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Forget shearing the other dwarves’ beards.
Kíli was going to have their heads after this.
He watched as his One was dragged into the cold cavern, struggling and failing to gain enough purchase to stand and walk on her own. It was so, so strange to see Elenor’s head so much lower than a dwarf’s- even though she was considered so short by human standards, she normally stood a full head and shoulders higher than most of his people. And yet here she was, drooped and weakly struggling between two burly dwarves.
Her gown was essentially shredded from the knees down, likely from being roughly dragged over the uneven stone ground, and her circlet was missing. He had loved that dress on her- only she could make the color brown look so appealing where on others it was no better than mud. And the circlet had been a wedding gift from Thorin… those tree shagging bastards had better hope it was found.
His heart squeezed ever tighter as he watched from a dark ledge meters above the cavern floor as Elenor was flung to the ground, hard. Every fiber of his being was poised to spring, to climb down the walls if he had to, to defend his wife and get her out of here. But Nori, crammed onto the ledge with him, grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep him in place.
“Wait, lad, just wait a mo’- you and I are good, but not good enough to take on the seven of them at once.” Oh how he hated that the Spymaster was right. If the two of them ran into this now, with so many stab-happy treasonous bastards, Elenor was more likely to get hurt than she already was- or worse.
So he was forced to watch as she was jerked up to kneel at the feet of a dwarf named Rumír.
“Well hello there, Princess .” He sneered, spitting her title out as though it were a sour ale. Kíli was too far to see much of Elenor’s face, but he imagined her scowl. She said nothing.
“What’s this, then? Too good to talk to the likes of me? You seem plenty ready to talk to my Lord Daín, and the other noble selves.” He taunted, twirling a strand of his beard around his finger in faux thoughtfulness.
“Perhaps if you had something interesting to say, I would.” Elenor’s voice was strong, though she sounded exhausted. It was silent for a moment.
“You’ve got a smart mouth, girl. Is that how ye ensnared the Prince of Erebor?” The double entendre was there, and as Rumír’s men laughed Kíli could practically feel Elenor’s ire begin to rise.
“Oh, is that what all this is about? Goodness, and here I thought these were just the lengths you had to go to get any dam to speak to you.” She spit. The laughing quieted immediately, and whatever pride Kíli felt for Elenor’s quick wit was minuscule compared to the dread pitting in his stomach.
Just as he feared, Rumír did not appreciate the comment whatsoever.
“Ye think yer so smart. Untouchable, since ye tricked a Prince into bedding ya and marryin’ ye. But ye ain’t a dam, are ya? Yer a human bitch who has no right rubbin’ elbows with our royal family. Let alone fuckin’ ‘em.”
Please be quiet Elly. Please don’t-
“I didn’t realize you wanted to fuck my husband so badly, my Lord .”
Mahal wept.
With one gesture from Rumír, one of his men pinned Elenor to the ground by stepping on the back of her leg, and yanked up a fistful of her hair. Kíli’s scalp tingled in sympathy at what had to be a painful action. Watching another dwarf handle her hair so casually burned a deep part of him- not even his brother, or Uncle Bilbo, or any of the males in their family or the Company would have dared. Their touch wasn’t forbidden, it wasn’t as though Kíli owner her hair by any means but… for someone outside family? It was deeply disrespectful, in a way Kíli wasn’t quite sure Elenor completely understood even now.
Rumír’s heavy boots crunch loudly in the loose stones as he moved to crouch in front of Elenor.
Whatever was said next didn’t make it up to Nori and Kíli’s ledge, but it must have been particularly offensive because the next moment he was roaring in anger, wiping his eyes and stumbling backwards, nearly falling over in his haste to back away.
“Did she jus’ spit at him?” Nori breathed, half in awe and half in shock. Particularly offensive, indeed.
Rumír snarled a command, and the dwarf holding her had a dagger out and at the ready in seconds. Kíli tensed at the sight, ready to push himself off the ledge and jump if he damn well had to, but the dagger didn’t go near her throat. Instead, it rested against her scalp.
“How fond of ye do ye think yer little Prince’ll when yer shorn head disgraces his family? How quickly will the court here in the Iron Hills welcome ye when yer reputation is ruined and yer head bare?” The enraged dwarf growled. Being shorn was… indescribable. It was life ruining. And even after explaining what had happened, that Elenor hadn’t committed any crimes… it would be hard on her to feel the weight of the shocked stares. She was strong, his Elenor, so strong… but also very soft. She genuinely cared for their people, had tried so hard to belong. She has been genuinely anxious about accompanying them to the Iron Hills, worried about how she would be received; it had taken reassurances from himself, Fíli, and Uncle Thorin that no matter her reception in the Iron Hills, Erebor would always be her home. If this were to cause a rift between her and the rest of their people, it would quietly haunt her.
But then she spoke.
“Go ahead, ruin me. I could give a damn about my reputation in the Iron Hills.” Her voice didn’t shake.
“And in Erebor?” He challenged.
“They will believe their Princess.”
Kíli’s heart swelled with pride. His brave, brave Elenor.
He watched with frozen horror as Rumír’s hand came down- a bastardized iglishmek command for cut- the command to cut her hair- when Daín’s booming voice echoed in the cavern.
