Chapter Text
It had been almost one year since the Battle. The winter had been terrible for Men and Dwarves both, but those who made it to the spring had taken full advantage of the warm weather. Every person did what they could, building and rebuilding, planting and pruning, and when Autumn arrived, they had quite a different situation on their hands. People had homes, now, and food, and even money to spend in the meager marketplace.
The Men of Dale had been eager for Erebor’s help to fill out the town square, but by tonight only Men and the spare Elf would be left; all Dwarves were closing up in preparations for their holiday. A crisp wind blew Fíli’s hair in front of his face and caught on the corners of his lips as he helped lash the canvas down over the front of a Dwarven shop. He spat the hair back out of his mouth and called, “All good on this side! See you back at the Mountain. I still need to pick up some things and then I’ll be off.”
“Many thanks to you, Prince Fíli!” a voice called from inside, muffled by the canvas and the wind.
Fíli dug absently in his pocket as he headed away from the blacksmiths’ alley and towards the food stalls, jingling the coins he carried. He didn’t have time to barter today; it was already past noon and he had to get back to Erebor by nightfall.
“Good day, Prince Fíli,” called the fishmonger. “Picking up your dinner? Why not some trout? Fresh caught this morning!”
“How did you know?” Fíli answered. He approached the stall and looked over the display. All filleted already. Fíli’s mouth twisted in a frown. “Have you any fish still whole? I need four.”
“Still whole?” she said, eyebrow arched. “I promise you, Master Dwarf, I’m as skilled with a knife as any else in Arda. You’ll find no bones in these filets.”
“Oh! No, um,” he sighed. “I truly do not mean to offend. It’s not that. I just… It’s a Dwarf thing, I suppose. We’re going to cook them whole tonight.”
“I… see. Well let me see what I can do.” She went behind her storefront and Fíli looked around, planning his next stop. Kíli had the other half of the shopping list, so all he needed now was the confectioner’s. Sugar was still very pricey, but it would be worth it today.
“All right, Prince Fíli, I have found you your fish.” The fishmonger held up a large package wrapped in butcher paper. “It’ll be--”
Fíli put three gold coins on the counter as he plucked the package from her hand. “You must forgive me but I’m in a bit of a rush. Thank you very much, my lady. Happy new year!” And without looking back he all but ran to his next destination. The candy shop was full of people, mostly children, and he grimaced. He’d be waiting for ages. Unless…
A familiar brown head stood waiting patiently far ahead of him in line. “Lady Sigrid?” he asked, putting on his winningest smile. “Fancy seeing you here!”
“Prince Fíli!” she exclaimed, yanked out of her thoughts by his greeting. “Um, hello. What brings you to Mr. Johannson’s? I didn’t think Dwarves were really the type for candy.” She tugged at her clothing self-consciously, a faint pink tinge on her cheeks.
“It’s a special occasion,” he answered, edging his shoulder in behind her, hoping the person who was actually behind her in line wouldn’t notice. “And what about you? Something tells me Lord Bard isn’t the one with the sweet tooth.”
Sigrid smiled, standing tall as she shifted forward along with the queue. “No, Tilda got good marks in school so she gets a treat tonight. Just some penny candy, but it seems to motivate her.”
“Please send her my congratulations!” A child running far too fast for the small space barrelled into Fíli’s knees and he chuckled. “Whoa there, friend.” The kid clambered back to his feet with a muttered ‘Sorry’, then ran back to his mother.
She watched the child speed off, then turned to face him completely. “Prince Fíli,” she accused, voice lowered below the din of the crowded store. “Are you talking to me just to budge in line?”
“Who, me?”
Sigrid folded her arms over her chest and gave him a look.
Fíli sighed. “I apologize, Lady Sigrid. Trust me, any other day and I’d wait my turn in line, same as anyone. But I’m running late, and I must be to Erebor before dark.”
“But you just have to have a chocolate first?”
He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “Taffy apples. I could do completely without them-- apples are the worst -- but Ki loves ‘em, and it’s a bit of a tradition. So I take one too and just eat all the candy off the outside.”
The last person in front of them peeled off with their paper bag stuffed full, and Sigrid approached the counter. “Five pieces of the honey candy please. No, thank you, that’s it for now.” She carefully counted out the pennies while the shopkeeper walked over to the correct case.
