself upon the faction of Orcs and Wargs with eyes blazing and teeth grit.

                The Darkspawn soldiers never had a chance.

                Steven moved fluidly with a quiet and inhuman agility that any Olympian gymnast would gladly kill for.  The Dwarven Warhammer and Grasper in Steven’s hands were so light and weightless, and they both flew swift and sure, cutting through the blood-soaked air with sharp whistles.  Any time an Orc tried to beat Steve down, he merely side-stepped or twisted his body effortlessly to dodge the swipe before returning a clout in kind with the Warhammer.  Normally, such a weapon required even a stout Dwarf like Dwalin to use both hands to wield it, but in Steve’s palms, it was as light as a feather as he batted and clubbed with surprising strength and raw power.   Gandalf would have actually made a humorous comment about Bilbo’s Uncle Bullroarer as numerous Orcs literally had their heads flying off their shoulders from the Warhammer’s strikes like gold balls.  A few Orcs tried to shoot the Avenger with their arrows, but Steve gymnastically cartwheeled and flipped in the air with smooth agility before delivering a few kicks, crushing the Orcs’ femurs and bows, and easily dispatched them with Dwalin’s axe.  One Warg with his Orc rider pounced and leapt high in the air, but in a brilliant move, Steve crossed the Warhammer and axe in front and caught the Warg by the throat where the two bludgeons met.  Twisted in midair, the Warg died as Steve snapped its neck and sent the Orc slamming to the ground headfirst as the Warg thumped atop of its rider.  Snarling, one strapping female Orc with a barbed flail tried to snare at Steve.  The Man hurled Grasper into the ground in front of her, and to the Orc’s surprise, the axe was embedded into the rock and pinned the whip to the terrain, making it stuck and unable to allow the Orc to flagellate around.  In a smooth move, Steve dashed forward and used Black Widow’s hurricanrana move, juggling himself atop the Orc’s shoulders and squeezing the Orc’s head between his thighs.  Using the momentum, Captain America slammed his opponent to the floor, and another twist of his legs snapped the Orc’s neck and kept her down permanently.

                Dwalin darted and zig-zagged erratically across the warzone, and thanks to his shorter stature, it was much more difficult for Orcs to hit him as he weaved, slashing with Keeper while keeping Captain America’s shield up to deflect any arrows and knives.  Dwalin was actually thankful that the shield was large enough to cover his entire body from attacks.  Now forced to fight on the defensive, Dwalin hacked as much as he could, successfully crippling many Orcs as he aimed for the knees and legs right before dispatching them with a final blow to the back of the head with Keeper.  Already, there was a trail of corpses as the Ereborian Captain did his best to survive.  One Orc with double swords began to slash repeatedly at Dwalin, and startled, Dwalin held out the red, white, and blue shield in front, and the Orc was staggered to have the vibranium countering the Morgul Blades so well that the blowback nearly sent the Orc stumbling, his fingers aching from the impact.  Upon inspiration, Dwalin charged forward and caught him opponent by surprise before he barreled right into the Orc’s stomach and sent the beast sprawling on his back.  The Orc’s last sight was Dwalin bringing the edge of the shield down as hard as he could on the Orcs’ throat, beheading him instantly.  Enraged, one strapping Orc stepped forward with a gigantic mace and club before he swung.  Dwalin ducked before in a fit on inspiration, brought the shield down on the Orc’s foot, and the evil creature roared in pain as his foot was completely cleaved clean off down to the bone.

                Steve dashed forward from the distance, hurling Keeper across the air and embedding itself into a nearby Orc from Dwalin’s position before he yelled out as he leapt, “DWALIN!”

                Dwalin pivoted and grabbed his opponent’s arm, and rammed his foot at the back of the Orc’s knee to send the surprised adversary pitching forward.

                Directly into Steven’s fist as Steve descended down from the jump and rammed the knuckles hard into the Orc’s face.  With all his strength his could muster.

                Spuck!

                The Orc toppled lifelessly to the ground, his entire face caved in a gory pulp as Steve and Dwalin flanked each other, watching their partner’s backs in a rare moment of teamwork and trust.

                “You OK, Mister Dwalin?”

                “Yes.  And…you?”

                “Can’t complain.  And your axe and Warhammer saved my life.  Thank you.”

                “…your weapon as well.  It’s a good shield,” admitted Dwalin after hesitating for a brief second.

                Steven got the oddest feeling that this was Dwalin’s way of an apology.

                “Did we get them all?” Steve asked, sidetracking.

                Dwalin hurriedly looked around before he realized one important fact.

                “Where is Ori?”

                “CAPTAIN AMERICA!” roared a voice from above, and both Dwalin and Steve whirled towards the source to see the pale-skinned Orc named Bolg, alive and unscathed from the sneak attack, in full glory.  Sneering, he held the bound and gagged Ori in front of him as a shield, and despite the noticeable height difference, Bolg was not the least bit unsure as he dangled the Dwarf Scribe in front of his person.  Ori was looking at both Dwalin and Steve with watering eyes, and due to Bolg attempting to rape him, the Dwarf’s trousers were loosely hanging around Ori’s ankles.  But Ori had little choice but to bear his predicament as Bolg was painfully yanking his hair up by the roots and forcing Ori to bare his neck as Bolg held a twisted Morgul dagger at his hostage’s throat.

                Ori breathed heavily through his nose, trembling, as the blade threatened to sever his throat and windpipe.

                Dwalin cursed; he couldn’t throw Keeper that far.  There was too much distance between him and Bolg, and the Orc would see it coming a mile away.

                Steven narrowed his eyes at the knife to Ori’s windpipe, recognizing the dagger as the same ones Alfrid and his men used to hold Bilbo, Bain, and Gimli hostage.

                Bolg growled in Common, “So.  Still alive, Captain America?”

                Steven narrowed his eyes at the Orc holding Ori hostage before he hefted the Warhammer and Grasper in his hands, declaring strongly, “I can do this all day.”

                Bolg sneered, his smile predatory.

                “Good, because so can I.”

                It was then that Bolg started to laugh maniacally as he then bellowed to the heavens above, “ARISE, BEAST!  ARISE!  I, LORD BOLG, BEG THE MIGHTY SAURON FOR HIS BLESSINGS!  ARISE!”

                “He’s barmy!” gasped Dwalin in confusion, not sure what was happening, “He’s insane!  Deluded!  There is nothing else here!  He has no other weapons!”

                But Steven then got a horrible feeling in his stomach as the ground beneath them began to quake and instead of being icily chilling, the winds all around them grew hotter and hotter as if a fire was being generated all around.  Dwalin then looked down at the gray shale and limestone before he noticed that the bedrock was starting to have a faint red haze, as if being stoked like molten metal in the forges.

                Dwalin cursed as he motioned back with his axe, forcing Steve Rogers to step backwards.

                “Move!  MOVE!  The ground is erupting in front of us!”

                Steve then realized that there was a reason Bolg positioned himself so far away from them as he stooped down, dropping Grasper.

                “Give me the shield!  Hurry!”

                Dwalin barely had enough time to follow the order before the earth and valley floor in front of them erupted with an explosion of pebbles, dirt, and razor-sharp fragments spewed out, a geyser of rock and fire and molten magma as smoke and brimstone clouds and steam circled around the strange anomaly.

                Thankfully, Steven, ducking with Dwalin drawn close to his body with one arm, protected them both as the vibranium disc held in front protected them from the debris (and a large boulder that would have easily crushed a Man’s skull in its trajectory).

                “You OK, Dwalin?” Steve asked, but then Dwalin’s face drained of all color in absolute terror as he peered a bit over the shield’s edge to see a rather daunting sight that chilled the marrow in his bones and sent shivers of crippling anxiety down his spine.

                “Oh by Mahal and all his blessings…” Dwalin whispered in Khuzdul as an inhuman screech of unholy evil rang throughout the entire Gray Mountains, so deafening and mighty that even a few sharp ears in the Shire and Tom Bombaldi could make it out.  Steven dropped his shield and covered his ears at the volume, wincing and feeling as if his skull was going to split in two from the unbearable capacity.

                Yet as the dust and smoke all around them began to clear around the volcano, it was then that Steven saw what had struck Dwalin so much.  Bolg, howling with sickening delight, crowed from behind on the hill.  Despite the wide-eyed and terrified Ori, the Orc General was relishing the wonderful view of the incoming slaughter.

                “YOU SEE, YOU FOOLS?!  YOU SEE WHAT LITTLE YOU MEAN TO THIS FIGHT, HOW INSIGNIFICANT YOU ARE TO THE MIGHT IF MY MASTER?!”

                Steven had endured fights against Red Skull, witnessed the evils of man and the horrible atrocities of the concentration camps in World War Two, withstood the alien invasion of Loki and the Chitauri in New York, and prevailed stalwartly against Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the government.

                But now, Captain America was absolutely dumbstruck as he viewed the hulking beast of fire, the glowing eyes of white and blood, the darkened horns of bone along with jagged sharp teeth with a mouth flushing of the embers of Hellfire from its belly, and the way its blazing wings of magma and tail whipped around the inferno and flame around it like a demon of the Netherworld as the creature loomed over them, towering over Steve and Dwalin like two ants against scorpion, casting a dark shadow of kindle and death from above…

                Steve then knew a fear greater than when he first faced Red Skull so many years ago.

                “What the hell is that thing?!” Steve asked, white in the face as the Warhammer and his shield in his hands went slack from horrified shock.

                Dwalin managed to utter a single word as the fiery creature fully emerged from the Earth.

                “Balrog…” the Dwarf stammered in dismay as Durin’s Bane roared, crackling its whip with the sound of a thousand thunderstorms.

                “Hold.  Does anyone else hear that?” blinked Prince Bain as he and young Gimli finished shoving off a particularly large boulder over the parapets.  Gimli shrugged as their payload crushed the rungs of a wooden ladder (with two Orcs on it), collapsing upon impact.

                “It’s most likely Thor Odinson’s thunder you’re…” but the Dwarf’s words died in his throat as he and Bain felt the very ground below them trembling, quaking slowly but building by its intensity with each instant.  The pulsations were aggravatingly constant, slowly mounting until the small rocks and pebbles began to dance madly upon the floor, until the Rams and animals of Erebor and Dale began to whine, bleat, and panic madly as they fought against their stalls and their masters’ grips, and until the rocking began to rumble throughout each and every cavern of the Lonely Mountain.

                “Is it a rockslide?” one Dale sentry asked, blinking, but Sebastian the hedgehog began quivering before squeaking a warning in Radagast’s ear, and the Brown Wizard’s eyes widened as he and a few others got the connection.

                “GANDALF, IT IS COMING FROM BELOW US!  THE EARTH-SHAKE!  IT IS APPROACHING DIRECTLY UNDERNEATH THE MOUNTAIN!” Radagast yelled.

                “By Mahal!” cursed Thorin before he roared at all the Ereborian Guards nearby, “Sound the horns!  Sound the horns!  THE EARTH-EATERS ARE COMING!”

                A few of the Dwarves began to instantly follow the command, blowing on their ivory and steel bugles for all their worth, and soon, within moments, the entire Lonely Mountain was blaring with the sirens of emergency and dreaded panic, ringing throughout the kingdom.  The Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls, sensing their imminent attack, howled with glee as their roars joined the unholy cacophony.

                Below in the mines, Bofur and Óin were hurriedly rushing all the miners out of the excavations below upon hearing the warnings.

                “Hurry chaps, hurry!” roared Bofur as he yelled at one Iron Hill straggler lagging behind the evacuation, “Move it - !”

                But that was the last thing the poor Iron Hills soldier ever heard again as the very ground discharged below him in a flurry of shale, granite, and stone.  The Dwarf screamed as he suddenly found himself inside the maw of an Earth-Eater, the wingless wyrm slithering upwards and sprouting in full view out of the ground in a blink of an eye.  Before either Óin or Bofur could do anything, the enormous unholy snake swallowed the Dwarf within its gullet, the screaming echoing deep as the Dwarf was chewed and digested with sickening noises.  Good, loyal Bofur felt himself get up before he rushed forward with his mattock, but Óin then spotted a multitude of creatures crawling out from the gaping hole and fallen, collapsed earth around the gigantic serpent’s head as the Earth-Eater mewled and focused its unblinking white eyes at them.

                “Bofur, stop!  Look!” Óin roared as he pointed at the Orcs and Goblins crawling their way through the passageway.  Bofur paled as he could distinctly hear the roaring of a lone Cave Troll as its meaty paw managed to get a grip on the edge of the opening before pulling itself up.  The Goblins and a few Orcs spotted the two Dwarves before their charged with their weapons, too late for the two members of Thorin’s company to run to safety.

                Thankfully, King Bard and two Elves along with a few Iron Hills Dwarves came to the rescue as the charging Darkspawn were besieged by throwing axes and arrows and the occasional dagger, halting them in their charge.

                “Master Dwarves, run!  We cannot defeat the Earth-Eater!” Bard roared as his arrow bounced off the thick hide of said worm, realizing that the rigid skin of the beast was probably just as impenetrable as Smaug’s scales.  The Earth-Eater, though momentarily distracted, reared back before it was about to lunge and gulp Bard and his troop.  Óin them had a marvelous idea as he grabbed a nearby clay bottle of blasting powder and hurled it upwards.

                Upon shattering against the rock and flint crystals in the pottery, the powder instantly ignited before a small but powerful conflagration exploded and engulfed the head and throat of the Earth-Eater, searing it instantly and causing it to retreat and screech to the heavens above.

                Óin tugged Bofur’s hand before the two of them dashed madly towards the exit, with Óin roaring, “Seal the doors!  Seal the doors!  Use the blasting powders!”

                The Iron Hills Dwarves instantly grabbed any blasting packets they could within reach before hurling it at the cavern and Earth Eater as hurriedly as their could, the mines shaking and collapsing madly while the Mirkwood sentries and Bard covered Bofur and Óin with their arrows, stalling the blitzing Orcs and Goblins.

                With much difficulty and their hearts pounding, they all managed to get behind the metal doors before slamming them shut and barricading them with iron bars and activating the locking mechanisms.

                “Will that hold them?” Bard panted, one hand clutched weakly to his pounding heart that hammered painfully against his chest.  Bofur nodded with an uneasy and shaky smile, attempting to hide his fears.

                “Aye, no need to worry.  Nothing can break a Dwarven lock and door.  Our craftsmanship is superb!”

                This was seconds before there was a sudden slam, instantaneously bending the metal entrance with a groan and curse as the metal, though remaining firm, buckled and bent inward upon the crushing body weight of the Earth Eater and the Cave Troll pounding against it.

                The others gave Bofur a rather dry look.  The hat-toting cheerful Dwarf shrugged sheepishly.

                “Er…usually.”

                “We need to warn everyone in the Mountain!  Sauron’s armies are attacking right underneath us!” Bard ordered.

                “I daresay that will not be an issue, your Majesty…” one female Mirkwood Elf commented warily.

                Indeed, what the Elf said was true.

                The entire kingdom of Erebor was being ripped apart by six gargantuan Earth-Eaters, with each slimy serpent as colossal and powerful as Smaug himself, and Thorin and many of the other Dwarves were instantly reminded of the siege from the dragon himself so many decades ago.  The wave of wyrms were swarming all over within the Mountain like ants on a rotting piece of meat, burrowing and tunneling through the rock and ripping anything they could within reach.  A considerable amount of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, taken by surprise at the unexpected brutality of the attacks, were devoured or flung off the peaks to their proverbial deaths.

                Or they would have if not for the Giant Eagles swooping down from the skies like true Guardian Angels, snatching any and all soldiers and civilians before their could splatter against the ground.  Radagast came through as the Eagle King, Gwaihir, and his flock plunged and tried to save as many heroes as they could with their wings and talons.

                “Thank you, Master Birds!” gasped a lucky Elf as she was deposited on the feathered back of a magnificent avian with an Iron Hills dwarf.  The Dwarf turned green at the sudden vertigo as he looked down the dizzyingly heights.

                “Oh by Mahal…” he whimpered as he then vomited, invoking a screech of outrage from the Eagle as some of the mess splattered on his plumage.

                In one cavern, where the Women and Children of Dale were hiding for their safety, one section of the wall crumbled and cracked as a gigantic Orc was pushing its way through with its club, with many of his comrades howling and shoving alongside behind him.

                A few screamed while the girl Steven helped earlier shied away, white in the face and her puppy barking madly in her arms.

                The two Dale barmaids, Bea and Mafria, then sprung to action as Mafria took two heavy bottles of firewhiskey and cooking oil before hurling them directly at the gap.  The glass shattered madly against the rock, splattering against the Orcs face and armor, but undaunted, the Orc continued to push through, nearly across and ready to kill.

                Until Bea took a lighted lantern and hurled it the Orc, the container shattering upon impact.

                The flame of the lantern ignited the alcohol and oil instantly, and the Orc howled as it was now coated with fire, backing away from the blazing crevice and rubbing its face madly.  Mafria and Bea then turned to the Women, their hearts beating with fear and determination.

                “Fight!  We cannot hide!  We all must fight!” Bea yelled.

                “Captain America desired to fight, and he was only a ninety-pound invalid when he tried join his Bucky Barnes!  We must follow as well!  If he can gain the courage, so can we!” Mafria pointed out fiercely.

                “I stand with Steven Rogers!” they both cheered.

                “We stand with Steven Rogers!” all the Women cheered, and as one, the Women grabbed pans, pots, rocks, anything they could reach as they defended themselves madly and with everything they had.  The Orcs and Goblins had no choice but to endure the multiple projectiles tossed their way, and it got even worse as Grugim and Palli along with a horde of Ereborian Guards rushed forward to the Women’s defense as they attacked with axes and swords, giving the Orcs as good as they got.

                One Earth Eater emerged out of the ground up to the peaks of the mountain where Bain and Gimli were helping the others on the ramparts, and Gimli was unluckily dragged upwards as the maw of the snake actually caught hold against his armor, dragging the poor Dwarfling high off the ground with no way to stop.

                Gimli cried in fright as he tried to extract himself from the Earth-Eater’s tooth while Glóin below cried in dread at the sight of his son in peril.

                “Gimli!” Glóin screamed, unable to do anything but watch, but then Prince Bain then ingeniously knelt down before striking flint against his dagger and lighting the fuse of one of Gandalf’s fireworks.  Praying it would help, the teenager pointed the end of the firework upwards at the enemy before the fuse ignited and the firework rushed forward.

                Boom!  Kapaff!  Pop, pop, pop!

                The Earth Eater howled madly as the sudden flashes of multicolored light scored a direct hit and seared into its sensitive eyes, teeth, and the inside of its mouth.  The beast shook its head riotously, the momentum and force snapping Gimli’s armor free, but the poor Dwarf youngster has nothing to hold on to as he plummeted forwards before falling away from the bulwarks towards the long way down to the base of the Lonely Mountain below to his imminent death.