He, and Thorin, and Kíli’s amad came rushing in, as well as most of the Company (that could be spared for the visit, that is) and so many soldiers. Kíli grinned wickedly, and scrambled away from the ledge.
He and Nori stumbled their way down the pitch black, narrow miner’s corridors- feet slipping on the loose gravel. They had ran, half slid into the cavern where Rumír and his men were fighting to escape. A younger Kíli might have thrown himself into the fray.
But this Kíli, the married Kíli, went straight for his wife.
Elenor was alone now, her captors having abandoned her as soon as they realized they weren’t alone. But she knelt in the same place, bent over with one palm against the rock and her other arm wrapped around her torso. He skid to a stop on his knees beside her. Now that he was so close, he was hesitant to touch her. Her condition was so much worse up close.
The shredded mess of her skirt left peeks of her legs clear up to her knees- and the distinct, bruised outline of a boot on the back of her calf. Her breath escaped her in wheezes, and it seemed as thought she needed to convince her lungs to suck more air in with each inhale. Her hand left crimson smudges on the ruined velvet where she held herself, and her hair now hung limply around her face in messy strands, ripped out of the style it had been in this morning.
He would have their heads for this.
“Kee…” she whispered, looking up at him. Her eyes watered as she smiled weakly at him, and he carefully, urgently, drew her to him.
“Amrâlimê. My love, oh my love, shh, shh… I’m so sorry, I’ve got you, you are safe…” he whispers that and a thousand other comforting nothings in her ears as the fight around them quickly lessens. She leans on him fully, and doesn’t say a thing. She presses her face into his neck, and he can feel the curve of her nose against his pulse, can feel the warmth of her tears as she cries perfectly silently as she absorbs his words.
The moment is broken first by his mother, who drops to her knees in front of them. And then the world is a flurry of activity.
The next calm moment appears as Oín snaps his healer’s bag closed, having completed what he can. Elenor, freshly washed and smoothed with salves and bundled in bandages, clean clothes, and in their bed, looks better than she had but sounds just as terrible. Oín guesses broken ribs, which Elenor agrees with- she had apparently felt them break when she had fallen on the stairs.
Slowly, their family trickles in a little at a time.
First to come is his mother and brother, almost immediately after Oín finishes his work. Amad presses a hot cup of tea into Elenor’s hands, off the tray Fíli leaves on the low table in front of the fire.
Kíli lets his older brother press their heads together for a moment, before pulling away to clap his shoulder.
His mother is perched beside Elenor, murmuring something too low to hear from across the room and slowly stroking her hair. Though he can’t hear what’s being said, he can see Elenor’s eyes shine as she nods a little. He really hopes his mother isn’t making her cry- he hates it when she cries.
Ori and Dori are next, the first armed with books of Dwarvish laws that Elenor’s attackers can be charged with, the second with reassurances that the dress can be fixed-Kíli is fairly certain that’s bullshit, but it’s appreciated nonetheless-and soft handkerchiefs.
Bombur and Bilbo come bearing cookies and tarts, of which Elenor takes two, thankfully.
Dwalin comes next, and brings with him a solemn guilt. Amad ushered the others to the other side of the room while Dwalin, Elenor, and Kíli talked for a long while about how neither blamed Dwalin for this incident. He firmly disagrees with their assertions that even he cannot be responsible for all six members of the royal family at once whilst they are scattered about a strange city, but he does seem more settled by the end of it.
At last, Thorin and Daín enter the room. Thorin, in a rare physical display of affection, presses his forehead to Kíli’s first and then to Elenor’s.
From where he sits on the bed beside his wife, he can hear his uncle murmur “I am so glad to see you safe, niece.”
He refuses to acknowledge the sappy glow he feels at the words and stuffs it down.
Daín looks very uncomfortable. For a moment, Kíli assumes it’s because this is the least amount of clothing he’s seen Elenor wear. While the Company has seen each other in various states of undress during the journey, and Oín being a healer and Dís both a mother and a woman, Elenor’s modest shift doesn’t bother any of them.
But his cousin and host shuffles, actually shuffles , in the doorway before striding over to drop to a knee beside the bed. He has no problem looking Elenor in the eye then, and Kíli realizes it’s not embarrassment to see a lady in her shift that’s affecting Daín but what appears to be guilt. It’s not a look he thinks he’s ever seen on the other dwarf before. It’s unpleasant.
But the flowery, blustery apology is stopped cold when Elenor interrupts him.
“I don’t blame you, Lord Daín. You and your family, your city- or most of it- have been wonderful. I’ve truly felt welcome. The actions of a few aren’t the representation of the many.”
And then she’s distracting him from more insistent apologies and promises of retribution on her behalf by asking if he would mind getting her some more tea, and he really should try one of Bilbo’s tarts. She wields polite conversation and diplomacy like a hobbit, and he is once again amazed.
She does not, however, say anything contrary when Dwalin delivers 7 neat braids to their rooms the next evening and the news that the rest of the hair on their heads has been publicly reduced to ashes. Kíli had wanted their heads, but he’ll make due with their humiliation.