“Here, let me,” he murmured, shifting in front of her to slide another of the gold coins onto the counter, then called, “Add four taffy apples to the order, if you please!”
She turned in surprise, and suddenly their chests were pressed together. “Fíl-- Prince Fíli, you certainly don’t have to--”
A flush ran up Fili’s neck as he took a step back. “Excuse me,” he said with a cough. Once a safe distance away he continued, “I don’t mean any offense, Lady Sigrid. It’s just… It’s a special day for the Dwarves tomorrow. We’re encouraged,” he hesitated, trying to find the right words. “We’re encouraged to be generous with everyone, in hopes for a good new year.”
The shopkeeper arrived with the candy in a small envelope and the apples in a sack. Sigrid’s lips were pursed but she said nothing as Fíli smiled at the two of them, took the goods, and left the gold coin on the counter.
Once free from the heat and noise of the candy shop, Fíli pulled the hood of his jacket up and looked to the sky. Damn, it was getting late. He pressed the envelope into Sigrid’s hands with a smile. “Here you are. Send Tilda and all your family my best regards. I really must get on the road as soon as possible.”
“Erm, thank you,” she answered, tucking the candy into her pocket as he headed south towards the inn where his pony was stabled. “Fíli wait! Did you say ‘New Year?’ It’s only Autumn!”
Fíli merely waved over his shoulder. “Farewell, Lady Sigrid!” He heard her huff behind him but it was too bad. There was no time to stop and explain; he’d already have to gallop the whole way over the plains. Night was coming, and he needed to get inside the Mountain before Êrâs Nar began.
~*~
“It’s just… odd,” Bard complained, stomping the mud off his boots before stepping inside the house. “Has this happened before? Every single one of the Dwarf shops closed?”
Sigrid shrugged as she shut the door against the chill. “I don’t rightly know, Da,” she answered. Rolling up a towel to block the draft, she added, “I saw Prince Fíli at the candy shop yesterday. I think he said something about a holiday? He was in quite a rush to be back to the Mountain by sundown.”
Heavy, clomping footsteps announced her younger brother’s arrival to the entryway. “That’s odd,” Bain supplied through a mouthful of food. “He doesn’t seem the type to be afraid of the dark.”
“No,” Bard answered absently as he shucked off his ratty bargeman’s coat. “No he does not. That Dwarf King is up to something, I’m telling you.”
“Like celebrating a holiday, Da? I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sigrid tutted with a roll of her eyes. She went to the kitchen and put a kettle on while she waited for her da to calm down. Lately it seemed like he was just itching for a fight with King Thorin, trying to find ulterior motives in the actions of even the simplest Dwarf.
The wind howled outside, whistling through the cracks in the window frame, making the flame on the stove dance. They would really need some heavy curtains by winter, but textiles were still hard to come by. Maybe if she and Tilda shared a bed they could spare a blanket?
The kettle started its whining whistle and she pulled it off the flame, dumping tea into it without measuring. It was clear now the days were getting shorter as well. Dale would need to hustle to get the rest of the harvest in before the first frost. But speaking of holidays, maybe Dale should do something special this winter. Last year they’d been in full recovery mode and no one had been able to do much of anything. But this year...
“Da, I was thinking,” she called as she poured two mugs full. “Wouldn’t it be nice if-- Where did you go?”
“In here,” came the call from the room that had become Bard’s office. Sigrid huffed a laugh to herself. Her da had an office. Two years ago they hadn’t even had proper bedrooms. She nudged the door all the way open with her hip, and presented one of the mugs to him, sitting down in front of his desk - his desk - with the other.
“I’ve been thinking as well,” Bard announced, taking the mug between both hands as if to let its warmth through his palms to the rest of his body. “I think it’s about time we paid our neighbors to the north a little visit, don’t you?” He tossed a folded piece of paper towards her and nodded for her to read it. “I’m sending this up tonight, what do you think?”
Sigrid put her mug down on the desk and opened the letter. Her eyes flitted back and forth as she scanned its contents, muttering under her breath, “Esteemed King Under the Mountain, blah blah blah, harvest time, celebrate trade and teamwork, so on and so forth-- Da, do you really think you can just invite yourself over like this? On a Saturday? That’s not even three days’ notice.”
“Why not? It’s no different than when Thorin sends a raven ahead of Fíli or Dwalin.”