                “GIMLI!” screamed Glóin to the heaven as his witnessed every parents’ worst nightmare, and with a sudden flash of red and steel, Thor Odinson flew by with Mjolnir in his hand before snatching Gimli in midcourse, catching the Dwarfling before he could fall to his end and to the Orcs before ascending in a smooth curve before landing solidly on the balconies with the others.  Gimli found himself hugged and squeezed intently by his father and Bain before Glóin, ashamed and thankful, looked up at Thor before swallowing heavily.

                “Thank you…” Glóin said sincerely to the blond Asgardian.

                With a smile, Thor nodded before he gyrated Mjolnir in his hand by the leather strap and with a mighty uppercut, the Asgardian sent the mammoth Earth Eater flying out of the Lonely Mountain, causing a major cascade of pebbles and sand to rain all around them as the immense body of the slain worm plummeted down to the ground below, crushing a considerable amount of Goblins, Orcs, and a couple of Trolls in its wake.

                Thorin Oakenshield peered into the abyss caused by the burrowing larva only to have his eyes widen to see that down the tunnel were hundreds of Orcs and Goblins, scrabbling upwards the walls easily and making their way towards the light and the ramparts above.

                Thanks to the Earth Eaters, the Lonely Mountain was being infiltrated with Darkspawn from within and below.

                But before the Dwarf King could voice an order, Thor Odinson raised Mjolnir above his head, the hammer crackling with electricity as the skies began to turn even darker and obscure as the deepest night, violent clouds of storm and wind and fire swirling all around the entire kingdom of Erebor in a blink of an eye like a powerful hurricane.  The air turned absolutely arctic as thunder rumbled and flashes of red and white lighting streaked across the heavens above, the pressurized air all around them causing the hairs on the Elves, Men, and Dwarves to pop up and wildly dance like seaweed in the tides of the oceans, standing on end from the magic of Mjolnir.

                “What are you doing?!” roared Thorin as loudly as he could over the howling winds and storm-clouds.  Thankfully, Thor could hear him.

                “It is now time, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield!” bellowed Thor Odinson at the top of his lung, “EVERYONE, TAKE COVER AND TAKE HOLD TO THE MOUNTAIN!  I WILL SMITE THE DARKSPAWN AND THE EARTHEATERS WITH THE POWER OF ASGARD AND MJOLNIR!  BY ODIN’S BLESSING AND HEIMDALL’S SIGHT, BRING FORTH THE RAINBOW’S BRIDGE, STORM CLOUDS, WIND, AND FIRE!”

                “How?!” yelled King Thraunduil, “The enemy is underground under the Lonely Mountain!  Your magic cannot reach them!”

                “You are forgetting Steven’s cunning plan for the past months, my friend!” the Asgardian cheekily grinned.

                “SO?!” Beorn howled over the arctic winds that frosted the tips of his fur as streaks of red, ultraviolet, and white flashed across the sky in a plethora of violent light, “I do not understand, Master Thor!”

                “We lined the tunnels with copper and silver, remember?” Thor grinned while the black clouds above grew darker and darker, thickly covering the sky until the air above seemed covered with black and gray wool, thunder ominously warning.

                “SO?!” yelled Thorin over the din of the incoming hurricane.

                “Copper and silver are excellent conductors of electricity!”

                Gimli blinked before he shouted, “Master Thor, I fail to see what is so significant about - !”

                But then everyone atop the peak and battlements of Erebor hushed into a stupefied silence as the maelstrom of lightning swirled into a whirlpool of flashing illuminations and sparkling comets, similar to the Aurora Borealis except much more colorful and certainly louder as thunder pealed across the kingdom so forcefully that even the Orcs below could feel the vibrations down to their bones.  Everyone witnessing the miraculous spectacle then knew the true meaning of the term “terrible beauty” for it was impossible to not be in awe of the sight of the rainbow-colored sky and cringe in fear from the thunder and lightning that threatened to split the heavens apart.

                With a dramatic flourish and pointing Mjolnir downwards, Thor sent the massive storm down below into the gaping hole of the Lonely Mountain.

                Directly to the Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, and Earth Eaters below.

                The sudden flare was so bright that everyone around and within Erebor shielded their eyes as the Darkspawn and evil soldiers of Sauron screamed as they were engulfed and overwhelmed with electricity and lightning, scorching their flesh and bone in a mere blink of an eye before succumbing to the heat.

                Muscle, tough hide, and metal weapons all met the same fate as the searing heat and intense radiation of Mjolnir charred all material into ashes within the span of several seconds.  The six Earth Eaters gave off a pitiful mewl before their bodies puffed up from the heat and exploded in gory outpourings of pus, bile, and blood.  Trolls were unable to withstand the might of the lightning as it snaked across their tough hides and left bubbling blisters and smoking wounds before electrocuting them, their faces frozen in dumbfounded screams.  The Orcs and Goblins tried to run, tried to scurry away in the shadows and corners, tried to press their bodies against every nearby nook and cranny in hopes that the shafts of magic and energy would pass them.  But that was impossible: Steve Rogers, Bilbo, and all their friends lined every single path they could find with copper and silver metal, and like homing beacons or ants to sugar, the surge of thunder and lightning snaked through and traversed every possible path underground, traveling from the skies above to the terrain below and rushing, rushing, rushing through and obliterating everything in its path like a surge of water.

                Cascading and roaring through, the lightning continued to spread all throughout the intricate webs of the Earth Eaters, leaving nothing behind in its wake except vile, choking smoke and piles and piles of ashes or twisted, blackened metal.

                The carnage underground was an absolute massacre as the might and power of Thor’s hammer continued to pour and surge below, guided by the metal studs spread throughout.

                Down below in the safety of the torchlight in the stifling air of the Earth Eater burrows, even the dimmest Trolls could hear the commotion of the lightning and thunder Thor was summoning from above.

                “That is quite loud…” mused a Cave Troll.

                “Should we be worried that the magic and might of a God from the stars could reach us underground?” one Goblin hissed worriedly as his claws tightened on his wooden torch, but he was cut off with a swift cuff upside his head by his neighbor Orc.

                “Stop talking nonsense.  How can lightning from the sky possibly strike us miles and miles beneath solid rock and dirt?  Not even this famed Avenger can perform such a possible feat when the Gray Istari himself was easily captured at Dol Guldur…”

                The Orc was then rudely interrupted as the Orc hunter Fimbul, the same one who was earlier with Bolg when Steven Rogers and Dwalin attacked the camp, came barreling in from the rear, roaring at the top of his lungs.

                “GO BACK!” Fimbul hollered, “GO BACK!  WE WERE MISLED!  WE WERE FOOLED!  CAPTAIN AMERICA AND A DWARF ARE BACK AT OUR CAMP, ATTACKING LORD BOLG!”

                This immediately caused a commotion as a Cave Troll growled in disbelief, “But…but that one Orc said earlier - !”

                Fimbul screamed in haste, “WE WERE WRONG!  IT IS A TRICK!  THE REAL CAPTAIN AMERICA IS CURRENTLY TRYING TO RESCUE HIS DWARF LOVER!  LORD BOLG IS FIGHTING HIM NOW!  RETREAT!  GO BACK!  RETURN BACK TO THE CAMP AND SAVE OUR COMMANDER!  FOLLOW ME BACK TO CAMP!  FOLLOW ME!”

                Despite a few protests and various degrees of confusion, the spawn of Morgoth roared and growled as they executed a hasty turnaround and quickly backtracked, running down the opposite way.  Although it took a bit, more and more of the faction separated from the main crowd as there were now two separate armies underground: those heading towards Erebor and those retreating back to the Gray Mountains to overwhelm Steve and Dwalin.

                Thankfully, it was too late for the enemy as Thor’s lighting blitz rushed forward in a blink of an eye seconds later, and Fimbul the Hunter’s final act was a small intake of breath, of surprised astonishment, as the hit energy enveloped and engulfed him and the rest of the crew.  He did not even have time to scream as he burned into ashes and evaporated under the intensity of the lightning.

                Within less than a single minute, the entire enemy perished and were wiped out.

                Completely.

                By a single strike from Thor Odinson.

                After two minutes, Thor sighed as he lowered Mjolnir, and within several seconds, all was quiet again as the clouds abruptly disappeared and the howling hurricane and tornado above dispersed, leaving a soft warm breeze to buffet the heroes’ faces as they warily looked in awe at the peaceful respite.

                “We…we won?” asked a Dale sentry in disbelief.  Thor nodded, smiling, as his hair buffeted gently amid the winds.

                “We have won, my friend.  Mjolnir and Odin’s Blessings have triumphed upon this day,” the Avenger declared, invoking a few cheers and exclamations of delighted relief.

                “And nothing of value was lost!” laughed Lord Dáin as he raised his hammer high above his head.  Thorin gave his cousin a flat look.

                “The Lonely Mountain has holes in it!” Thorin groused with gritted teeth, to which Dáin waved off insouciantly.

                “Ah, you worry over trivial repairs, Cousin!  Us Iron Hills Dwarves love a challenge!  We shall help patch up Erebor and perhaps line the holes with gold and jewels to rival the rise and setting of the sun!  Think of it as an opportunity to make your kingdom less dour than your face!”

                Bombur yelled at the Front Gates below at the fleeing Orcs, Trolls, and Goblins, “Look!  The enemy laying siege to our Gates is running away!  They are retreating!”

                “I daresay I have never witnessed Orcs screaming in fear like that before…” mused one Elf, blinking.  He was quite sure that a good number of them have additionally soiled themselves in terror as they fled, abandoning their weapons.  By Eru, even the Trolls were comically crying and wailing as they ran in various directions.

                “To be fair, lad, never before have we witnessed such a massive pile of slain Orc and Goblin corpses,” pointed out an Iron Hills Dwarf, “Not even the Battle of Azanulbizar at Moira have wrought this much carnage!”

                “Master Thor has taken out the majority of the Earth Eaters and Orcs.  With one blow…” Queen Dis stated in awe as the majority of Elves, Men, and Dwarves looked on the Asgardian with various degrees of reverence and anxiety.

                “Let us continually remind ourselves to never make Thor Odinson angry at us…” gulped Kíli as he whispered to Legolas (still disguised as Captain America).

                “Agreed,” hissed Legolas with wide eyes.  Then as an afterthought, Legolas added cheekily.

                “At the very least, until he’s out of earshot, correct?”

                “Oh, certainly, Tree-Shagger.  We still hate him, so it is merely the principle.”

                “Good work, Thor…” praised Bilbo’s soft voice and quite a few turned to see Bilbo, Nori, Prince Fili, Princess Sigrid, and Nori’s Loyal Spy Network herded over a dozen disguised Blacklock Dwarves, all of them in irons and chained manacles at their wrists and feet, sourly grumbling at their capture.  Nori nodded to King Thorin as he gave his report.

                “All spies from the Blacklock Clan have been accounted for, your Majesty.  We have captured all of them,” Nori stated.

                “Are you sure?” Thorin asked.

                “A few of them tried to take Sigrid hostage while Uncle Bilbo tailed them with his ring.  Thankfully, Sigrid could discern their plans even though they were talking in Khuzdul,” Fili smugly preened as he picked away at his fingernails with a knife.

                “None of the Blacklocks expected a weak, frail princess to be able to know how to perform hand-to-hand combat thanks to Captain America’s lessons at the ‘We Love Steven Rogers Society’ meetings…” Sigrid bragged as she tossed a lock of her hair out of her face.

                “Then dear Master Rogers has saved two of my children…” sighed Bard with relief as he strode over and placed a fatherly hand on Sigrid’s shoulder.  He felt a touch of sadness and pride at how his daughter was growing up…

                “Three cheers for Thor Odinson!  He has given us victory in battle!” cheered Prince Bain, and indeed, automatically, a good portion of the soldiers and spectators raised their fists in the air and cheered, only for Thor to shake his head as the brawny Asgardian raised a hand.

                “Nay…” the Avenger refuted, “It was not the actions of just my presence, my dear friends.  We all have earned this victory, together.  I could not have done this without your help or the support of all who bravely met the foul beasts.  We have all achieved this.  As one.”

                Bilbo smiled at Thor’s humility (while Thorin refrained himself from rolling his eyes).

                “King Bard!” spoke one of the Dale guards, “There is a fire in the distance!  Is it our fair city?!”

                “I do not think so.  It is too far off in the distance and to the southeast of the Mountain, nowhere close to Dale.  It is not our home that is alight,” Bard speculated as he peered at the horizon.  But then if it was not Dale that was currently on fire…

                “…is that Mirkwood?” Bifur remarked in Khuzdul, blinking at the flames and budding smoke.

                The scream of rage from King Thranduil was a confirmation at Bifur’s question.

                Lord Dáin just shrugged, nonchalant.

                “As I said before: nothing of value was lost,” the red-haired Dwarf said cheekily.

                This earned him a sea of pointed glares from the neighboring Elves, and Thranduil looked like he wanted to fling Lord Dáin off the battlements with his own bare hands.  Remarkably, and with great restraint, Thranduil turned his evil eye to a sheepish Thor, who was shrugging with embarrassment.

                “Er…only a portion of your forest is on fire.  And I am verily certain it is only the diseased wood that is currently aflame,” chuckled Thor with an eager, childlike smile of teeth and good humor.

                “Thorin, by any chance, is the ‘We Hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers’ Society still open for membership?” growled Thranduil.

                “It better not if my husband knows what’s good for him…” Bilbo said, giving Thorin a glare.

                There was then a series of loud cawing from above, and everyone on the ramparts looked up to see a familiar raven descending from the skies, now clear to fly after the sudden blitz of lightning and thunder minutes earlier.

                “It is Roäc!” Balin exclaimed.  Dori instantly was on alert, hands clasped together tightly in prayer.

                “Please…” Dori whispered to himself tearfully as Roäc landed on Thorin’s raised forearm, panting and feathers ruffled from his expedient flight in his mad dash to deliver his news.  He turned to Thor Odinson and croaked.

                “I bring an urgent message from Master Rogers.”

                “What is wrong?” Thor asked immediately.

                Roäc was grave as he cawed, “Enact Backup Phase 3 of the Plan.  Quickly!”

                “Let go of Ori, you bastard!” roared Dwalin with his Warhammer in both of his hands and brandishing it wildly as he charged towards Bolg (still holding Ori in front).  Bolg just sneered.

                The Balrog snarled as it whipped its fiery tail at the Dwarf, and though Dwalin narrowly managed to evade it, the tail still slammed on the rock next to his feet and the shockwave sent the Dwarf pitching forward on his feet and landing on his stomach, vulnerable and staggered.

                Ori screamed through his gag as he and Bolg watched the Balrog rear its arm back and send the flaming whip directly at the Dwarf, ready to terminate Dwalin off with one blow.

                “DWALIN!” roared Captain America as he dove and put himself in front of the Dwarf Captain, knees and arms tucked behind his shield right as the Balrog’s flail struck Steve and his shield.

                Whoom!

                Despite the vibranium metal, the force of the Balrog’s clout sent Steve flying backwards, and colliding into Dwalin, with both the Avenger and the Ereborian soldier skidding and tumbling across the earth as they careened across the rocky plain, slamming into a nearby hill and leaving behind a deep trench from their bodies’ friction.

                Dazed, bruised, and incredibly sore from Steve crashing into him, Dwalin managed to shake the dizziness out of his head before he gingerly picked himself off the floor.  But a cry of pain from Steve caused Dwalin to turn to see that Steve was now injured.  His face was covered with burns and his left arm, the same on he used to hold his shield, was leaking blood as Steven’s left forearm was severely broken, fractured at a wince-worthy angle.  Not even the steel gauntlet encased around his forearm could have fully prevented Steven’s mutilation.

                “Damn…” hissed Steve as he gingerly extracted his broken arm from the straps on his shield before using his good arm to grip the disc.  Dwalin, for once, felt incredibly guilty at Steve’s injury.

                “Your arm…” Dwalin began only for Steve to seize the Dwarf with his right arm (still bearing the shield) and dashing off with Dwalin tucked next to his side as the Balrog’s whip struck them narrowly as second time.

                “Later!” snapped Steve as he dashed off with Dwalin, skirting between the rocks and putting anything in between himself and the Balrog’s whip, somersaulting and cartwheeling away evasively before jumping down the nearest hill and out of sight.

                The Balrog roared as it struck the hill several times with its switch, but despite invoking a few surges of rock and dirt, it could not break through the obstacle covering Dwalin and Steven’s escape as the hilly area completely hid the two from view.  Bolg snarled with frustration at the brilliant maneuver.  Captain America was a lot smarter than he originally thought.  The Orc leader roared at the Balrog.

                “What are you doing?!  Go after them!”

                Though snarling with irritation at the command, the Balrog then began to push and pull itself out of the dirt, slowly but surely extracting its legs and the lower portion of its body from the rock burrow it sprung from.

                Despite the temporary respite, Steve kept galloping at full-speed, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Balrog as Dwalin kept trying to struggle out of Steven’s hold.

                “You coward!” Dwalin cursed, “Go back!  Go back!  Ori is still with Bolg and Durin’s Bane!”

                “We have to retreat and find a place to hide!” snapped Steve.

                “You yellow-skinned quitter!” screamed Dwalin, “You’re abandoning Ori!  At least I was willing to stay and fight, you mangy dog!”

                “You would have fought bravely and died quickly!  And then how would that help?!” snarled Steve, flashing his own teeth angrily, and at this logic, Dwalin just mulishly bit his tongue.  But to his surprise, Steve stopped and set down Dwalin before exhausted and done in, Steve sank to one knee and looked at his bleeding arm, sweat dripping down his blackened face.  Dwalin then felt even more of a heel as he saw Steven’s broken arm now stained with blood, further damaged thanks to Steven’s dash to escape the Balrog.

                As much as he voiced it in the past, Dwalin truly didn’t want Steve Rogers dead.  Especially not now.

                “I can bind your arm, but I do not have anything to splint it,” Dwalin offered, but Steve then got to the heart of the matter.

                “My shield is supposed to redirect any kinetic energy so that physical attacks can’t hurt me as long as I’m behind it.  Why could the Balrog’s attacks defy the vibranium in my shield?  Not even a Cave Troll could hurt me like this.”

                “It’s a Balrog, a fallen Maiar like Tharkûn – er, like Gandalf and Radagast the Brown.  It is a terrible beast of hellfire and magic, so it is unlike the Goblins and Trolls that you and Thor have faced in the past,” murmured Dwalin as he used several cloth strips to tightly bind Steven’s arm so that the bleeding could cease.

                Captain America swore under breath; his shield was not resistant to magic…

                “All right, this is bad…” hissed Steven as he fought against his swimming and dazed head, “But you know what a Balrog is, so surely, you know its weakness, right?”

                Dwalin’s face went as white as paper as he stared at Steven, causing Captain America’s heart to drop to the pit of his stomach at the sight of Dwalin’s crazed and fearful face.

                “There is a weakness to a Balrog, right, Mister Dwalin?”

                Dwalin just stood there, downcast and his mouth agape slightly in dread and apprehension, trembling.

                “Dwalin, now would be a good time for you to tell me its weakness.”

                “There is none.  At least none known to the Dwarves and the Families of Durin.”

                “Shit…”

                Normally, Dwalin would have found the saint like Captain America swearing in frustration amusing, but certainly now was neither the time nor place.

                Then to their surprise, a gigantic dragon of gold, red, and white fireworks emerged high into the sky for both Steven and Dwalin to easily see above the horizon and crests of the Gray Mountains before it exploded in a flurry of beautiful sparkles and popping bursts of the rainbow.

                “The signal from Mister Gandalf…” breathed Steve in relief, “They got my message…”

                Noting the exact position of the firework’s origin, Steve then got another brainstorm as he grabbed Dwalin under the crook on his good arm and sprinted away, using the hills on his right as cover and as a blockade against Bolg and the Durin’s Bane.

                “I have an idea.”

                “But we need to save Ori!  How can we help him if we’re running away?!” Dwalin protested.

                “Who said we’re running away?  This time, we’re going to Bolg directly!”

                That got Dwalin’s attention.

                “WHAT?!”

                “Dwalin, this is important.  I need to teach you a move called the ‘Fastball Special’…”

                At the same time, Bolg was irately screaming at the Durin’s Bane as the fiery hell-spawn was busily trying to burrow and pop out from the ground, its knees and its left wing still pinned from the narrow tunnel of rock.

                “Get up!” hollered Bolg frantically, nearly coming apart at the seams, “Rise, damn you!  RISE!  Dig out faster!  The Captain America is getting away!  They are escaping!  FIND THEM AND KILL THEM!”

                The son of Azog was too close to end it in failure now.  He would not be denied of his revenge.  Not even the irritated and incensed growls from the Balrog could quail his demeanor.

                After all, Sauron had promised him…

                The Balrog then paused before it sniffed the air and whirled around and roared…towards Bolg’s direction.

                The General then sensed a presence behind him as he turned swiftly to see Steven and Dwalin approaching his locus from his blind spot.  With a bared snarl, Bolg jerked Ori hard by the scruff of his neck, invoking a muffled cry from the bound and gagged hostage, as the Orc kept him in front with the knife at his throat.

                “Drop your weapons…” barked Bolg as Steve and Dwalin readied their shield and axes.

                Both of them glared but hesitated.  The foul beast then made a move to cut Ori’s throat, his arm quivering.

                “Weapons.  Now.  One cut is all it will take, and not even the Elves will be able to heal your Beloved in time.”

                There was a jittery stillness as none of them even dared to breathe, with Steve and Dwalin helpless and unsure.

                “DROP THEM!” Bolg shrieked, and Ori’s sight blurred through tears as Dwalin threw his axes down at his feet.  A second later, Steven relinquished his shield as well to the ground.  Both of them stood diligently, arms at their sides and feet braced apart with their hands clenched into fists.

                However, Bolg was no fool.

                “Kick your shield over to me, Captain America,” Bolg ordered harshly.  He was not going to take any chances…

                Steve hesitated, and with a sadistic move, the Orc Leader yanked Ori’s head higher in full view, dangling poor Ori off the ground by several inches as Ori squealed and cried out under his gag.

                “NOW, AVENGER!”

                Steve (with Dwalin sputtering in shock and dismay) winced and dipped his head a bit in defeat as he nudged the red, white, and blue metal disc with one foot.  In a powerful and impressive leap, the shield clanged and flipped upwards only to fly in a graceful parabola and land solidly inches in front of Ori and Bolg as neat as you please.  The Pale Orc crowed as he stomped one foot on the top of the disc, magnanimous in his apparent victory.

                “BANE OF DURIN!” he howled, his dilated eyes gleaming as his toothy smile grew wide into a vulpine and spine-chilling smile, “HERE THEY ARE!  CRUSH THEM!  CRUSH THEM IN FRONT OF ME!”

                The Balrog screeched as it rose higher and higher off the ground, turning around and spotting its intended targets.

                Ori began to cry, biting on the rag stuffed in his mouth, as Bolg leered, showing all of his teeth.

                “The compassionate are always the first to die…” derided the Orc Lord as the Balrog finally extracted itself from the rocky surface and spread out its wings of flames and embers with a unholy cry that rang throughout the Gray Mountains before it cracked its whip in the air like thunder.

                “KILL THEM, DURIN’S BANE!” cheered Bolg in malicious and sociopathic glee, “IN THE NAME OF MELKOR, ELIMINATE THEM!  DO IT!  I WISH TO WITNESS THE FALL OF THE AVENGER FROM ANOTHER WORLD!  CRUSH HIS BONES!  MASH HIS SKULL AND INNARDS!  SCORCH HIS CARCASSS!”

                Dwalin wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or offended that Bolg was forgetting him or outright dismissing him as a threat as he leaned closer to Steven as the Balrog progressed.

                “All right, so what is your plan now?”

                All Steven did was instruct him about this queer “Fastball Special”…

                “When I say the word, grab your axes and get ready to fly…” Steve whispered loudly enough for only Dwalin to hear.

                “Very well, but until then?”

                “Until then: stand still…” Steven commanded.

                Dwalin’s eyes could not even bulge out of their sockets far enough; so thoroughly doused with shock and horror that Dwalin was about tempted to faint right then and there.

                “WHAT?!” Dwalin protested at the top of his lungs as he whirled on Captain America.

                The Balrog advanced closer, each step sending soft vibrations that could be felt in the very soles of their boots.  Bolg was practically gasping for breath, so joyous and fervently in an orgasm of malice.

                “Wait for it…” Steve repeated slowly, calmly, his broken arm held out in a pacifying comportment.

                “You…you are…you’re insane…” whimpered Dwalin, his whole body threatening to cease and drop of shock, his voice stammering with panicked foreboding.

                The Balrog’s fiery wings expanded to their full glory, a wave of hot, compressed air buffeting and surging past them like a tsunami, making it difficult to breath underneath the ash and choking smoke.  Which was probably not helping the fact that Dwalin, in a rare instance of panic, was hyperventilating something fierce.

                “Wait for it…” Steve decreed, never breaking eye contact from the behemoth in front.

                Dwalin just looked at the Durin’s Bane getting closer and closer, his mind a complete blank from the terror coursing down his spine and veins, doing his best to not soil himself as he immediately thought of Balin, of Thorin, of his Amad and Adad, of his dear sweet Ori and how he would never get a chance to make it up to his One…

                “Just trust me, Mister Dwalin…” Steve declared over the din and clamor of the Balrog’s wails and Bolg’s bombastic gloating, smiling to himself.

                “I am going to die as Arda’s biggest idiot in all of history…” Dwalin moaned as his life flashed before his eyes.

                The Balrog then arched back, raising its whip and ready spit out a column of flame to incinerate Steve and Dwalin…

                WHAM!

                And Mjolnir, good, faithful trusted hammer of Thor Odinson, shot through from Erebor in the distance before it struck the back of the Balrog’s head from the left and sent the foul beast crashing to the ground, caused a mighty seismic wave that trembled throughout the Gray Mountains as Mjolnir crushed its skull.

                The Balrog twitched before it collapsed and went limp.  To Bolg’s horrified shock, the fires bathing the Balrog’s body began to wane and flicker before snuffing out into dying embers and coals, losing heat and luminesce.

                Durin’s Bane was dead at last.

                Bolg was completely taken back and stunned at the sight of his ultimate weapon being annihilated completely with one blow from Mjolnir.

                Which was exactly what Steve was waiting for as he barked his signal at Dwalin.

                “Fastball Special!”

                Dwalin barely had enough time to snatch Grasper and Keeper from the dirt as Steve then grabbed Dwalin by the collar and belt of his tunic securely with both hands (despite one arm being broken) before twirling around swiftly in a circle to gain momentum.  Around and around Steve reolved like a whirling dervish, gaining speed in two seconds and becoming nearly a blur.

                Steven then roared loudly enough for Ori to hear.

                In Khuzdul.

                “ORI!  GET DOWN!” bellowed Captain America.

                Ori, wincing at the pain in his hair, then managed to ram his elbow high enough into Bolg’s sternum (as he remembered from the training sessions shown in the “We Love Steven Rogers Society” meetings).  Bolg gasped at the sudden hit before he lowered his knife and instinctively clutched his upper chest.  At the distraction, Ori flung his bound body down on the ground, curling up in a fetal position as he shut his eyes as Bolg was momentarily confused.

                At this, Steve heaved and hurled Dwalin directly at Bolg in a straight line, dead center.

                Bolg turned around too late as the last sight the Orc ever saw was the enraged Dwalin as the roaring Dwarf swung with both axes as hard as he could…

                “By Mahal!” breathed an Elf child in awe, sighing dreamily.

                “The infamous Fastball Special!” cheered a Hobbit boy, only to be shushed by his friends.

                “It was indeed an effective and intelligent warfare tactic,” Ori admitted as he blew on his piping hot teacup, “Bolg never saw it coming, and he did not even have time to flinch as Dwalin beheaded the son of Azog the Defiler with one single stroke, thus ending the Orc General and Lord at last.”

                “If it is so effective and wonderful, then why is it that we never see any of our warriors and fighters in Mirkwood, Dale, Erebor, or even the Shire utilize such an approach?” one Dale girl asked hesitantly, raising her hand.

                “Indeed!  I would personally love to perform such a tactic with my comrades at arms!” another young Elf stated exuberantly.

                “That would be because King Thorin and King Thranduil had forever banned the move from ever being performed in all three Kingdoms here in the Misty Mountains,” Ori replied.

                “They…banned it?” blinked a female Dwarrowdam, not sure if she heard correctly, “Why in the name of Mahal is the Fastball Special forbidden by decree of our Kings?”

                “Because of the only other time it was performed by Thor Odinson during the Easterling Invasion of Erebor while Sam and Frodo were attempting their trek to Mount Doom during the War of the Ring…” Ori slyly hinted as he smiled and slurped his tea.

                “There’s an Orc General escaping!” Legolas yelled from his position as he spied said Orc brigadier (atop his armored Warg) galloping away from the skirmish.

                Thor instantly came to a decision as he grabbed the nearest person by the back of their armored uniform.

                This (unfortunately) happened to be Thorin Oakenshield.

                “King Thorin of Oak’s Shield!  Fastball Special!” Thor yelled as he began to swivel around, gaining forceful thrust.

                Thorin understandably was taken aback and completely caught off guard as he squawked with rage.

                “WHAT?!  UNHAND ME!  PUT ME DOWN, YOU IDIO – AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

                A few of the Dwarves had to blink as how speedily Thorin’s flailing and cartwheeling body zipped through the skies and distance in a blur as Thor chucked him across the battlefield with impressive power.

                Only to zoom past several feet above the Orc’s head by a considerable berth, averting the enemy completely.

                “You numbskull!” roared Glóin, “You missed the Orc!”

                WHAM!

                Tauriel blinked before she gaped in horror and exclaimed, “…and hit King Thranduil!”

                Glóin paused, looking back at the scene where the Elf King was now lying on his back in the mud with the unconscious Thorin Oakenshield lying on top of him.  The red-haired Dwarf then called back cheerfully, “Never mind.  It was not a complete loss…”

                In the background, a twitching Legolas looked like he was having an aneurysm as his mottled face turned purple with rage, already envisioning Thor Odinson’s murder.

                “Fíli, Darling?  Should we be worried?” Princess Sigrid asked in a lugubriously sardonic tone (dressed in her Wasp armor and costume bequeathed by Hank Pym of the Avengers).  Fíli pondered this a bit as he extracted his throwing knife from an Easterling’s back.

                “For Uncle or for King Thranduil?”

                Sigrid had to think about that one…

                “Both I suppose.  They are stunned and lying unconscious in the mud.  They could be seriously injured,” Sigrid replied as she blasted an approaching Orc with her stingers.

                “GET THIS DAMNED DWARF OFF OF ME!” screeched Thranduil from the ground, jarring and sharp enough to even cause a couple of Wargs to wince from the intensity of the Elf King’s trill of rage.

                “Not that injured apparently,” Fíli noticed as he flung another knife at an Orc, hitting a direct bullseye into the enemy’s eye socket.

                “I would have never guessed that King Thranduil could yell that deafeningly while lying on his back in the mud like that.  And with Thorin’s body pressing down on him,” Sigrid admitted as she picked up Fili by the waist and flew off with her wings to another intense part of the warzone where several Dale sentinels needed quick assistance.  Fili cast a glance as he hurled two additional knives below.

                “No need to worry.  Lady Quake and Lady Darcy Lewis are now protecting them.  See?” the blond Dwarf pointed out as Daisy Johnson sent a large group of Easterlings flying into the air and buried them in rubble with her vibration manipulation powers.

                In the distance, Captain America turned and glared at a shocked and clueless Thor Odinson.

                “Whatever did I do wrong, Steven?” Thor asked sincerely, wide eyed and hands out in a shrug, “I performed the Fastball Special exactly as we have trained before back on the Avengers compound and in Asgard!  We all know the move by heart!”

                “Thor…” Steve spoke slowly, like trying to talk to a child, “Did you remember if you actually trained with Thorin Oakenshield himself on that particular maneuver?  Did you remember to describe and explain the Fastball Special to Thorin carefully and plan with him in advance when to give him ample warning so he could prepare himself?  Or did you just do it as a spur-of-the-moment thing and Thorin Oakenshield has no idea what a Fastball Special is to begin with?”

                Thor blinked, pondered it for several seconds, before he awkwardly smiled with his teeth and gave an embarrassed shrug.

                “Perhaps I did not give the provision as much thought as I could have.”

                Steve rubbed his eyes tiredly, already starting to have a headache.

                “Oh, I am going to have fun explaining this one to Bilbo…” groaned Steve sarcastically, already feeling a migraine.  The Winter Soldier, who was next to Steve, couldn’t help but smile.

                “It is funny, though,” Bucky Barnes commented.

                “Not helping, Buck,” Steve sighed.

                Despite the pain of being knocked off his Elf steed (by a rather solid and stout Thorin) at high velocity, Thranduil managed to weakly raise his head up as the unconscious Thorin lay atop his body in a rather suggestive position.  His one move caught Darcy Lewis’ attention as she tased a nearby Orc while Thranduil’s Elk tossed two Easterlings high into the air with its antlers.

                Darcy blinked as Thranduil begged the young woman as best as he could out of his bruised lungs.

“Please, for the sake of everything blessed by Eru Ilúvatar…do something…”
                Not one to miss a moment for posterity’s sake, Darcy Lewis then whipped out her cell phone from her pocket before she took a picture.

                There was an amused bout of giggling and chatter from the audience.

                “Is this why Lady Darcy is banned from Mirkwood?” a Hobbit teen asked, one eyebrow raised.

                “Actually…” Bofur recollected with a smile, “She was banned specifically for introducing the Monopoly board game to Mirkwood.”

                “Ah…” chorused all the Elvish children in the room in remembrance.

                “It only became a problem because some Elves were duplicitous,” grumbled one Elf child under his breath, but unfortunately, his fellow kin picked up that accusation with their sharp hearing, and immediately, there was an ugly and heated argument with multiple rounds of shouting from various Elf teens and children.

                “Excuse me?!” one female Elf child huffed, clearly offended, “The only one who was cheating during those games was you!”

                “You are simply angry because I bought Boardwalk Avenue before you could!” the male Elfling shot back.

                “No, I am angry because you kept demanding money each time you landed on ‘Free Parking’ when ‘Free Parking’ does not work like that to begin with!”

                “That wasn’t me!  That was Trevadrion!”

                “It was not!  It was Maeleth!”

                “Oh, sod off!  One: you have no proof!  And secondly, I am quite sure that you slipped some money into your pile when you acted as the banker that one time!”

                “Would you rather have a Dwarf be a banker then?!”

                “At this point, yes, I’d rather trust a Dwarf with Monopoly money over you!”

                “I cannot determine if I should be insulted or flattered by that remark…” commented one Dwarfling as he observed this with amusement.

                “Well at least some Elves around here do not hog the Sports Car token unlike others around here…” another female Elf declared, shooting the evil eye at another male Elf youngster who immediately took offense.

                “Excuse me, but the Sports Car token is mine as I fairly decreed!”

                “Carving your name into the Sports Car does not make it yours, Anunir!”

                “Well, it should be!”

                “Let’s not forget that some people clearly have no loyalty during Monopoly!”

                “You lost!  That was not my fault!”

                “You bankrupted me!  Your own brother-at-arms, Hebrien!  How could you?!”

                “I wouldn’t talk about bankrupting considering you stole Illinois Avenue from me!  I am quite sure you manipulated that last dice roll!”

                “That was merely skill!”

                “Getting all four Railroads three games in a row is not skill!  It’s cheating!”

                “Breniril, if you bring that up one more time, I swear by all the Valar I will kick you!”

                “They’re still holding a grudge on that blasted game?” one Dale boy whispered out loud as the Elves started to get heated quickly in their bickering.  His neighbor, a Hobbit lass, rolled her eyes at her human friend.

                “If you think this is bad, you should have been in the Shire when Lady Darcy introduced us to the ‘Candy Crush’ and ‘Pokémon Go’ games.  To this day, the Thain and Mayor still have the ‘shoot on sight’ order for her.”

                “Ori, are you all right?” Steve asked gently, ripping the gag out of Ori’s mouth tenderly, his hands shaking, “Are there any injuries that need immediate attention?”

                Ori only whimpered as he shook his head while Steve used his shield’s edge to slice through the ropes binding the Scribe’s arms behind his back before he gathered Ori into his brawny arms, shushing him comfortingly and whispering words in his calm, baritone voice as he held Ori close to his body on his lap.

                Dwalin was absolutely crushed and remorseful as he looked on the scene of Captain America embracing Ori on the ground, consoling Ori and being his stalwart rock and loving companion like a true Husband and dedicated One.

                Like the relationship Dwalin and Ori used to have.

                Before Dwalin heartlessly squandered it and threw it away like a fool.

                Like a wretched bastard.

                Like a betrayer.

                No, he would leave Steven and Ori be.

                Dwalin decided that he had absolutely no claim or right to show any misgivings or concerns.  Dwalin felt he absolutely deserved this suffering, this heartache, this reminder that Ori would be happier and safer with Captain America as opposed to a brain-dead mule of Captain of the Ereborian Guard.

                Dwalin, despite his stomach and heart turning to heavy stone, managed to awkwardly turn around and began to slink away with iron-weary feet before Ori’s voice called out.

                “Dwalin!”

                Dwalin hesitated, not sure if he could bear to turn around and face Ori’s accusation and blame.

                “Dwalin!” Ori pleaded, and that tone of voice, that begging, that beseeching tone of reconciliation, of longing, of love, made Dwalin hesitantly turn to see Ori in Steven’s arms, one arm stretched out towards him.

                “Dwalin, please…” begged Ori, eyes streaming again.

                Dwalin felt his breath hitch as his chest constricted against his lungs and his heart began to hammer out of his ribcage.  Dwalin’s jaw quivered as his eyes brimmed with tears that refused to fall.

                Dwalin had absolutely no idea what to do, unable to move, to take that first step as an apology that he in no way deserved to ask for, but Steven then made the choice for him.  In the span of a few seconds, Steve gently scooped up the distraught Ori, bridal style, into his arms before striding over and depositing the Dwarf scribe into Dwalin’s stunned arms.