She pursed her lips, eyeing Bard for a moment while she found the words she wanted.
“What?” he protested. “Don’t you think?”
“Well… You’re right, it’s basically the same. Do what you think is best, Da,” she answered. Her shoulders slumped as she traded the parchment for her mug. “I still think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
+++
When the reply came at dinner the next day, even Sigrid had to admit there was something unusual going on in Erebor.
Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, to the revered Lord Bard of Dale,
Many thanks for your letter which we received yesterday. Unfortunately I must insist you do not come; we will not be able to entertain you and your children on Saturday.
Please accept my regrets.
The signature was just as curt: a stamp of a Khuzdul rune, presumably Thorin’s name. When Sigrid lowered the paper, her da’s face was as stormy as the sky outside.
“What is going on up there?” he all but growled, snatching the paper out of her hands and waving it right back in her face. “I must insist you do not come? What does that mean? What is he hiding?”
“Da, please,” Sigrid groaned. “Why are you so quick to imagine some foul plot? Perhaps they have some other commitment. Eat your carrots.”
“Then why not just say as much? Why the secrecy?”
“He’s right, Sig,” Bain added, “it is really weird.”
Sigrid fought the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to Bain to be supremely unhelpful. “Well you know King Thorin is not exactly one to provide extra details in the best of circumstances. Besides, the weather is still horrid, and shows no signs of letting up. You don’t want to get on a horse anyway.” She took Thorin’s letter from Bard and set it back down on the table. “Please, Da, eat. It’s getting cold, and I wouldn’t want the food - and my hard work I might add - to go to waste.” After a moment she added, “Tilda, you too, stop pushing it around your plate.”
Bard and Tilda gave identical huffs. “I’m writing back tonight,” he declared, eyes downcast as he speared some beef and carrots perhaps more aggressively than was strictly necessary.
She swallowed a bit hastily in her rush to stop him. “Da, please don’t, you’ll just anger him. Why don’t you write to the prince instead? He’s usually much more forthcoming.”
“Yes, write to Fíli!” Tilda chirped, mouth full of food.
“Prince Fíli,” Sigrid reminded her sternly. “You mustn’t forget, Tilda, he’s royalty, not some playground friend.”
“Why don’t you write to him, Sigrid?” Bain suggested, voice overly-innocent. “I know you two have sent rather a lot of letters back and forth over the year, this one would certainly not stand out.” He looked only at his food, neatly cutting his meat into bite-sized pieces. For a moment, the only sound was his knife against the plate as Bard considered the full implications of what Bain had said.
“Nobody asked you, Bain,” she hissed, cheeks burning. “It’s nothing, Da,” she added in a voice pitched much higher than she’d intended. “It’s just… We’re just… Just keeping in touch, you know, how things are going, just small talk.”
“So you get to be friends with Prince Fíli but I don’t?” Tilda gasped, agog. “Not. Fair.”
“No, Tilda, that’s not-- I don’t mean--”
Bain cut in with a wicked smile, “Bet you and the Heir to Erebor are real close now, huh, Sig?”
“No! That’s not what’s going on at all,” Sigrid said. Now it was her turn to look down at her food. After all, wishing could not make it so.
“Aye, I’m sure,” Bard replied, unconvinced. He scraped the last bit of gravy off his plate and into his mouth, then pushed away from the table. “Do it tonight then, Sigrid. I don’t want this to wait. But be careful with him. Those Durins keep everything close to the chest.”
“Fine,” she retorted, rising to her feet. “You all do the dishes then.” Ignoring her siblings’ protests, she went to her da’s office and closed the door behind her. It was chilly, as he hadn’t been in there at all today to make it worth starting a fire, but she didn’t care. Better privacy than warmth.
The letter couldn’t go out tonight anyway, it was nearly dark and Da had used all their birds on other messages. Regardless, this task had gotten her out of washing dishes, so she sat down at the desk, lit the lamp, slid a blank piece of parchment in front of herself, and started sucking on the quill. After a moment of thought, she dipped the quill in the dark inkwell and began to write.
Lady Sigrid of Dale, to Fíli, Crown Prince Under the Mountain,
It was ever so nice to see you at the confectioner’s on Tuesday, even if you did take advantage of our acquaintance to secure a shorter wait in line. I hope Kíli enjoyed the taffy apples, though you declared them so passionately to be “the worst.”