                “Take him…” Steve whispered before he turned heel and walked away.

                Dwalin barely had time to catch Ori as he sank to his knees, cradling the distressed and tormented Dwarf scribe in his arms, trembling slightly.

                “Ori…” croaked Dwalin hesitantly.

                “Dwalin…” sobbed Ori, and Dwlain’s heart of stone and steel broke as his emotions flooded out and surged forth like the tide.

                “Âzyungâl,” murmured Dwalin, his eyes stinging.

                “Dwalin…” whined Ori.

                “Mizimelûh.”

                “Dwalin…”

                “Givashel.”

                “Dwalin…”

                “Ûrzudel.”

                “Dwalin…”

                “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me…” begged Dwalin over and over, rocking Ori back and forth.  Ori just buried his face against Dwalin’s chest, feeling the comfort of the familiar contortions of Dwalin’s body and scent, whimpering heartrendingly.

                With his eyes now dripping red, Dwalin slowly looked up, not sure how to say his thanks and gratitude to Captain America, but Steven Rogers just stood at attention in the distance, his back to Ori and Dwalin, as he waited for Thor Odinson along with Gandalf, Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo, Tauriel, Dori, and Nori (all six of them riding on the back of Gwaihir the King of Eagles) approaching from the distance…

                Elder Ori sighed with relief as an obedient Fauntling refilled his teacup.  The old Dwarf was certainly glad he managed to get through the painful portion of his story.  After mixing some honey into his brew and blowing on the piping liquid, Ori then continued his tale to the rapt and impressively patient audience of children.

                “I was confined to the Royal Infirmary after Óin tended to me.  Despite my kidnapping, I only suffered slight damage from being struck in the head by the Blacklock spies and from being bound as well as numerous bruises and cuts.  Thankfully, I escaped with my life and a week of bed rest and Bilbo’s food was all that was prescribed.  Thorin and Bilbo and the Company came to visit me frequently as well as Kings Bard and Thranduil, and despite the annoyance of having Dori fret over me every waking instance, it was pleasant.”

                “It surely must have been a bit boring as well…” mused an Elf out loud, thinking of being denied of the sun and air and flora would surely drive anyone mad.

                “Actually, it was not as bad as you think, young one.  Dwalin left me a brand new drawing pad of parchment along with my trusted pencils with his apology note on my bed while I was dozing,” Ori smiled, drawing a few exclamations of surprise and fawning.

                “Ah, Master Dwalin wished to make amends for his previous horridness, did he not?” another Elf asked.

                Ori chuckled as he sipped, “He had a little help…”

                Dwalin shuffled uneasily as he softly closed the door to what was once Ori and his apartment, the missing coffee table a stark reminder of their fight and Dwalin’s accusation before he stormed out and nullified his and Ori’s courting.

                He really did not want to be here.

                But Balin made it clear that he owed Steven Rogers and Ori this, and if he didn’t apologize, Balin threatened to shave Dwalin’s beard himself while he slept.

                It was that uncharacteristic threat and the fact that Steven Rogers was quietly and peacefully sketching on the couch with pencil and art pad that prevented Dwalin from running back out like a coward.  Óin bound Steven’s broken left forearm well enough and tended to it nicely, and though Steven’s healing factor would kick in soon, until then, the good Captain America seemed outwardly content to just sketch and draw away on his art pad in his white sleeveless shirt and trousers.

                Dwalin took a deep breath and coughed, trying to get Steven’s attention.

                Steven, with a blank and stony expression, did not even glance upwards at Dwalin as he continued to draw on paper, his good hand and arm gracefully shading under the candlelight.  By Mahal, Steve was certainly not making this any easier for him.

                Still, Dwalin steadied himself as he stood up straight and coughed again before he uttered, shamefaced, “Ori thanked me for the present I left on his bed in the Infirmary to make up for burning his old drawing journal.”

                “Hn,” was all of Steven’s non-committal answer.

                Dwalin’s mouth thinned in discomfort.  Usually, Steven was a lot friendlier that that and a lot more gregarious.

                Still, Dwalin tried again.

                “I…I wanted to thank you.”

                “Hn.”

                “…I was rather surprised.  I didn’t know you knew how to write in Khuzdul.  Or knew how to forge my signature.”

                “Mister Balin helped me on that one,” Steve intoned curtly.

                Dwalin took in that tidbit, hiding his surprise and touched shock before he got right down to the heart of the matter.

                “I am here to apologize, Master Rogers.  I am sorry.”

                There was a pause, and Dwalin wasn’t sure if Steven Rogers heard him until Steve spoke again, still sketching.

                “Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

                Dwalin felt his outrage perk up at the accusation in Steven’s voice.  By Mahal, he apologized, didn’t he?  And what was frustrating was that this whole apology was already humiliating enough.

                “Look, you fo – Steven…I apologize because…because I know I wasn’t very kind to you in the beginning, and - ”

                “No, you weren’t.”

                Dwalin blinked at the severity of Steve’s voice, stern and heavy enough to make any military commander proud.  Steve smartly set down his pencil and pad before he abruptly stood at full attention, hands behind his back and staring down stonily at Dwalin, his blue eyes focused and hard.

                “What you did to me and Thor was beyond dislike and insecurity, Mister Dwalin.  It was pure bullying from spite and hate.  I have to admit that after all this, you and Thorin and quite a few of the other Dwarves and Elves left me a less than flattering opinion after this whole mess.”

                Dwalin made a sound to protest only to have his objection die in his throat as he was stunned into silence by a stern look from Steven’s blazing eyes of cold fire as he pointed fiercely at the Dwarf.

                There was no question: Steve Rogers was pissed.

                “Be.  Quiet.  You had your say, and so you better damn well let me have mine considering you owe it to both me and Ori.”

                After blinking for a few strained seconds, Dwalin yielded and backed down.

                Steve continued, his expression severe and uncharacteristically austere but without even raising his voice.

                “I don’t like bullies, and I never have, but the way you treated me and Thor could actually give the Nazis a run for their money.  Ever since we arrived, both Thor and I have done nothing but show respect and consideration because we did not want to appear ungracious or show that were taking advantage of your hospitality by letting us stay here.  We helped protect Erebor, Mirkwood, and Dale.  We fought in your wars against Bolg and his Orcs and Goblins even though we really have no stake in this.  We risked our lives and well-being because we came to care about every Hobbit, Dwarf, Man, Woman, and Elf like they were our friends.  Because that was what we wanted: to be friends.  And how did you treat us?  You spat at us, spread rumors and insults behind our backs, tried to instigate hate mobs against us, and even tried to assassinate me.  Over a misunderstanding.  Did it ever occur to you how that would make you look if Balin and I didn’t keep it a secret?  How it would make King Thorin look?  Erebor, even?  Or is your King’s motto ‘loyalty, honor, and a willing heart’ really just something to follow when convenient?”

                Dwalin felt the sudden urge to hunch his shoulders in disgrace…

                “Even with the hostility, I did my best to move on and not retaliate because I didn’t want to start any in-fighting or bad feuds within the three kingdoms.  I made offer after offer to make amends, even was willing to admit fault when I didn’t do anything wrong if it meant keeping the peace because unlike you, I didn’t care about my reputation.  And instead, you spat on my offers.  You tried to challenge me publicly in an attempt to humiliate me again and again.  Let me repeat that: you challenged me.  It was not the other way around.  You focused more on how Thor and I made you and the other Ereborian soldiers look bad as opposed to realizing that we wanted to save everyone’s lives in the war with the Orcs.  You actually mocked me for my pain of losing Bucky.  In public.  How would you feel if someone rubbed your face into the fact that you hit Ori and broke his heart?  Or better, yet, how would you have felt if I rubbed it in your face about losing your father in Moira all those years ago?  Mister Balin told me what happened in the Battle of Azanulbizar.  It still stings, doesn’t it?”

                Dwalin lowered his gaze to the floor in an effort to not have Dwalin see the anguish in his countenance and partly because he couldn’t meet Steven’s disappointed gaze any further…

                “Was it worth it, abandoning your duty and Ori?  It’ll take time for Ori to recover, but the memory of how you left him over his art and how you ignored his attempts to invite you into his art and helping out in the Library will always remain.  It may or may not sour your attempt at reconciliation, but it will be there.  And frankly, do you even feel you deserve reconciliation after now you realize you were the unfaithful one in the relationship?  That Ori, though fond over me, was innocent in everything?  What if he died?  What if Bolg actually succeeded and raped him or killed him?  Do you want to be the one to tell Dori and Nori that their little brother was killed because you acted too late?  Do you want to be the ones to break everyone in the Company’s hearts when you report to them that they lost of their own?  Because I’ve done that multiple times in my wars back home, and let me assure you, Mister Dwalin: it’s not pleasant.  And did you ever stop to consider what would have happened if you and I died under the Balrog?  If Thor was too late in saving us, he would have lost me, and he’s lost so much already in his sacrifice to protect Asgard and Earth that it would have caused him more distress.  Or would that have made you happy, to see Thor Odinson cry like…how did you Dwarves put it…‘a wee babe’?  No, forget that he and Mjolnir saved Bilbo, Thorin, and the rest of the civilians time and time again.  Just cause him grief because it’ll make your pride feel better.  Also, Mister Gandalf told me what Durin’s Bane really was.  If we both died, then Bolg could have easily sent the Balrog to Erebor to finally finish off the line of Durin.”

                Dwlain’s head jerked back up in terror and alarm, the ugly possibility now sprouting in his mind as Steve’s eyes narrowed.

                “Yeah, that’s right, you’re starting to piece it together now.  That means that Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli, Fíli, and Dís would have been the next ones to die.  So despite being the Captain of the Royal Guard and sworn friend and knight of Thorin, you would have readily endangered him because of your short-sighted bitterness and grudge and if would have resulted in the Royal family dying along with the rest of Erebor being destroyed.  And so, all the work of reclaiming Erebor from the dragon, Smaug, would have been for nothing.”

                Dwalin felt his eyes burn as he face heated and turned scarlet in dishonor and mortification, so scandalized that he could barely breathe as he chest tightened against his ribs…

                “Would it have been worth it, Mister Dwalin?  Would it?”

                There was an unnerving hush as Dwalin remained mute, like a scolded child, which impelled Steve to bark his order like a true military commander.

                “Answer me.”

                “I…”

                Dwalin choked on his sobs trying to escape from his throat.  By Mahal, he couldn’t stop crying.  His Adad and Amad would be ashamed of him if they were still here.  He was a pitiful excuse of a Dwarf, a wretched specimen of a Husband, a failed case of a Captain of the Guard.

                Dwalin wiped the fluid streaming down his cheeks and nose before he looked up at Steven and spoke with pain.

                “I’m sorry.  I truly am.”

                Steve’s face just fell as he sighed and sank back on the couch, rubbing his face wearily with one hand.  It was apparent he was drained of his earlier harangue before he exhaled with resentment and looked at Dwalin.

                “If you think for one second that I enjoyed any of that, you’re wrong,” Steve highlighted with resignation and fatigue.  Dwalin, for once, could actually agree with that as he began to see Steve Rogers in a new light before he then made an offer.

                “I will lose my rank as Captain of the Guards, and I may very well be banished from Erebor in dishonor and shame, but it must be done: if you desire it, I will shave my beard and hair in penance for the crimes I have committed against you and Ori.”

                “I don’t want that,” Steve retorted, frowning.

                “Then what do you want?”

                “For you and Ori to reconcile.”

                “But…but that is not enough!”

                “I also want us to be friends.”

                Dwalin was truly stunned as his eyebrows rose and his eyes widened to the point where you could see the whites all around.  It took several seconds of befuddlement before Dwalin managed to talk through his flabbergasted astonishment.

                “That…that’s it?”

                “That’s it.”

                Dwalin was adamant as he urged, “Please, that is not enough.  My honor will not accept such a humble request for my grievous transgressions.  Surely there must be something else!”

                Steve hesitated before he then smiled and said, “There is one thing…”

                “Name it,” Dwalin immediately responded.

                “I wish to draw you and Ori.”

                Dwalin was once again struck dumb, unable to work a response as Steven then rose from the couch before he ambled over and knelt down in front of the Royal Ereborian Captain, trying to level his blue eyes with Dwalin’s brown ones.

                “I wish to draw the both of you, together and hugging each other, side by side as a pair, as friends, as two lovers, and as a couple,” Steve reiterated gently, his baritone soothing and trusting.

                Dwalin felt his eyes burn again as he croaked, shamefaced while looking at the floor, “Ori will have nothing to do with me.”

                Steven then intimately brought a thumb and forefinger underneath Dwalin’s bearded chin and forced the burly Dwarf to look into his soft eyes that reflected the skies.

                “He will.  For you and for me.  As soon as Mister Óin says he’s fit to leave the Infirmary within a week, Ori will come rushing over.  And I’ll have Mister Nori distract Mister Dori so that all three of us can have the opportunity without anything to interrupt you two trying to reconcile.”

                Dwalin bit his lip at Steven’s endless kindness, a welcome contrast from Captain America’s earlier abrasiveness during his tirade.

                Dwalin then finally lamented with remorse, “I am sorry, Captain America.  We…we could have actually been good friends if I weren’t such a single-minded and prideful fool.”

                “Happens to all of us, so there’s no time like the present to start over,” pointed out Steve as he then held out his hand, “Hi, my name is Steven Rogers, son of Sarah and Joseph Rogers.  Nice to meet you.”

                Dwalin was stunned before he recognized the act and what it meant.  Gingerly, Dwalin reached out and gripped the Avenger’s hand firmly before shaking it.

                “Dwalin Fundinson.  At your service, Master Rogers.”

                “Call me Steve,” Steve emphasized, his eyes twinkling, and Dwalin realized the deeper implication of the request.

                “A pleasure then, Steve.”

                “There.  We’re friends now.  That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

                Dwalin smiled at last before he then asked a nagging question.

                “Er…Steve?  But what would you desire for the drawing?  It may be just Ori and I, but what will you require from us?  Do you wish for us to dress in royal attire or our clothing for Durin’s Day?’

                Steve stood up and crossed his arms over his chest, one corner of his mouth in a smirk.

                Still, the blond Man didn’t answer, so Dwalin tried again.

                “Er…would you like to draw us outside?  Or in our regular attire in the Library?”

                Steve silently gave Dwalin a quiet look of contemplation, his smile growing wider.

                Dwalin tried again, “…in our Dwarvish armor?”

                Steve, still smiling and his eyes twinkling, raised one eyebrow.

                Dwalin then understood, and he went absolutely pale as his eyes bugged out of their sockets.

                “No…” wheezed Dwalin, horrorstruck beyond belief.

                “He couldn’t!” squealed a young Dale maiden, already guessing the truth.

                “He could…” Elder Ori replied, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

                “He wouldn’t!” roared a young Dwarf child, giddy and not willing to believe it.

                “He would…” Ori said in a sing-song tone.

                “He didn’t!” giggled a female Fauntling, laughing so hard she fell on her back against her human neighbor, kicking his feet up and down in mirth.

                The old Storyteller of Erebor simply just closed his eyes and slurped his tea, one pinkie finger raised in the air.

                “I cannot believe we are doing this…” groaned Dwalin for the umpteenth time as he and Ori remained as still and motionless as possible, with Steve drawing in the background studiously and with a trained and careful eye.

                Both of the Dwarves were completely nude, without a stitch of clothing.

                Dwalin wasn’t even wearing his knuckle-guards.

                And to make it even more embarrassing and difficult, Dwalin was embracing Ori in his arms and holding him close against his muscular chest, but Ori’s bare bottom facing Steven as the two Dwarves were doing their best to relax against each other under the candlelight in front of Steven who sketched and drew on with his expert eye on his drawing pad.

                Despite making amends with Captain America, Dwalin felt his face heat up.  Being naked in front of an audience (even if it was only one person) was extremely humiliating.

                “You do not need to stay if you do not,” murmured Ori.

                Dwalin immediately felt ashamed before he consoled, “It is nothing like that, Ori.”

                Ori said nothing as he just lingered, nothing how much he missed Dwalin and the closeness of his body, his bare skin soft despite the rock-hard muscle underneath, how safe and secure Ori felt when wrapped in his One’s arms…

                Steven continued to sketch, shaping the general structure of Dwalin’s shoulders when Ori finally broke the uptight taciturnity.

                “I just do not understand why,” admitted Ori softly, without condemnation, without judgment, “Why were you so convinced that I loved Steven more than you?  Why did you not believe me when I told you that Steven was my friend, but that I was chaste?  Why did you think of the worst?”

                There was an inept dumbness, and several minutes passed in the stillness in the air between Dwalin and Ori.

                Steven didn’t even raise an eyebrow as he continued to sketch the two Dwarves.

                Just when Ori finally resigned himself that Dwalin would not answer his question, there was a brief squeeze as a quivering Dwalin enveloped his dear Scribe into his muscular arms before he hoarsely gave his answer.

                “I was scared.”

                Ori slowly looked up, his soft brown eyes taking in Dwalin’s crestfallen face, his shuddering mouth and chin under his beard.

                “I…Steve just so readily fell into the hole I left behind, and watching the two of you become closer and closer these past several months reminded me of how dreadful and rotten of a partner and a husband I was.  Steven assisted you in every walking step of the Library, spent countless hours in your Company as you lectures history and literature and other things I am a complete dunce at, and was so much like you in every interest and demeanor that it killed me, knowing that I gave it up in order to fulfill my duty as Captain of the Guards and to the King.”

                Ori shook his head as he protested, “But I never wanted you to abandon your duty to Thorin Oakenshield!  I never had!  Not once!  I know your responsibility and magnitude in training the Royal Guard and serving Thorin!  I would never force you to choose between me and your duty!  I would want you to have both, and I would never ask you to forsake your loyalty to the Lonely Mountain and our people!  I…I just wanted to have a little time set aside with you.  I begged you to have Grugim and Palli take over your accountabilities for once in a while, just so we could both spend time together.  Just the two of us.”

                “I know…” moaned Dwalin, hugging Ori tightly to his chest, “And I was just so stubbornly prideful because I valued being recognized as the Captain of the Ereborian Guard and the right hand of Thorin more than being the revolting and unsightly One of the Royal Librarian.  I valued my rank and title more than your zeal and ardor for the Royal Library and your duties to art and history.  I am a jack-assed, inbred mule who doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.”

                Ori let Dwalin sniff and tremble against his own naked body, never once imagining that he would have been the strong one in this relationship.  After Dwalin’s quiet tears and gasps subsided, Ori then spoke softly.

                “Whether or not you deserve my forgiveness, you still have it.”

                Dwalin sniffed again, his throat clogging up as he kissed the top of Ori’s sandy hair.  Steve, looking on, could only fantasize saying these exact words to Bucky Barnes if he ever returned, with Bucky crying and Steven just comforting him and loving him, without question or circumstance…

                “You should be disdainful towards me…” Dwalin huskily breathed out loud.

                “I will not,” Ori declared strongly, “I cannot.  You are my One.”

                “You should be angry…” Dwalin pointed out.

                “I was more miserable than anything,” Ori whined, rubbing his cheek against Dwalin’s chest.

                “Why do you still love me?  A fool and the lowest of the low of Durin’s Folk?” Dwalin half sobbed, quivering.

                “I don’t feel that way,” Ori said.

                “Why can’t you hate me?” Dwalin gasped, his throat tight and hot which made his dry mouth raspy and grief-stricken.

                Ori remembered what Steve told him about Bucky, how he still pursued and chased after his dearest friend and lover and begged him to trust him and return home after Project Insight, despite all the atrocities Bucky committed under Hydra’s command…

                “The same reason why Steve forgave Bucky despite being forced into the Winter Soldier: I just don’t.”

                Dwalin inhaled and gasped unevenly.

                “I will spend the rest of my life making amends to you,” Dwalin said with a shudder.

                “I know you will,” Ori said, and the matter-of-fact tone of acceptance, of steadfast belief and faith, just made Dwalin feel worse.

                “I love you…” Dwalin breathed as he kissed the top of Ori’s hair, shorn from the Blacklocks but still as soft and sweet-smelling as ever.

                “Âzyungâl,” murmured Ori, rubbing his face against Dwalin’s chest.

                “My heart…” Dwalin huskily uttered as he kissed Ori’s temple.

                “Mizimelûh,” Ori shuddered with passion.

                “My One…” Dwalin said as he gingerly lifted Ori’s good and unsprayed arm before kissing the delicate wrist and fingers.

                “Givashel,” moaned Ori in a rather suggestive tone that made Steve’s cheeks burn a bit as he glance up.

                “My Soul…” Dwalin deeply mouthed as he kissed Ori on his precious nose.

                “Ûrzudel,” Ori huffed with budding pleasure.

                “I missed you…” groaned Dwalin as he kissed Ori on the lips, and that was enough as both Dwarves crashed their mouths together, kissing, groping, running their hands and mouths against skin and flesh like a dying man in the desert lunging for the oasis or a starving dog finding a hunk of savory meat.  Together, Ori and Dwalin felt their hearts ignite with the longing and passions they have been denied for so long, and gently, Dwalin lowered himself on top of Ori on the floor, gasping and moaning.

                Taking this as his cue to give the two Dwarves some privacy, Steve silently set down his pad and pencil before carefully standing up and walking away, as silent as a feather dropping to the ground.

                Politely, Steven then blew out the candles, immersing the room into dusk and shadow before smiling as closing the door softly behind him, leaving both Ori and Dwalin to surrender to their passion and aching emotions and souls as Dwalin slowly entered into his beloved scribe and One…

                Ori hastily skimmed over the rather naughty details, but all of the young children in the cavern could easily see the faint blush of red in his cheeks as the embarrassed Elder continued.

                “After several days, Steven’s drawing was finished, and even Dwalin showed some appreciation and sentiment at the work of art.  And it turned out that Steven secretly did another sketch of the both of us hugging from the shoulders up, a far safer and tasteful drawing to include in the Chronicles in the Royal Library.  However, Steven needed to do one last act before he felt content to leave back for his home world…

                “Meg knew all at once that Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which must be near, because all through her she felt a flooding of joy and of love that was even greater and deeper than the joy and love which were already there.”

                Steve’s calm baritone echoed throughout the City Square of Dale as the massive audience of Elves, Dwarves, Men and Women and Children along with Bilbo and Thor (with Thorin sandwiched firmly in between the two out of jealous spite) hung on and devoured every word.  It was almost as if every single person in all three Kingdoms were attending the final storytelling.  Even the Guards of Dale were half-heartedly carrying out their sentry duties, keeping one ear out for the development of Meg and Charles fighting the disembodied IT…

                Steven continued to narrate, “She stopped laughing and listened, and Charles listened too. ‘Hush.’”

                “Then there was a whirring, and Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which were standing in front of them, and the joy and love were so tangible that Meg felt that if she only knew where to reach, she could touch it with her bare hands.”

                “Mrs Whatsit said breathlessly, ‘Oh, my darlings, I’m sorry we don’t have time to say goodbye to you properly. You see, we have to - ’”

                “But they never learned what it was that Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which had to do, for there was a gust of wind, and they were gone.”

                With that, Steve slowly closed the book and looked up with a grand smile.

                “The end,” the blond Man declared.

                This brought a thunderous round of applause as everyone cheered for Steven and the spectacular tale he told for everyone’s enjoyments.

                “Brilliant, laddie!  Bravo!  Bravo!  Well done, Brother Steven!  YAY!  Simply magnificent!  Master Rogers, it was pure bliss!” chorused a few of the many beings gathered in the city, just to hear Steven Rogers read “A Wrinkle in Time” to them.  Steven bowed before he was unceremoniously tackled and mobbed by various children led by Princess Tilda, all of them clamoring for more.

                “Tell it again, Master Rogers!  Tell it again!” Tilda begged happily as Steve lifted her up and placed her tenderly on his lap.

                “Please do, Captain America!  Some of us have missed parts of the story!  We would simply adore you if you started again at the very beginning!” a Dale boy begged, his eyes shining.

                Steven laughed heartily, his face and complexion without a single trace of the fidgety and traumatic misery he previously wore when he first arrived in Middle Earth, his eyes twinkling without any dark circles of insomnia as the children gathered around their revered Avenger.

                “C’mon, kids.  If I started all over again, then we’ll never get to the next installment of Meg, Calvin, and Charles Wallace.  There is a sequel after this story, you know,” Steve revealed deliberately, and immediately, like starving mice on a crumb of cheese, the young ones pounced on the factual tidbit.

                “There is a sequel?!  To this?!” cried Gimli eagerly.

                “Oh please, tell us the story now, Captain America!” a Dale girl begged, her eyes shining.

                “What happens in it?!  What is it called?!  Will you read it to us?!” chorused several other children.

                “Kids, I would have to go back to my world to get my copy,” Steve teased.

                “How long shall that endeavor take?” Tilda asked coyly.

                Ori smiled from the distance as Captain America was mobbed by numerous Dwalflings and human youths before he turned to see Dwalin standing nearby with a wistful and shy smile underneath his beard.  Thankfully, Nori was keeping Dori occupied by having Thor Odinson (along with his adoring female fans) discuss to Dori about the possibility to creating a special tea blend to take back home to his brother and the Warriors Three in Asgard as gifts…

                “So that is what it is like to listen to Steve Rogers read to you,” Dwalin commented softly.  Ori nodded, but didn’t say anything as he waited for Dwalin to elaborate.  Dwalin coughed tentatively, meaningfully.

                “It is a good story.  Especially hearing how Meg and Charles Wallace defeat IT by having Meg proclaim her love for her brother…”

                So Dwalin had been paying attention, and the revelation that a hardened warrior like Dwalin realized the joy and transcendence of a good book made Ori’s heart soften even more.

                “It is a marvelous story.  And perhaps someday, I can transcribe it into Common and Khuzdul for all of our future generations here in all of Arda to read for years to come,” Ori said, already planning his next grand project.  Dwalin swallowed heavily before he then tossed his caution to the winds…

                “Would you like some help with your noble aspiration?” Dwalin offered.

                Ori blinked before he asked, “Since when are you good with penmanship and your letters?  Balin always said he was the scholar of the family of Fundin.”

                “Er…” Dwalin stammered, scratching his bald head in embarrassment before he clarified, “I…I can turn the pages for you?”

                “I think I can find use for that,” Ori beamed, his freckles rising with his smile.

                Two nights later after Steven completed his recitation of “A Wrinkle in Time”…

                “Ori…” Dwalin’s voice called out, and Ori looked up to see a undecided and awkwardly reticent Dwalin waiting in the middle of the Royal Library in the Grand Reading Chamber, right outside his office.  Ori cautiously walked out as he smiled.

                Dwalin lowered his gaze to the floor as he hunched his shoulders and scuffed one foot idly against the stone ground, like an abashed Dwarfling before he continued, “Er…Captain – Steve wished to inform you that he will be unable to assist in constructing the wall shelves and tapestry hangers today.  Another War Council has cropped up, and Bard and the King Tree-Shagger wish for Steve and Thor to help move the Orc carcasses out of Dale and Mirkwood.”

                Ori nodded, although he was a bit disappointed.  Since the entire Library Staff were the traitorous Blacklocks working with Bolg, the Royal Scribe was the only Dwarf left on staff to carry the daily tasks and renovations.  Though Nori promised to use his connections to find Ori a bigger and more competent staff of Dwarves with their backgrounds personally checked by his Spy Network and King Thorin, Ori was still left to burden the reconstruction labor by himself.  Even with Steven’s help, they could only do so much day by day, and the books and parchments were piled up high on every table and even on the floor.

                Ori brushed it off as he replied, “It’s all right.  I know Steven is needed on much more urgent matters.  Thank you, Dwalin.”

                To his gratified surprise, Dwalin stayed, now rubbing one foot against his other, unsure before he falteringly suggested, “Do you still need help?  I am free for the entire night, if you wish it so.”

                Ori’s grin grew wider, starting to have a suspicion that Dwalin and Steve Rogers conveniently planned this turn of events.

                “It depends.  Are you expected elsewhere tonight as well for the guard duties and recovery?”

                Dwalin raised his head and spoke softly, “I cannot think of anything more important.”

                The way Ori’s eyes shone under the torchlight made it all the worth it to the Ereborian Captain.

                “Well…I could use a strong and hardy Dwarf to help set up the wall shelves up above,” Ori suggested, and Dwalin huffed pleasantly under his whiskers as he strode forward towards the baseboards and nails.

                Up above the rafters and hidden in the shadows, Nori felt a little disappointed as he sheathed his knife before slinking away and out of the Library.

                Shame, Nori could have used a perfect excuse to stick Dwalin like a pig…

                “Sadly, immediately afterwards, Steven announced to Thorin and Bilbo that it was time for he and Thor to return back home.  Though depressing, it also was quite uplifting: Thor Odinson achieved exactly what he had hoped.  For dear Steven to heal in body and soul after the war with Hydra.  Ironically though, it took the efforts of another way to help him recuperate from the aftermath of a prior war.  Still, it was a bittersweet triumph.  Most of us would miss Steven and Thor dearly once they departed back to their world.”

                “Really?” a Dale boy asked, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.  Ori smiled as he highlighted the key word.

                “I said ‘most of us’…” the old Dwarf emphasized.  One female Hobbit child then piped up, raising her hand politely to ask her question.

                “Elder Ori, that reminds me: whatever happened to the drawing of the great Captain America that you have drawn?  The one that caused Dwalin to nullify his engagement to you?”

                “Nori found an excellent use for it…” Ori chuckled, rolling his eyes.

                “Hear ye, all of ye lovely ladies of the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ and the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ Societies!  We will commence the auction now!” crowed Nori the Ereborian Spymaster as he banged his iron gavel against the podium in front of the massive, massive gathering of Women, Dwarrowdams, and female Elves from all three Kingdoms.  Despite the packed congregation and how there was barely enough shoulder space for all the ladies within Dori’s Teahouse, no one complained as they tittered and giggled readily in hushed tones.

                Elevated above all by standing atop a tea table, Nori stood in front as he addressed his attentive audience, all of them bathed under the light of the torches as the auction for the charcoal sketch of a nude Steven Rogers, in all his glory, was displayed on a metal stool next to Dori (who was propping it up meticulously on his lap).  Despite one corner of the page being ripped due to Dwalin’s earlier fight with Ori, Nori and Dori managed to smooth out the paper into a pristine manner, and Dori even skillfully got the Royal Smiths to make a fine silver frame with glass panels to shield and memorialize the work of art.

                Nori declared, “Yes my good dears, feast your eyes keenly on the marvelous piece of art by my baby brother and Royal Scribe and Librarian of Erebori, Master Ori!  With mere charcoal and parchment, my talented sibling - !”

                “Oh do shut up and begin, Nori!” snapped Dori in Khuzdul.  Nori made an annoyed harrumph noise before he shouted for all to hear.

                “We shall begin the bidding at two gold coins…” Nori said innocently (though inwardly cackling), “Do I have any offers for - ?”

                “Two gold coins!” yelled a Woman, raising her hand.

                “Four gold coins!” a Dwarrowdam countered.

                “Ten gold coins!” Mafria and Dale barmaid shouted.

                “Twenty gold coins!” a Mirkwood Sentry jumped up and hollered.

                “Twenty-Five!” Bea shouted.

                “One hundred gold!” Hilna (Bombur’s wife) cheered.

                “Two hundred!” Täli’s (Glóin’s wife) hand shot up.

                Over and over for the next hour, offers rose up steadily and surely with equal passion and zeal, and the highest mark was an offer for ten thousand gold, copper, and silver coins as an joint pot from all the attending Mirkwood Elves chipping in and combining their funds together along with a promise to let Ori visit and borrow any tome and scroll from Mirkwood’s archive to his liking.

                The Princess Sigrid of Dale then made her own proposition.

                “If Dale receives the drawing of Steven Rogers, then as Princess of the city, I shall have every guard and soldier sing ‘The Star Spangled Man With A Plan’ each and every time Dwalin Fundinson arrives to our city in front of his person for all years to come in his lifetime!” Sigrid said.

                “SOLD!” Nori declared, pounding his gavel so hard into the podium that it broke the stone plate.

                “So that explains why the Dale Guards keep singing that song at queer and spontaneous times…” mused one female Dwarfing as the others all around her laughed and howled.

                “I am surprised that Master Dwalin did not murder Nori the instant he learned his role in that development,” one female Elf child commented out loud.

                The old Dwarf Elder chortled as he then revealed, “Actually, several years into that routine, once my husband learned of it, he actually laughed, complimented Nori on his deviousness, and dedicated one tenth of his share of the Royal Treasury of Erebor into the funding of the ‘We Love Thor Odinson’ and the ‘We Love Steven Rogers’ Societies.  This is why after so many years, those two fan-clubs stand as of now.  In fact, Dwalin’s coin and yearly donation were the financial keystones in founding new monuments and organizations such as ‘The Bifur and Star-Lord Theater of Rock and Dance’ and ‘The Danny Rand and Colleen Wing Academy of Self-Defense and Combat’ over at the Shire.”

                “By Yavanna!” gasped a Hobbit boy, wide-eyed at how Dwalin was responsible for one of the more popular institutions in Hobbiton, “Dwalin gave away his own money for this?!  He really did wish to make amends to you, Elder Ori!”

                “That he did,” Ori admitted, “And he impressed me especially in showing his efforts to overcome his insecurities and past mistakes on the day when Thor Odinson and Captain America left the day after we threw a celebration and farewell feast to end all feasts for the two Avengers the night before.  I remember that day well: the sun was shining, the breeze was cool and just right, and everyone from all three Kingdoms and even the Giant Eagles were out and about to attend the sendoff…”

                “Here, dear Steven,” the Dale barmaid Mafria announced as she and Bea bequeathed Captain America a small basket of home-baked pastries and sweet-breads, “A present for you and Thor to take on your journey back to your world.”

                “We shall ensure that Master Dori will have enough help in his teashop.  And we are already beginning to make our own peanut butter recipes to share with the residents of Dale with our newest crop.  Master Bilbo was very generous in helping us plant our own fields of peanuts,” Bea said, hands clasped in front.

                Steve, dressed back in his Captain America costume and armor but without the helmet, smiled as he gratefully took the basket, recalling that Mafria and Bea were the first two people to actually welcome him and make him feel acceptable.

                “Thank you,” Steve murmured and to everyone’s surprise, Steve knelt down and kissed both Mafria and Bea on the cheeks chastely as thanks.  Dazed and euphoric, the two Women ambled back with glazed eyes and joined the crowd, with all the other females around them clamoring in awe and jealousy.

                “He kissed you!” breathed a female Elf in awe.

                “You both are indeed fortunate!” another Women squealed with joy, happy for her friends.

                “It is simply not fair…” groused a Dwarrowdam.

                “I can die happily…” sighed Bea, feeling like she was walking on air.  Mafria reverently touched her blushing cheek.

                “I shall never wash my face again.  Never,” she swore giddily as Prince Bain and Gimli finished receiving a bear hug from Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers before they said their farewells and walked back to the ground, with Gimli joining his father, Glóin.  Glóin, under Täli’s eagle eye of warning, merely sighed in resigned defeat at the sight of his own son wearing his helmet from the “We Love Steven Rogers” Society.

                “If you want to continue training with a shield, I’ll have Dwalin see if he can find anyone to help assist with your undertakings.  Even if it means requesting help from the Tree-Shaggers from Rivendell or Mirkwood,” Glóin said with as much warmth as he could muster.

                To his surprise, Gimli beamed at Glóin as he declared, “Actually, Master Rogers said that learning an axe is something handy since it was an axethat helped him slay Bolg and the Balrog.  Perhaps you can help me with my training again, Adad?”

                Damn it to Mahal, now Glóin was actually going to have to be friendlier to Steven and Thor in the future.  Still, to hear such pride-inspiring words again made it a small price to pay as Glóin laughed and ruffled his son’s hair.

                Gandalf seemed perturbed, uncharacteristically solemn and serious as he watched Thor give Beorn the Shapeshifter a hearty hug and handshake.  Radagast the Brown, who was next to him and puffing on his pipe, whispered conspiratorially to the Gray Istari.

                “What troubles you so, Gandalf?” Radagast asked as Sebastian the hedgehog peeked out under the brim of Radagast’s brown hat.  Gandalf turned to his friend before he quietly uttered his concern in a hushed tone.

                “There is no possible way a mere Orc such as the Son of Azog could control a creature such as Durin’s Bane to do his bidding.”

                Radagast nodded, appearing to have the same thoughts as he pointed out, “And given Captain America’s testimony and how the Blacklock spies that infiltrated Erebor come from clans from the far East, it should bear reminding whom fled to the East after the battle at Dol Goldur.”

                If this wasn’t a big indication of Sauron’s return…

                “Have you heard anything from Saruman?” Radagast asked.

                Gandalf shook his head as he spoke, “None.  Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond wish to have a private Council with all three Kings of Dale, Mirkwood, and Erebor discreetly to discuss future matters regarding Sauron.  We must not alarm the general public, but all Kingdoms should begin planning having Thor Odinson and his Avengers on a more…frequent basis.  We need all the assistance we can get to fight against the rising darkness, for I fear the War of all Wars shall arrive sooner than we would like.”

                Radagast nodded as Sebastian chirped sadly, despondent.

                Dori ambled up to Captain America, so despondent and uncharacteristically dejected.

                “Oh Steven!” warbled Dori, eyes shining with tears, partly because of gratitude and partly due to Dori’s disappointment that he would not be able to carry out his wedding plans with Ori and Captain America as soon as he would have liked.

                Steven knelt down to the Dwarf’s level on one knee before he delivered a fierce hug (which Dori returned bone-crushingly) as the blond Man said amiably and warmly, “Hey, don’t act like I’ll be gone forever.  I’ll be back in a couple of months.  You won’t even miss me.  Plus, you’ve now got a loyal patronage of customers to make sure your teahouse will have clientele for years to come.”