I’m sure you’re aware of my father’s letter to King Thorin requesting a Saturday visit, and I am assuming you know the reason he declined? It’s true Da has never gone up on the weekend, but now he has quite a bee in his bonnet about all the shops having been closed on Wednesday. I tried to tell him you had mentioned a holiday, but with the King’s curt reply he is growing more anxious. I was hoping you could shed some light on the situation? I know the Erebor Dwarves who keep shops in our marketplace don’t open on Saturday, but I figure everyone needs a day to recover from a week full of work. Is that why King Thorin wants us to come another day - that we’d be a bother to the other Dwarves on their day off?
I hope this is not too forward of me to ask. Please know that you are of course under no obligation to tell me; I only wish to understand and perhaps assuage some of my poor da’s anxiety. Is there some other day we could come to visit? Only Da has ever been, and Tilda has grown curiouser with every passing month (and I must admit, I too had felt no small measure of excitement when Da announced he wanted to bring us all with him this time. I often wonder what it would be like to live completely under the rock with nothing but torches and lamps to light an entire life. I suspect it would take some getting used to after so many years under the sky).
Please write back as soon as you are able, for it won’t be long before Da pulls every last hair out of his head. (Additionally, and I know this is far too much to ask, but please do not tell the King that I’ve written this to you. Da would be mortified if he knew how much I’ve put down in this letter. But I believe I can trust you to do the right thing for both our parties.)
Kindest regards,
S
Sigrid waved the paper back and forth to dry the ink, then folded it and sealed it with wax. It wouldn’t do for a curious messenger to see what she’d put down. This was for Fili’s eyes only.
~*~
The pigeon dropped the letter in front of Fíli and pecked at some crumbs on his plate. It felt like every eye at the dinner table was on him as he picked it up, examined the seal, and tucked it into his pocket as stone-faced as possible.
“What’djya get, Fíli?” Ori asked, mouth full of food. “A pigeon - someone from Dale, hm?”
“Or further? Is that the answer from Mirkwood? Are they finally going to let us come down there with some steel?” asked Bifur.
“Aye, who’s sending you notes on Adkhâtnurt?” Bombur asked.
“Open it, we won’t tell!”
“What is it, Fíli? Come on!”
Kíli put a hand on Fíli’s chest and raised his other to the company. “Now, now, friends, stop bothering my poor brother. He owes you no answer and would be able to give you none til tomorrow at any rate. Far be it from Crown Prince Fíli to tear open the seal on that letter on this, our holy day of rest. Besides,” he added, eyes twinkling as he dropped the somber tone. “My bet’s on a girl.”
Fíli’s head dropped to the table as the raucous teasing continued. “Mahal have mercy on my soul,” he groaned into his lap. The pigeon still cooed, strutting around as pleased as punch. Raising his head, he muttered, “You just had to come during dinner, didn’t you? Go on now, you got your crumbs. Get out of here, go on home.” When the bird didn’t move he batted at it gently. “No, no reply tonight. Go home.”
Looking somehow more clueless than usual, the pigeon took wing and headed out. He hated to send it back without a reply but the ravens wouldn’t take kindly to a pigeon in the rookery, and he couldn’t exactly explain himself tonight. Sigrid had never written him over a weekend before; she was usually too busy spending time with her family. Something unusual must have happened.
The letter burned against his chest; he wanted nothing more than to read it straight away, but Kíli, though teasing, was right. He couldn’t write back tonight. He couldn’t even open it - which was also odd, Sigrid had always just folded the paper so it stayed closed. She never used wax. But there was nothing doing. He wouldn’t break their custom along with that seal. It would have to wait until tomorrow night.
Luckily everyone had a short attention span and were already distracted from his letter by a (rather tall) tale from Nori. Fíli laughed along with everyone else but at the end he bowed out and went up to his room. Only Kíli seemed to notice.
Safe in the silence of his own bedchamber, Fíli took the letter from his pocket and placed it on the table. The seal of Girion stared him in the face, but the handwriting on the address was definitely Sigrid, not Bard. “What’s the matter, Sigrid?” he asked aloud. “Why seal this one?”
The sputter of the lamp oil was the only reply as he pulled off his boots and prepared for an early bed time. The sooner tomorrow came, the sooner the sun would set again and he could find out what she needed. He only hoped it wasn’t urgent.