                “To the Void with my teahouse!” laughed Dori sadly, “Must you leave us, Dearest Steven?”

                In the background, Nori rolled his eyes at his older brother’s theatrics and melodrama as Steven said with some sadness, “I have to go back, Mister Dori.  I’ve been gone too long, and the other Avengers need me.  My friends need me.  Hydra is still out there, and I’m now better mentally and physically thanks to you and everyone here in Middle Earth in order to perform my duty and responsibilities to protect other innocent people and fight against evil like the Orcs in my world.  Besides, the longer I stay here, the more risk there is in Hydra building back from the ashes during Project Insight, and I can’t selfishly relax while the other Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. fight for their lives.  I can’t do that to them.”

                Dori cast his gaze down to the ground.  Though he couldn’t argue against that, he wished that Master Rogers wasn’t so noble and compassionate and loyal to his cause and duty as Captain.  But then Steven’s next words broke through Dori’s melancholy.

                “When I come back, I’d love to see Ori again.  If you’ll let me,” Steven suggested with a twinkle in his eye.  Dori had a disturbing bright smile with glazed eyes as he heard these words (and it was a rather disturbingly zealous smile considering Dori immediately made further plans to get his brother and the Avenger to wed in holy matrimony the second Steven returned to Arda).

                “I would love that.  We all would,” Dori intoned, beaming.

                “I’ll miss you too, Mister Dori.  You were a wonderful and fair boss when I was working in your teahouse,” Steven complimented, and that was the right thing to say as Dori blushed and twittered like a lovesick Dwarowdam.

                “Oh!  That remind me, Steven!  We have a present for your journey back home!  Quick, Nori!  Hand over the gift basket we prepared!”

                Nori just lazily smoked his pipe, blowing a stream of smoke as carefree and lazy as one could be as he said nonchalantly, “What gift basket?”

                “The basket of specially crafted teas and the golden teapot and tea settings I had commissioned from the blacksmiths, dear brother…” hissed Dori with warning with gritted teeth.  Nori just puffed away, enjoying the taste of Shire tobacco.

                “Oh, that!  It’s back at your teahouse in the kitchens.”

                “Nori!  I told you to bring it with you when we bid dearest Steven farewell!”

                Nori flatly looked at Dori before he gave a Cheshire smile and drawled aggravatingly, “And you actually were foolish enough to think I would care to carry out that order?”

                “I’ll pound you later, miscreant…” hissed Dori wrathfully in Khuzdul before he frantically turned to Captain America and begged, “Oh, Steven!  Please wait for me while I run back to my teahouse posthaste!  Let me bring you your present!  Please?!  Will you wait for me and promise to not leave yet until I return?!  Please wait!”

                “I will.  You have my word,” chuckled Steven, smiling, which was all Dori needed as he dashed off in a speedy blur, practically raising a cloud of dust in his wake as Dori frantically sprinted in a rather undignified manner back to the Lonely Mountain.  Nori gave Steven a sly smile in return, and the Avenger got the oddest feeling that the Spymaster of Erebor neglected to bring his present for some specific reason…

                One Dwarfling wielding dual toy axes and (surprisingly) his hair shaved into the shape of a mohawk similar to the hairstyle Dwalin wore in his youth, tottered up to the Ereborian Captain before he bowed to the older Dwarf and said, “Master Dwalin, my name is Holberf.”

                “Well met, Young Holberf,” Dwalin responded, bowing at the child.  The young Dwarf looked at Dwalin with reverence and awe, eyes shining like bright stars.

                “The honor is mine, Slayer of the Durin’s Bane and General Bolg of the Orcs.  I just wished to tell you that when I grow up, I wish to be just like you!”

                Dwalin was immensely touched, but then he remembered how insecure and inadequate he felt when Captain America started spending time with his Ori, so to the puzzled amazement of many all around them, Dwalin reached out and ruffled Holberf’s head.

                “Perhaps instead of trying to be more like me, you should try to be more like yourself, young one,” Dwalin lectured compassionately.

                Holberf’s blinked before he nodded in understanding and scampered back to his mother excitedly, saying that the revered hero of Erebor complimented him.  Dwalin smiled, feeling so much lighter and fulfilled now than he had been in the past ever since Thor and Steven first arrived as he quietly stood side-by-side with Ori.

                “That was a noble and supportive thing to say, Dwalin,” Ori praised softly, “You are more significant and important than you think.  To Thorin’s Company and to the Kingdom.”

                “Ori…” Dwalin said in a soft voice before the Dwarf Captain handed the Scribe a box wrapped in paper and a satin mauve ribbon, “This is the first of many, but I feel now that Dori is temporarily unavailable, there is no better time to do this before he returns.”

                “Why do you need do this this without Dori’s presence?” asked Ori as he accepted the gift.  Dwalin just smirked as he sidetracked.

                “Just open it, love.”

                Ori did, taking care to not rip the ribbon or the wrapping paper before he blinked.

                It was a special metal case for drawing supplies and quill.

                The metal was polished silver, sparkling under the sunlight, and held together with fresh leather straps and brass buckles and hinges.  The case was about a foot long and six inches wide, but it came with a beautiful wooden handle on the side to carry like a parcel.  Embedded in the metal was the inscription, “Ori Rison, Royal Scribe and Librarian of Erebor” in Khuzdul letters.  When Ori opened the case, his eyes went wide with astonishment.  Inside were two sealed and secured pots of the finest ink from Mirkwood and Dale along with a compartment with two feathered Eagle quills, personally given by Gwaihir’s own wings.  And on the other side of the drawing case was a separate compartment with a white rubber eraser and pencils and four Winsor and Newton Vine and Willow charcoal stubs along with a satin cloth for wiping and a tiny brass dagger for sharpening the quills and charcoal sticks.

                “I spent five days in the forge’s to get the box size just right to hold your materials and inkpots.  I begged Steven if he could part with all the extra drawing supplies his could spare.  The charcoal sticks and eraser contraption is from his personal pack, and I pleaded with the King of the Giant Eagles and Radagast the Brown to let me have two feathers for you as quills for your ink.  I now owe the Brown Wizard some favors to feed and deliver food to the Eagles and his hedgehogs, but it was a price I would gladly pay.”

                There was a stillness before Dwalin asked hesitantly,

                “Do…is it all right?  Do you like it?”

                Ori threw himself into Dwalin’s arms, barely giving the burly Dwarf any time to react, before Ori crashed his mouth against Dwalin’s and kissed him deeply and passionately, and Dwalin quickly fell into rhythm, moaning with delight as Ori’s tongue entered and pressed against his teeth.

                From the background, Nori gave his little brother a wink and a nod behind Dwalins’ back.

                From behind Dwalin’s back, Ori gave Nori a rather obscene Dwarvish hand-gesture in return.

                While Steven and Thor were giving a polite bow to King Thranduil (and with Thranduil’s Royal Elk giving Steve a rather sloppy kiss on the cheek), Dwalin and Ori parted with Dwalin giving out short pants of ardor mixed with relief.

                “I shall take that answer as a yes,” Dwalin chortled.

                “Yes, I love it!  I love it!  A thousand times over!” Ori declared as he hugged Dwalin fiercely.

                “Good, because I believe that it shall be the last kiss we’ll have together for a good while before Dori gets back.”

                Puzzled, Ori looked up, frowning with confusion as he asked, “Dori?  What does he have to do with this?”

                “I left him a little surprise in his tea shop,” Dwalin said, relishing his upcoming revenge for all the punches and bruises and bloody contusions Dori delivered to his body these past several weeks.  Ori’s voice got uncompromising, rebuking even as he slowly repeated his question.

                “Dwalin.  What.  Did.  You.  Do?”

                “Remember the drawing of the both of us posing naked that Steven sketched?”

                “Yes?” Ori said hesitantly.

                “With Nori’s help, I decided that good art must be admired for everyone to see and appreciate.  So we hung the drawing in a nice frame and glass paneling right above the fireplace mantle for everyone to see the moment they enter inside your brother’s establishment,” Dwalin grinned.

                Ori needed a minute to process this before he felt a weary headache of resignation bud in his head.

                “You took the drawing Steven made of us?” Ori narrated methodically.

                “Yes, Ori,” Dwalin replied, still smirking.

                “Of the two of us nude and without clothes?”

                “Yes, Ori.”

                “And hung the picture above the fireplace?”

                “Yes, Ori.”

                “In my brother’s teahouse?”

                “Yes, Ori.”

                “For the entire public to witness?”

                “Yes, Ori.”

                “…does Dori know about this?” Ori asked wearily.

                At that precise moment, Dori’s scream of horrified rage echoed throughout the Lonely Mountain, and it was so forceful, even the residents in Dale could easily pick it up.

                “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

                Dwalin’s smile grew toothily smug.

                “He does now…” he said in a sing-song voice as Nori howled with mirth.

                “So that explains why the drawing of you and Dwalin as bare as newborns still hangs in Master Dori’s teahouse to this day,” murmured a male Elfling out loud.

                “I for one am surprised Master Dori did not destroy the portrait the instant he spied upon it,” another Elf child commented.

                “Steven actually had a hand in that one,” Ori stated, bemused.

                “I’m glad you like my wedding present to Ori, Mister Dori,” broke in Steve strongly as Dori fought against Bombur, Bifur, Glóin and Óin’s clutches around his powerful body in an effort to stop Dori from slaughtering Dwalin right in public, “I’m sorry the surprise got spoiled for you, but the sketch was an early gift for Dwalin and Ori to personalize and commemorate their renewed courting and eventual marriage.”

                “WHAT?!” shrieked a convulsing and disgusted Dori.  Dwalin, then in front of all Dwarves, Elves, and Men and Women for all to behold and spectate knelt down on one knee in front of Ori.  The Captain of the Ereborian Guard then took out his courting bead, the same one his ripped out so stupidly on that one horrific argument so many weeks ago in their apartment, and presented it to the Royal Scribe of Erebor.

                “Ori, Mudùmel…” Dwalin asserted with a tender placidness that made Ori’s knees buckle, “Will you allow me, a Dwarf who does not deserve to be graced by your tender heart and wise words of fantasy and ink that extends beyond the stars and Mahal’s Forge, to officially court you?  Again?  Now and forever?  I will rather die again by the Balrog than lose you a second time.”

                “Yes, Dwalin, Son of Fundin!  Yes!” Ori hailed and applauded as Dwalin, with tears of elation and delight running down his cheeks, rose and began braiding the missing courtship bead into Ori’s hair.  Ori felt so thrilled and raptured, like a missing part of his soul had now finally returned and that everything was now all right with the world.

                “ABSOLUTELY NOT A CHANCE IN ALL OF ARDA!!!  I REFUSE!!!  REFUSE, I TELL YOU!!!” squealed the gray-haired Dori to the heavens above, actually echoing loudly enough throughout the entire Gray Mountains and causing a few crows to scatter.

                “It is not your choice, Dori.  It is mine.  You have no say in this,” Ori huffed indignantly.

                “My Lord, this cannot be allowed!” hissed one of the Iron Hills advisors, “This is against Dwarvish pride and culture!  Fundinson was the one who divorced the Scribe in the first place!  He cannot be allowed to re-establish and renew his bond just because he changed his mind!”

                Lord Dáin was rather indifferent, laidback, and uncaring as he shrugged and said, “Eh, can’t say I give a pig’s arse, laddies!  I am not the King of Erebor!  Besides, I think that Master Dwalin, Son of Fundin, rather has proved himself worthy of wishing to undo his annulment, do you not?  He did help kill and slay Bolg, the son of the Pale Orc, and the Balrog himself, right?”

                “Technically, it was Thor Odinson who slew the Durin’s Bane, not Captain America or Fundinson…” grumbled another Iron Hills envoy rather uncouthly.

                Again, Lord Dáin highlighted, “We have no say in what goes on in Erebor, lads.  Only King Thorin does, remember?”

                The way Dáin said it so lightly while giving a reserved and bored look at Steven was not lost on the blond Avenger as he caught on to the subtle hint.

                Steven Rogers then rose up straight, at full attention and his eyes clear, vibrant and as sure and bright as the sky in midday before he declared loudly for everyone all around to hear, “And let it be said that I, Steven Rogers and Captain America, leader of the Avengers from another world, hereby give my word that there is no better Dwarf to court Ori Rison than Dwalin Fundinson, one of the Slayers of the Balrog and Durin’s Bane of Morgoth!  I, Steven Rogers, hereby bequeath my blessings for Dwalin, son of Fundin, to cherish his heart and love and be joined with Ori, Son of Ri.  If there are any misgivings or any reason why anyone present finds fault with Dwalin’s honor, step forward and fight me in a duel for Dwalin’s name and family.  For I, Steven Rogers, name Dwalin and Ori my friends and honorary Avengers, and any misgivings against them is a misgiving against myself.  So, to all who protest this courtship, speak now and challenge my word and shield.”

                No one, not a single Man, Elf, or Dwarf stepped forward.  After word had spread like wildfire that Captain America and Thor Odinson has both singlehandedly along with Dwalin annihilated Bolg, the Balrog, and their armies, no one wanted to do anything so reckless.  And Thor was brimming with pride at how much Steve was now back to his old self, strong-willed, determined, and yet with a stubbornly loyal and soft heart…

                Steve turned to Thorin Oakenshield and a smiling Bilbo Baggins.

                “Your Majesties, do either of you find fault with Dwalin and his courtship with Ori?”

                “None, Master Rogers,” Thorin said stoutly with a wide smile and twinkling eyes, at ease at the apparent politics behind this declaration, “I, King Thorin Oakenshield, son of , give my blessings and authority to allow such a union and marriage and give the Slayer of Durin’s Bane the highest of praise and honor.”

                Steve turned to Nori and a twitched, horrified Dori (who looked like he was going to keel over from his convulsions due to his purple face of wrath).

                “Mister Nori and Dori, son of Ri and brother of Ori.  Do you both give your blessings and hand in offering Ori to Dwalin for courtship and eventual marriage.”

                Nori had to say he was impressed; he never would have imagined Steven Rogers would be that adept at political snowballing.

                “We do,” Nori said immediately, and though he had to elbow a horrified Dori several times in the side to snap the Dwarf aristocrat out of his fugue stupor, Dori then managed to croak out his next words through his strangled throat (much to everyone’s shock).

                “I – urk! – give my blessings to – erk! -  to…to – my – agh! – to Master Dwalin to…t-…to court – ugh!  To court and be joi-joi…to be joined – in…in – in – in matrimony to my – ack! – to my- urk! – beloved brother, Ori as…as…as his – his - his…his One!”

                It was nothing short of a miracle that Dori managed to sputter out these words without an absolute screaming bout of hysteria as he collapsed to the ground in a hear faint as the blood rushed into his head (which was beginning to swell a bit).

                “He is taking it better than I expected,” chuckled Kíli.

                Tauriel blinked as she said, “Kíli, Master Dori appears as if he is about to burst and die.”

                “As I have said before: Dori is certainly taking this better than I expected.”

                “Da, is Master Dori having a stroke?” Tilda asked from the background, watching the jolting Dwarf with his limbs flailing about in severe contractions, “He’s shaking for some odd reason.”

                “Just ignore him, Tilda,” Bard deflected.

                Bifur looked at Nori before he signed with his hands, “Why are you not outraged at Dwalin and Ori reconciling?”

                Nori grinned toothily, “First: I’ve pretty much accepted that my little brother loves the shit-faced bastard, so who am I to deny watching dear Fundinson crawl and grovel his apologies and redeem himself at Ori’s feet to my entertainment for years to come?  Secondly, look at the expression of murderous resignation on Dori’s face!  If he is not having a complete hysterical crack-up, I shall treasure this moment for years to come!  Where else am I going to get a chance to see my dearest Dori’s plans fall flat on his face in the most truly humiliating and outrageous fashion?”

                Bifur gave Nori a flat and deadpanned look before he spoke in Khuzdul, “There are times I cannot determine if you love your brother or if you love aggravating him?”

                “It is a bit of both, really,” Nori admitted with a giggle as he puffed on his pipe.

                At the same time, Thor Odinson was saying farewells to the one being in Middle Earth he would truly miss and long for…

                Thor knelt down slowly before he mildly took Bilbo’s hands into his own, caressing them softly.

                “I shall miss you, Bilbo,” Thor said in a low and conspiratorial whisper, his eyes and smile beaming with mischief and cocky teasing, “The offer I made in the past still stands as of now, my fellow Mjolnir brother.  You are welcome to come visit my kingdom amongst the stars in Asgard.”

                Bilbo chuckled as he shook his head.

                “Now would not be a good time,” Bilbo explained, “I must help the Dwarves of Erebor as well as my family stabilize the Mountain along with Dale and Mirkwood.  Now is a precarious time for a vacation due to the responsibility of ensuring that the Orcs and those who were allied with them are thoroughly stamped out.  I cannot leave, not now when we must rebuild and fortify our efforts to be safe and live in peace.  Perhaps another time.  Although…”

                And with this, Bilbo couldn’t help but blush and smile at Thor’s eager look and adorable puppy-eyes.

                “You and Steven will always have a home here in the Lonely Mountain.”

                Thor nodded his gratitude before he did something quite daring that caused Thorin’s blood-pressure to absolutely skyrocket.  Thor raised one hand and lightly caressed Bilbo’s cheek and chin with his thumb and forefinger, so soft and caring that it felt like a soft breeze.  Bilbo gulped as he gazed into Thor’s eyes, with one of Thor’s eyebrows raised upwards in a smarmy fashion.

                “Although…I was promised a kiss earlier.  If it pleases you, could you indulge the Prince of Asgard with such a small pittance, oh fair Hobbit of hair and heart of gold?” Thor murmured huskily that would have sent any female screaming with pleasure and giddy flattery.

                Dwalin sighed as he grabbed Thorin, wrapping his arms around the King’s burly torso as Thorin drew out Orcrist and was about to charge towards Thor with the intention of lopping the Asgardian’s head clean off.

                “I’ll kill him!” roared Thorin, struggling to break free against Dwalin’s hold, limbs and legs thrashing and flailing about, “I’ll kill him!  I swear to Mahal, I shall kill that damned blond fop and castrate him and then have Gandalf send his head to Asgard soaked in Orc piss and Warg dung!  Release me!  I shall give that damned irritant exactly what he deserves!”

Art by Tosquinha

                Meanwhile, as many of the Company were now trying to stop Thorin from carrying out his murderous rage, Ori, now with his newly braided courtship bead, calmly strolled over to Captain America before he smiled and hugged Steven across his waist, murmuring with gratitude, “Thank you.”

                Steven patted Ori’s head before kneeling down and replying, “I should thank you.  You and all our friends helped me so much.  That is a debt I can never repay, but I’m obliged and thankful all the same.”

                Ori shook his head before he took out a cylindrical tube of metal and steel from his sleeves and handed it to Captain America, whispering, “If anything, I hope this present can covey the slightest inkling of how much I owe my life and my marriage with Dwalin to you.  Open it, Steven.”

                Steve did, prying the lid off the metal tube as a rolled up piece of thick sheepskin came out.  The Man unrolled it before felt his heart pause and his breath catch in his throat.

                On the rich parchment was an inked drawing of Steven and Bucky.

                With his quill and finest ink, Ori depicted the two of the lovers and close friends smiling and laughing, the both of them wearing furred tunics, long-sleeved shirts, and leggings and furry boots similar to the Dwarven clothing style.  Steve was portrayed not as a ninety-pound weakling, but his current muscular form with his short hair and mischievous yet easy-going smile on his face.  The Captain was actually a bit amazed at how Ori got the look of his eyes just right, so life-like that they almost seemed to animate with excitement.

                Yet what Steve was actually stunned was the sketch of Bucky.  Though he had his chiseled face and long, shoulder-length hair like his Winter Soldier persona, the expression on Bucky’s face was peaceful, serene, and so full of humor and brotherly compassion just like in the days of the war.  Bucky’s arm was draped over Steve’s neck and shoulders, and he was warmly pulling Steve close to his body in an affectionate manner.  And likewise, Steve had a brawny arm looped around Bucky’s waist with the two brothers clearly gleeful, serene, and close as brothers.

                “I had Lady Galadriel of the Elves secretly show me a vision of Bucky when Gandalf and Radagast brought her to visit Erebor during the clean-up of the fight with the Balrog.  I used her clairvoyance ability in the water to allow me to commit Bucky’s face to memory so I could draw him.  She…well, from what she could see, Lady Galadriel says Bucky misses you dearly, despite everything he said or did.”

                Shy and embarrassed, Ori looked down on the ground, fiddling his hands and not sure if Steve would be pleased or offended at the breach in the private matters of his life.

                There was a quivering soft noise from Steve, almost like a sob, and so uncharacteristic of the Avenger, Ori looked up sharply at Steve’s white face and his mouth set tightly in a line.

                However, Ori was a bit taken aback to see Steve’s blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

                A tense yet silent minute passed between the two before Steve whispered shakily.

                “Thank you…”

                With that, Steve gently set down the drawing before he leaned over, grasped the Dwarf scribe tenderly by the shoulders, and kissed Ori on the forehead.  Then Steven reached into his knapsack and took out a familiar object before he tenderly placed into Ori’s hands.

Art by Tosquinha

                “Take care of this for me.  I’ve had it ever since I was a kid.”

                Ori looked down at the gift in his hands before he blinked in realization.

                In his palms was the tattered and love-worn copy of “A Wrinkle in Time”.

                Steven smiled, his eyes twinkling as he added, “I believe Mister Gandalf can help you translate the book into Common and Khuzdul if you need it.  And Dwalin can probably help you turn the pages.”

                “Oh Steven…” Ori sniffed before he lunged upwards and gave Captain America the biggest hug he could, wrapping his arms around the soldier’s neck.  Steve chuckled warmly as he returned the embrace, rubbing the Dwarf’s back.

                Meanwhile, as Thorin was valiantly trying to break free of Dwalin, Kíli, Fíli, and Balin’s holds in his attempt to rush forward and end Thor Odinson’s life by his sword, Bilbo, completely done in and out of patience with this on-going and irresponsible fedd, grabbed Thorin by his braids and yanked the stout Dwarf so that his eyes were level with Bilbo’s.

                “Thorin Oakenshield…” growled Bilbo, his green eyes flashing and his nose twitching angrily, “You have indulged in this childish temper-tantrum long enough!  Thor has done nothing to warrant such disrespect and immaturity that would be deemed juvenile even for the Shire’s Fauntlings!  Thor has vanquished the Bane of Durin, saving your life and the life of all your descendants!  There is no greater feat a friend and ally can ever achieve for a Dwarf!  Now, you will leave your sword on the ground now, march up, and give Thor Odinson a hug and apology for all the rude and rather undignified and unrespectable behavior you have subjected our friend and guest to!  Immediately.  Now.  And in front of everyone in Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood.”

                Thorin was rather flabbergasted at Bilbo’s request, as if Bilbo told him to lie naked with King Thranduil in the Elf King’s Royal Chambers for a night and day.  Now mortified and furious, the raven-haired Dwarf monarch held on to his stubbornness, recalling of all the indignity Thor Odinson had subjected him to ever since he first arrived to the Lonely Mountain with the insulting bell-flowers…

                “No,” Thorin hissed ominously, and Bilbo’s voice went even colder, arctic even.

                “I beg your pardon, Thorin Oakenshield Durinson.  What did you just say?” Bilbo repeated slowly, his tone getting softer and a good indication of the danger Thorin was digging himself into.

                Thorin still was unyielding as he broke free from everyone’s holds, straightening his furs and armor before he blatantly pronounced with pride, “I will not apologize and humble myself to that fop!  That blond-haired, mangy mutt started it!  That odious, foul-smelling, drunkard constantly aggravated me by his constant attempts to pursue you in front of my presence!  That bile-covered, bowel that was vomited from an Orc’s Warg is the one fully in the wrong!  He should be apologizing to me!  So no, I will not do anything of the sort when I am the one who has been transgressed against!  I am the King!  I am the ruler of the Lonely Mountain!  And my word is law!  And I will not apologize to that maggot-toting, swamp-sucking, manure-spewing bastard of a Fellbeast and a succubus even if were the Dagor Dagorath before the Door of Night opens!  And I will not do it, not even for the Consort of Erebor!”

                Bilbo’s eyes narrowed as everyone else in the Company looked on uneasily.

                Watching on, Thor winced and chuckled, “Bad move, Thorin of Oak’s Shield…”

                “Then I will move back to the Shire.  Indefinitely,” Bilbo said simply with crossed arms.

                Thorin sputtered a bit, wildly trying to find the words, before he snapped back heatedly, “Good!  Because then you’ll come crawling back!  You won’t outlast me on this, Burglar!”

                “Then I shall go with him,” Queen Dís said authoritatively, stepping forward and her dark eyes now even darker with stern ire (though remarkably calm enough to hide it).

                “Everyone in the Company would to, now that I think about it…” mused Balin out loud, and as Thorin whirled on the white-haired sage in antagonism, Balin shrugged and repeated, “Thorin, a King must be humble enough to choose between his pride and his happiness.  Do you recall refusing to part with the treasure after the death of Smaug and nearly going to war over the Arkenstone?  This is no different.”

                “Aye,” nodded Bofur in a melodramatic show on appearing to think over the decision, “You may be King and all, Thorin, but we’ll make it plain: we like Bilbo more.”

                Various nods from the Dwarves all around (and even from Tauriel, Legolas, Beorn, King Thranduil, King Bard and his children, and Gandalf) just further added to Thorin’s resentment.

                Thorin resisted the urge to impale Balin and Bofur right then and there with Orcrist as he turned to his nephews and pleaded, “Kíli, Fíli!  What say you both?”

                Fíli, who was standing next to Princess Sigrid and holding her hand (much to King Bard’s irritation) backed off a bit, shrugging helplessly, “My apologies, Uncle, but you are on your own.”

                Kíli just looked down at his feel mulishly, not meeting Thorin’s eyes under Tauriel’s glare.  It was apparent that as much as Kíli could agree about Thor Odinson, he really did not want to incur the She-Elf’s wrath.

                Desperate, Thorin then pointed to Dwalin and frantically emphasized, “Well, what about Dwalin then?  He has as much of a reason to hate Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers!  Why doesn’t he have to apologize and bid those two fops farewell?!”

                “Actually, I don’t.  Not anymore.  I now realize that my jealousy and resentment to our two Avengers was quite petty and hurtful, so I have apologized and would gladly welcome both Masters Thor and Rogers back into Erebor with welcome arms,” Dwalin replied imperturbably, casually as if they were discussing what was going to be for dinner.

                If Thorin Oakenshield wasn’t stunned before, he certainly was now as he stared, boggled-eyes at Dwalin and looking as if one kicked the Dwarf King directly in the nether-regions.

                “You…but…it’s…why?!  It’s not…it’s not possible!” rasped Thorin.  The King’s remark caused Dwalin to smirk as he then bellowed out to Ori as he was hugging Steven.

                “Oi!  Ori, you call that a hug?!  Give Steven Rogers a better hug than that!  Kiss him on the cheek too!  We want Master Rogers to know the extent of our gratitude and to let him know that he and Thor Odinson shall always be welcome here as our dearest friends!”

                “WHAT?!” screamed Thorin, his strangled voice an octave higher, as he grasped the sides of his head and looked like he was about to rip his hair out by the handfuls as he swayed and lurched awkwardly around like a drunken bullfrog.  Queen Dís just looked on at her stricken brother with amusement as Balin gave Dwalin an odd look, one eyebrow raised in controlled disbelief.

                “And what pray tell brought about this sudden change of heart, dear brother?”

                Dwalin shrugged sheepishly as he explained, “Ori and I talked about it last night, and we decided that we both want to make our courtship and relationship work.  I have been given a second chance, and there is absolutely no possible way that I shall squander such a mercy.  So I have accepted that I was wrong and will spend the rest of my lifetime in repentance to ensure that Ori is never without and that the last of his days are filled with bliss and peace and joy.  And in addition to that, Ori and I have both agreed to discuss and talk our feelings out like rational and mature Dwarves with a neutral third party acting as mediator in order to work at our partnership and mental health.  I will not lose Ori again, and if attending this so-called ‘couples-therapy’ is what it requires to salvage it, then so be it.  I even agreed with Ori to even seek counsel with the Elves of Rivendell if we both find it necessary.”

                Now both of Balin’s eyebrows rose in surprise, so high and far above his brow that his forehead was beginning to ache.

                Balin could honestly say that Dwalin had never before floored him as much as this very moment.

                With surprisingly great difficulty and hesitation, the wide-eyed Balin managed to utter, “…that…that is a very mature decision.”

                Dwalin gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders as he jerked a thumb as the shuddering Thorin Oakenshield and explained, “Well, Ori and I decided that trying to emulate Bilbo and Thorin’s relationship wouldn’t be ideal for my One is nowhere as patient and merciful as Bilbo, and in no way do I wish to be as emotionally constipated as Thorin here.”

                “You…are…all against me…” hissed Thorin, twitching, face becoming dangerously scarlet, “You – erp! – it’s – erk! – not – augh! - fair!”

                “Amad, do you think Uncle will ever change his mind about Thor Odinson?” Fili asked Queen Dís who rolled her eyes at her eldest son.

                “Please.  Not even Eru and all the Valar could grant that miracle.”

                Dis stepped forward before she then concretely ordered with steel, pointing at Thor Odinson, “Thorin Durinson, go to Thor and apologize and make amends.  Now.  In front of everyone.  Or else I will personally drag you forward there in a headlock and shove you into Thor Odinson’s arms himself before setting a caravan to travel back to the Shire with everyone in tow, and you can enjoy your cold throne of gold and rock without any friends, support, or family from here on out.”

                “But – but - !” Thorin faltered, now realizing that everyone in the open from Dain and his Dwarves to the Giant Eagles to King Bard and Thranduil (who was smirking) was watching with apt interest.

                “But I do not want to!” Thorin complained (no, he was not whining, no matter what King Thranduil later testified).

                “Thorin…” said Dis and nearly everyone in Thorin’s Company in a rather severe tone.

                After a few tense minutes, Thorin moseyed indolently forward with tiny, reluctant steps as he bitterly slothed forward Thor Odinson and Steven Rogers, moving at a literal snail’s pace and muttering rather foul and wince-worthy curses and swear words that really shouldn’t be put into print.

                “Thorin, stop acting like a child and get on with it!” Bilbo snapped.

                Gandalf stepped forward with an impish smile as he raised his staff a bit and asked innocently, “Perhaps a little magical persuasion should help, Master Bilbo?”

                “If necessary…” Bilbo said loudly, implying his threat.

                Thorin moved a lot quicker after that sentence.

                King Thranduil, watching on, was thoroughly enjoying every moment of this farce as he intoned smoothly, “This almost makes the resulting damage and aggravation due Thor Odinson and Captain America’s visits worth it.”

                “Really?” Bard asked, one eyebrow raised and a wide smile.

                “I said almost,” clarified the Elf King.

                Before long (although Thorin was trying to delay it as long as possible), Thorin Oakenshield ambled in front of Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson.  Steve was graceful enough to accept a simple handshake and nod from the Dwarf King, but when he pontificated the Asgardian, Thor just opened his muscular arms wide and with a naughty twinkle in his eye as he knelt down.

                “A hug is all I desire, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield,” Thor naughtily teased.

                Thorin looked like he would rather punch Thor in the crotch before ripping the Avenger’s head and hair off, but red in the face and under scrutiny of everyone else in the crowds, Thorin gawkily and aversely wrapped his arms around Thor’s neck while Thor drew him close against his chest, stroking Thorin’s hair like a pet dog soothingly.

                There, Thor Odinson and Thorin Oakenshield remained, still in a tight embrace in the middle of everyone in the crowds to see.

                One second passed, then two seconds, then four, but neither of them moved from their positions.

                Fíli blinked as he remarked, “I am surprised.  Uncle really does not want to let go.”

                Sigrid giggled as she stated to Bilbo, “See, Master Baggins?  King Thorin cannot help but like Thor Odinson after all of this sordid affair with the Orcs.”

                “Perhaps I was wrong,” Bilbo said with touched pride, “I am now immensely glad and proud that Thorin has recognized Steven and Thor’s efforts in the war and that he has given them both the full appreciation and dignified grace they deserve.”

                Meanwhile, still hugging each other, Thorin and Thor were whispering in tones so soft and discreet that not even Beorn with his sharp hearing could detect.

                “If you ever try kissing my Beloved again, I will make you suffer,” hissed Thorin murderously through gritted teeth.

                “No, you will not,” Thor bragged lowly in a sing-song whisper.

                “Do not ever dare return to our Kingdom, or I shall send the entire Royal Guard to put you in the stockades before tossing your fat carcass off the highest point of the Lonely Mountain,” growled Thorin through his façade of a smile, trying to keep appearances to Bilbo and everyone watching.

                “I love you too, King Thorin of Oak’s Shield,” sidetracked Thor aggravatingly.

                “I will kill you…” swore Thorin in Thor’s ear.

                “Better men than you have tried…and my mother’s own arms are stronger than yours…” bragged Thor as Thorin tried using his hug as a clandestine way to tighten his hold around Thor’s neck as a chokehold.

                Bilbo apparently gave his husband too much credit at times…

                Meanwhile, Nori was serenely smoking as he was squatting next to a shaking and broken Dori, the eldest Ri brother now a broken shell in mind and fortitude as Dori curled into a fetal position and lying on his side on the ground, and tried his best to make sense of the turn of events in his pulsating and traumatized head.

                “All’s well that ends well, eh Dori?” Nori chuckled.

                “I was close, so close, so, so close,” moaned Dori lifelessly, eyes glazed and limbs waxy and limp, “My brother could have been married to Steven Rogers.  I could have been the pride and envy of all families to have Captain America as a brother-in-law.  I was so close.  Why?  Why?  Why?  I was so, so close…”

                “Master Dori was not very pleased with you and Master Dwalin reconciling, was he?” one human Dale teen commented flatly.  Ori pretended to ponder it before he nodded whimsically.

                “No, I daresay he did not.”

                “Surely he got over the surprise and eventually accepted it, right, Elder Ori?” another Dale child asked, perking her head.

                “Funny that you should mention that, young one…” the wrinkled, old Dwarf recalled.

                “Dori…” Ori asked slowly to his languishing oldest brother, “Is there anything you need?  A drink of tea perhaps or another blanket?”

                Dori shook his head feebly as he then coughed weakly from his position on the soft feather mattress in his chambers, bundled with numerous pillows and quilts.  It was such a contrast, seeing Dori from a strong, stout, and powerful Dwarf of impressive strength and frame, being reduced to a thin, wrinkled crone with frail limbs, cloudy eyes, and only a few wisps of coarse white hair that remained on his head and chin.  Though he lived past three hundred years of age and the War of the Ring, Dori was wasting away of age and it wouldn’t be much longer.

                Ori and Dwalin, both of them quite old themselves and Dwalin now walking on a cane with a noticeable hunch in his back, looked on as they did their best to keep Dori comfortable.  King Fili and Regent Kili along with Master Frodo Baggins were also in the room, with Fili and Kili dressed in their regal attire of robes and furs and jewelry while Frodo poured a cup of pomengranate blossom tea with lemon juice and honeycomb for Dori just in case, his hand glaring missing his ring finger where Gollum gnawed it off.

                Dori waved off Frodo’s attempt to bring him the teacup as he then rasped hoarsely, “Dwalin.  Dwalin, please come forward.  I have something I wish to tell him before I pass to our Father’s Halls. Please.”

                Dwalin instantly hobbled over (with Fili and Kili’s help) before he knelt down next to the bedridden and frail Dori, on his knees as he listened carefully to Dori’s next lamentation and offering of peace.

                “I never made it easy for you, and yet you have persisted admirably,” Dori whispered, his voice strained, “You have made my dear Ori so very happy, never once having a sinlge complaint.  You have been a faithful Husband and Honorable Dwarf to both my brother and to the Lonely Mountain, and you have both been blessed with wonderful children to carry on the name of Ri and Fundin.  Ori himself reveres you and appreciates how much happiness you brought into his life.  So - ”

                Dori went into a round of hacking before he regained his breath and motioned with a finger for Dwalin to come closer.  Dwalin bent down a bit, feeling that he was going to get Dori’s blessing at last after so many years of subtle insults, bruises, and outright hostility.

                “I just…I just wished to give you…” Dori whispered, his voice growing fainter.

                Dwalin leaned his ear now directly against Doir’s dry, chapped lips.

                “To…to…to give you…”

                Dwalin leaned closer, expecting Dori’s final words to be his approval.

                “…TEN FINGERS OF DEATH!” roared Dori, taking everyone in the room by complete surprise as the bed-ridden Dori quickly latched both his hands around Dwalin’s neck and began throttling him.  Dwalin started hacking as Kíli, Fíli, and Frodo rushed to try to break the two apart.  Dori, unfortunately, still had the strength to clasp on tightly as he continued to strangle the thrashing Dwalin.

                “I HATE YOU!” shrieked Dori with rage, “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!  I COULD HAVE HAD STEVEN ROGERS AS A BROTHER-IN-LAW!  BUT NO!  I HAD TO SETTLE FOR YOU, YOU UNCOUTH, RAT-FACED, TREE-SHAGGING TROLL!”

                “…I’m pretty sure he’s used that insult before,” Kíli remarked, blinking.  Frodo gave his cousin a rather incredulous look.

                “That’s what you’re concentrating on?!” Frodo shrieked.

                In the background, Ori just sighed as he couldn’t say that he didn’t somewhat expect this.

                There was a horrified pause from the audience of children before one Dale boy piped up wryly.

                “Stubbornly defiant to the end, I see?” the human remarked.

                “I would like to think that those two are still fighting and brawling it out in Mahal’s Halls where they can punch, kick, bite, and insult each other to their hearts’ content,” Elder Ori mused as he sipped his tea before he continued, “Now, where was I?  Oh yes, Steven and Thor were both about ready to leave Erebor and take the Rainbow Bridge back to their world to rejoin with the other Avengers…”

                “How did you do it?” Steve asked quietly as they both walked towards the center of the clearing, the scorch-marks still evident in the dirt and rock from when Thor Odinson and Captain America first arrived in Middle Earth so many months ago.

                Thor gave his friend a questioning look, so Steve clarified it.

                “How did you ever get past your misery and pain when your mother was killed by Malekith and the Dark Elves?”

                Thor’s eyes went a bit gloomy with clouds in the aquamarine seas, but he smiled easily enough as he explained, “Incánus was instrumental in helping me with my grief.”

                Thor then asked gently, “Did he also manage to help you as well, Steven?”

                “He did.  And not just Mister Gandalf.  I think everyone here helped me in some way.”

                “And how do you feel now, my friend?  What do you wish to do now?”

                “First, I want to tell Fury and the other Avengers what we plan to do to ensure that Hydra and any of its allies and branches are thoroughly investigated and taken care of,” Steve stated thoughtfully “And then once we make sure that Fury can delegate without me, I need to ask you for a favor in asking Heimdall to locate Bucky for me on my planet.  I’m bringing him back, even if I have to put that punk in a headlock the whole trip.”

                Then Steve asked a rather surprising question.

                “Think Mister Gandalf and our friends would be willing to help Bucky too?”

                Thor looked at Steven, askance but also curious.

                “I thought you decided to obey Master Barnes wishes for you to leave him be and to cease your administrations?”

                Steve smirked as he replied, “Maybe I inherited the stubbornness of the Dwarves after all this.”

                Thor laughed heartily at the healed Steven Rogers, in both body and soul, silently thanking the Gods and Dwarves and Bilbo Baggins for bringing his friend back, as he reached out and solidly clamped his hand on Steven’s shoulder as an act of camaraderie and close brotherhood.

                “Aye, you have,” Thor boomed enthusiastically, “Master Bucky Barnes best watch out now with the both of us willing to bring him back to our fold and family!”

                With that, Thor brought Steve close to his body by wrapping one burly arm around Steven’s waist before raising Mjolnir high into the sky and shouting loudly for everyone to hear him.

                “Heimdall!” Thor commanded with authority, and in a blink of an eye, both he and Steven Rogers were engulfed in a pillar of color and power, swirling and whipping across the air and skies, before disappearing to the heavens above, leaving a blackened Asgardian sigil in the scorched dirt amid the hushed and excited chattering all around them.

                At long last, Steven Rogers and Thor Odinson were on their way back home…

                “And did Captain America succeed?” asked a Fauntling girl, “Did he ever get his dear Bucky back?”

                “Yes, actually.  In fact, Steven and Thor brought Bucky Barnes himself to Arda after the Civil War in their world with the Sokovia Accords,” Ori commented.

                “So you’re Ori,” Bucky Barnes declared emotionlessly in his deep yet coarse voice, towering over the shy Dwarf as Thor was graciously guiding the rest of the fugitive Avengers out of the landing spot where Heimdall sent them via Rainbow Bridge.  Clint Barton (with his wife and kids), Sam Wilson, Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne, and Wanda Maximoff were staring at the beauty of Middle Earth and the various Elves, Dwarves, and Men with various degrees of shock and awe.

                Tilda ran up to Wanda with big eyes and a flower, a shiny daisy with dew from Bilbo’s Royal Gardens.

                “I like your clothes,” the girl chirped, not the least bit afraid, “You are beautiful!”

                Wanda’s eyes softened with some sadness as she took the flower, touched, before saying, “I am also dangerous.”

                “More dangerous than an Orc?”

                “Yes.”

                “Are you more evil than an Orc?”

                Wanda blinked before she admitted, “I suppose not.”

                Tilda chimed in cheekily, “Then you’re not dangerous at all.”

                Wanda smile grew a bit more.

                Meanwhile, Ori steeled himself before the Winter Soldier before he smiled and bowed before Bucky, saying sincerely, “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Barnes.  Steven has told me a lot about you.”

                “Good or bad things?” Bucky asked in the same emotionless tone.

                “Both, actually,” Ori said.  Steven always told him to be honest for Bucky could smell a lie a mile away…

                “And you’re not scared of me?”

                Ori then looked up and said with sincerity, “I faced dragons, Orcs, and a Balrog of Durin’s Bane.  Facing ‘Bucky Bear’ cannot be any worse than that, especially since we have Bilbo’s plum crumble and plum pudding to bribe you with.”

                Bucky blinked.

                Then he tossed his head back and laughed uproariously and then wiped his eyes.

                “You’re a good one,” Bucky chortled as he knelt down in front of the scribe, “And from Steve told me, you are also the person who encouraged him to come after me and drag me back to the Avengers, kicking and screaming.”

                Bucky took one of Ori’s hands in his good one and said sincerely with his blue eyes lighting up slightly, “Thanks.  I owe you.”

                “You are welcome, Master Barnes.”

                “My friends call me, Bucky.”

                “Are we friends?” Ori asked, tilting his head.

                “Nope.  We’re not friends.”

                Ori blinked, his face falling, until Bucky let out a guffaw at the way his joke caused Ori’s face to look so sad and heartbroken like a kicked puppy before he used his lone arm to bring Ori against his body in a hug and clarified, “We’re not friends.  We’re punks.  There’s a difference, Ori!”

                “Hey!  Leave some Ori for me, Buck!” teased Steven as he embraced both Ori and Bucky from the other side, and Ori couldn’t help but laugh as the two Men, the Captain America and the Winter Soldier, cuddled Ori in between and rubbed their cheeks against Ori’s, nuzzling the Royal Scribe for all he was worth.

                “So dear Steven Rogers did find true love once again with Bucky Barnes!  How romantic!” one female Elf sighed out loud adoringly along with a good number of the female children in the Storyteller Cavern.

                One female Hobbit child piped up, “And Bucky Barnes was well once he came here?”

                “It required several years of advice and trust before Bucky Barnes found his peace,” Ori fondly recalled, “But in time, Bucky Barnes regained his mind and soul and heart, and eventually grew to love Arda so much that he and Steven Rogers married here in a grand matrimony ceremony heralded by Gandalf, Thor Odinson, and Lady Galadriel in the midst of all three Kingdoms with the blessings and funding of all three Kings of Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood.  It was a celebration and ceremony that I can still remember dearly to this day, especially since Steven requested that I be one of the Groomsmen to his wedding.  But that is a story for another day, Children.”

                “Do you miss Masters Steven Rogers and Bucky Barnes, Elder Ori?” asked one young male Dwarf, alluding to how Steven and Bucky left for Valinor together with Legolas, Gimli, and Samwise Gamgee on their own boat several years ago (and how Ori sobbed his eyes out and felt his heart break as he watched Captain America disappear with Bucky in the horizon across the ocean).

                “Yes, and I still do…” murmured the old Storyteller of Erebor sadly, “It is just as painful as it was when Thor Odinson and Steven left after the battle with Bolg and the Balrog.  In fact, their loss was felt quite keenly.  Mostly everyone in the Misty Mountains and in our lands were quite melancholy and depressed the first week after their departure…”

                “Drinks all around, Men!  It shall be my treat!” Thorin Oakenshield heartily crowed as he set a bag of gold to the bartender while every Man and male dwarf and Elf cheered loudly enough to shake the entire building.  As alcohol and spirits were poured in the Dale inn, the entire assemblage was drunk on joy and ecstasy.

                Surprisingly, even King Thranduil was nearly overcome with happiness.  The Elf monarch actually got teary-eyed as he motioned for another refill of his wine glass, sniffing with broken joy, “Oh, it is simply marvelous, is it not, Son of Durin?  After months of stress, after weeks of careless demolition and impairment to my dear forests, after so many times I wished to smite Thor Odinson for his crude obliviousness, finally, we are free!  FREE!  Free of those two Avengers and their wanton destruction!  FREE!”

                “Aye, we are free, King Tree-…King Thranduil.  For once, let us not fight, but celebrate together and deem good riddance to those pests.  For one night, let us be friends,” Thorin suggested as he raised his tankard of ale.  Thranduil, to the surprise of many Elves and Dwarves watching on, clinked his wine glass with Thorin’s.

                “Friends…” the Elf King offered as a truce.

                “I never thought I would live to see the day…” Lord Dáin blinked.

                “Adad?” Legolas asked in shock, only for Thranduil to wave his son off.

                “We are now free of Thor Odinson, Captain America, and the blight of the Orcs and Earth Eaters.  If there was ever a reason to lay down our grudges for one night, it would be this.”

                “Er…your Majesty, that is all well and good, but there is the strong possibility that those two milquetoasts will return again,” one Dale civilian pointed out, only for his friends and comrades to groan at the thought.

                “I vote we figure out a way to magically banish those two Avengers from all of Arda.  Permanently!” griped an Iron Hills Dwarf.

                “I vote the next time they arrive, we all band together and attack them as one!” a Mirkwood sentry shouted out, “Break their bones and shatter their arms and legs!  Leave them to come crawling back to their Asgard and Earth!”

                “Attack the Slayers of the Durin’s Bane and the majority of General Bolg’s armies?  The two beings that managed to perform both feats with one blow?  And you wish to confront them head-on?” his companion asked purposefully with skepticism.

                The first Elf blinked before he admitted, red in the face, “All right, perhaps I did not think that one through…”

                “Maybe the next time they arrive, it will be less arduous,” suggested another Man only to have Prince Kíli scoff loudly as he slammed his empty mug on the wooden table in front of him, gaining attention as he tipsily hollered.

                “Oh please!” Kíli griped to the heavens, clearly irritated, “By the Anvil and Hammer of Mahal, there is not a single being more aggravating than the dimwitted Thor Odinson and oh-so-sickeningly-righteous Captain America!  I would rather take any Asgardian or Avenger over those two bastards in any Age!  What being could possibly come to visit us that is far worse than those two fops?!”

                “How many years ago was this prior to Loki’s takeover of the Lonely Mountain?” one Dwarf asked, deadpanned.  Ori smiled wanly.

                “About eleven months prior.”

                “KÍLI!!!” roared everyone in the dungeons, which happened to be practically every male Dwarf, Elf, and Man from the Lonely Mountain, Mirkwood, and Dale.

                “You just had to tempt Fate, didn’t you, Prince Kíli, the Big-Mouth of Durin?!” snapped Legolas from his prostrate position on his filthy, hay-covered floor of the dungeon, his head and arms restrained out in front by the wooden and padlocked yoke.  As well as all the other male brethren in the oubliettes, all of them sans Beorn restrained in the same manner and kneeling on the floor.  With so many persons crammed tightly in the chambers, they barely had any room to sit down, pressed against each other like tinned sardines and smelling of urine, sweat, and blood.

                “Oi!  You can’t blame for this, Tree-Shagger!”

                “I can certainly blame you for this, Dwarf!  Especially since you were the one who said, and I hereby quote: ‘what being could possibly come to visit us that is far worse than those two fops?’.  You brought this calamity on us!” Legolas argued.

                “As much as I hate to admit it, considering I would rather Prince Fíli get the blame for this, I have to agree with the Mirkwood Prince,” grumbled King Bard.

                “For the last time, Bard, your daughter kissed me willingly!  I’m not sorry at all!” Fíli snapped.

                “For the strangest reason, I’m beginning to wish Loki killed you…” Bard growled, inflamed at the Prince seducing his eldest daughter.

                “Perhaps it is not as bad as we hope, lads…” Óin sighed, only to have his fellow prisoners, Dwalin, Thorin Oakenshield, Nori, and a Dale advisor glare at the Ereborian Healer.

                The Dale diplomat growled, “Loki Laufeyson has completely conquered Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood and is now the self-proclaimed ruler of all three of our fair cities…”

                “Our female brethren and allies along with my dear Ori are under Loki’s spell of mind-control and are lustfully carrying out his every command and whim…” Dwalin hissed murderously.

                “Gandalf has been imprisoned in that magical contraption that Loki refers to as a Tesseract with none of us able to even have the slightest inkling of how to nullify it…” Nori flatly highlighted.

                “And my darling Bilbo is chained and imprisoned in Loki’s chambers where only Mahal knows what that vile Darkspawn of a Cave Troll is doing to my Hobbit’s body!” wailed Thorin, already having a complete conniption over the horrific thought of Loki ravaging the helpless Bilbo Baggins by force.

                Óin pondered this before admitting, “All right, it is that bad…”

                King Thranduil, in an adjacent cell with a good number of Men, sarcastically leered, “I would like to point out, dear King of the Lonely Mountain, that you were initially singing Loki’s praises to the heavens when you found out he hated his brother.”

                “He hates Thor Odinson!  I hate Thor Odinson!  How was I supposed to know that indicated that Loki Laufeyson is evil?!” snapped Thorin.  King Thranduil had the most disbelieving twitch on his face, still unwilling to comprehend Thorin’s stubborn obliviousness.

                “It’s a big indication if you ask me!” Thranduil shrieked in frustration.

                “Oi!  Beorn!  Master Shapeshifter!  Think you can break us out?!” Prince Bain said from another cell.  Beorn the Bear-Man huffed angrily, unable to speak through the leather and metal bit gagging his mouth as he jerked his head to the iron manacles latching him tightly against the stone wall.  Apparently, no such luck considering Loki had the Shapeshifter bound with Dwarvish chains…

                “Since this is Prince Kíli’s fault, I vote we kill him!” one Dale Man offered, and this brought forth various noises of agreement from the Men, Elves, and (surprisingly) a few Dwarves before Thorin’s shout rang out.

                “Hold!  I am his Uncle, so I have the first honor to throttle my nephew!” Thorin snapped.

                “Oi!  Uncle!” whined Kili.

                Fili then shouted loudly enough to ring throughout the dungeons, “THAT IS ENOUGH!  NO ONE IS KILLING MY BROTHER!  INSTEAD OF BLAMING HIM, LET US INSTEAD TRY TO DO SOMETHING CONSTRUCTIVE AND PLAN OUR ESCAPE INSTEAD OF ARGUING AMONG US LIKE A BUNCH OF TWITS AND GETTING NOTHING DONE!  WE HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS AS OF NOW!  WE NEED TO GET FREE!  CONCENTRATE ON THAT FOR NOW!  IS THAT CLEAR?!”

                This brought a lull as many recognized the wisdom of the Lion Prince’s words.

                Then in the murkiness of the dungeons, there was a small noise before a cry of indignant pain from Kíli.

                “Ow!” whined Kíli, unable to rub the back of his head due to the yoke around his shoulders before protesting, “Fee!”

                Fíli was hardly sympathetic as he snapped, “I said no one was going to kill you!  I did not say no one was going to slap you upside your thick skull!”

                Immediately, this brought forth a round of applause, exuberant and so jubilant to mirror the joy on all the children’s faces.  Ori certainly hit it out of the proverbial park for this tale…

                “A wonderful chronicle!” cheered a young Fauntling.

                A female Elf child whistled before she shouted, “A story worthy of Eru himself!”

                “Master Ori, you have outdone yourself!” a Dwarf child praised before he then called out, “Tell us another one!”

                This immediately brought forth a rush of eager demands and pleas.

                “Please continue the story of how Thorin and Company gave Bucky Barnes his new arm of mithril after the Civil War!” another Dwarf begged.

                “Perhaps the tale of when Queen Dis, Princess Tilda, and Misty Knight founded the first detective agency of Middle Earth,” a girl from Dale suggested.

                “Tell us of the time when Masters Foggy Nelson and Matthew Murdoch advocated for Elrond in the Trials of Mandos in front of Manwë, himself!” one Elf child clamored.

                “No!  Tell us of the time Ladies Jessica Jones and Trisha Walker along with Nori the Spymaster found the Resting Halls of Beren and Lúthien!” a teenage girl requested.

                “Oh, please Elder Ori!  Tell us of the time when Commander Fury helped Treebeard regrow Fangorn with Merry, Pippin, and Princes Kíli and Fíli!” a Hobbit girl called out, prompting some questions from her neighboring friends.

                “Hold.  Was that time when Nicholas Fury shrank to the size of a field-mouse, and Merry and Pippin needed to dress him in dolly clothes, or the one where Nicholas Fury won a glaring contest against Old Man Willow?” a male Elf asked.

                “Neither.  It was the time when Kíli and Fíli made off with Commander’s Fury eyepatch.”

                One Dale child blinked before he exclaimed, “They stole Master Fury’s eyepatch?!  How did those two idiots even make it out alive?!”

                “According to Gandalf, it required Treebeard’s intervention, lots of groveling, and the fact that Merry, Pippin, Kíli, and Fíli were quite nimble at dodging Master Fury’s bullets,” giggled the Fauntling.

                Ori’s son then spoke loudly, his deep voice echoing throughout the cavern and getting the attention of all the children in the room.

                “Young ones, it is late, and my dear Adad is not as young as he once was.  It is time for bed, and my father must be quite parched after such a long tale.”

                This brought general agreement as none of the Elves, Dwarves, and boys and girls wished for Elder Ori of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield to tire himself out any further at detriment to his health.  With many hugs, kisses, and endless thanks and small talk of appreciation, the children then left, and within minutes, the cozy chamber was bare except for Bofur, Ori, and his eldest son.

                Bofur groaned, feeling his bones pop, as he rose from the comfortable armchair and straightened out the kinks in his sore back.

                Old age was absolutely depressing…

                “I need to go visit Bifur and Bombur before I retire to bed,” Bofur sighed as he rubbed the throbbing muscles in the lumbar region of his spine, “It’s been a while, and I think they would both appreciate the visit.”

                “You can get flowers from the Bilbo’s Gardens.  I took some roses earlier this morning and they’re so fragrantly beautiful,” Ori suggested as he yawned.

                “Aye, lad, tis a fine idea.”

                “Would you like me to come along and escort you, Master Bofur?” Ori’s son offered immediately with the prim order and grace expected from an Ereborian Captain of the Guard.  Bofur chuckled as he shook his finger playfully at the Dwarf.

                “Ah, don’t be treating me like a frail Dwarrowdam, laddie.  I can still best over half of the Dwarves and Elves in battle after being a Keyblade Master for so long.  You best just go with bringing your father to bed, all right?  I can find my way to the Royal Catacombs just fine.”

                They parted way after Ori managed to give Bofur a warm hug, and with that Ori and his son slowly made their way towards Ori’s apartments, slowly and leisurely strolling across the darkened corridors, flaming torches illuminating their path softly.

                The Ereborian Captain never rushed his father, matching his pace with Ori as the old Dwarf scholar carefully hobbled along, taking slow and easy small strides to ensure he wouldn’t fall forward and topple.  Not that Ori would considering that his child had a firm grip on Ori’s hand to steady him.

                There was a comfortable silence before Ori’s son spoke softly with fondness.

                “It’s strange, is it not?” the Dwarf said, “No matter how many times I have heard them over and over to my heart’s content, I never tire of stories about Captain America.”

                Ori smiled as he squeezed his eldest child’s hand.

                “Of course you wouldn’t, Steven,” Ori grinned proudly underneath his wrinkles, “After all, you were named after your Godfather…”