"It is good to make these halls a home at last," Thorin said, looking below at the stream of dwarves coming back to the mountain. Dwarves, and dwarves' wives and families. Little ones, that stared open mouthed, clutching at their mothers' hands and skirts, or running ahead boisterously despite the calls of warning.
"It's certainly a lot louder," said Kili.
Together with Balin, they descended the steps until they were at the head of the great hall, a royal welcome committee for those that we coming to make Erebor their home. Thorin, still leaning rather heavily on his younger nephew's shoulder, tried not to wince at the burn in his side, a little parting gift from Azog's last moments. It had been more than five months since the battle for Erebor and his wounds were deep and slow to heal.
Dwarves came and bowed, and the King under the Mountain shook their hands and listened while they presented their families. These were all skilled dwarves who had once called Erebor home. They would work hard to make it home and heaven once again.
Thorin looked sideways at Balin, remembering their earlier conversation. Fili lay alive yet dead to the world in a chamber above. Kili's request to be pledged to the Mirkwood she-elf echoed daily in Thorin's ears. He'd promised his nephew he would consider it, and he was starting to see that if he didn't want to lose Kili, he would have to give in. And soon.
And that brought Thorin back to Balin's words on the morning. "Your people look to you to provide an heir."
He hadn't shouldered that responsibility in over eighty years, since Fili was born, and it rested heavily on him now.
"It is said that Dain's cousin by marriage has grown into a lovely lass, a skilled healer and proper dwarven lady," Balin had continued. "You need only give the word, Thorin, and I shall write to Dain with an invitation for her to visit. That's all," Balin added diplomatically with a cunning raise of his white eyebrows. "Just a visit."
Thorin felt tired and worn. His wounds were slow to heal, yet his responsibilities increased daily. The demands the people made of him left him no time or taste for courting. Kili was doing his best to help, yet his heart was divided. He would never commit to the Mountain until the she-elf was by his side, accepted by his kin. And while Thorin felt himself relenting towards them, he knew that winning other dwarves acceptance would be an upward battle for Kili.
If only Fili were to wake. Thorin sighed with frustration.
"Write the letter," he'd said to Balin.
Standing in the great hall now, with the rows of dwarves pouring in, Thorin shook his head and focused once more on the task at hand. What was done was done. If he didn't focus on his duties, on his work, he felt he would be swept away by a tide beyond his control.
...
As soon as Thorin released him from his duties Kili shouldered his backpack and headed into Dale. He knew his uncle needed time, but Kili's frustration at being separated from Tauriel increased daily.
"Why can't she stay within Erebor?" he'd argued with his uncle. "She belongs with me, and I with her." If his uncle didn't make up his mind soon, Kili knew he would leave the Mountain behind. He'd go anywhere, anywhere at all as long as they could be together.
The streets of Dale were crowded. Just like Erebor, repairs to Dale were well under way. So many people had moved in already, a surprisingly mixed group of Men and Dwarves. Kili hoped it would stay that way, and the dwarves would not retreat into Erebor once repairs were completed.
He found Tauriel at their set meeting place. It was not crowded there, on the secluded parapets facing the lake. She had her back to him and he walked to her and touched his fingers to her arm.
"Tauriel," he whispered. She turned and he saw briefly the look of sadness that had been in her eyes, before they lit up and she said his name. Their hands clasped and he brought one of hers to his lips. Nothing felt as right as this. Nothing. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent.
"I've missed you."
"And I you."
They walked along the walls and talked together until the sun disappeared behind the horizon. It was unbearably sweet and frustrating to be near her. Being so close and yet so far. He wanted more than this tentative holding of hands, and he knew she wanted it too, and yet he'd promised his uncle they would wait on his word. And the waiting and the uncertainty were torture.
...
Thorin stood above Fili's bed watching the shallow rise and fall of his nephew's chest. The sound of the door interrupted his gloomy thoughts. He looked up to see Balin in the doorway.
"Well?" Thorin asked.
"The letter's been sent."
"You don't waste much time," Thorin said bitterly.
"There is little of it to waste, laddie."
Thorin nodded, a frown building between his brows. He could feel a headache coming, strong and piercing, and his wounds burned with fatigue.
"The seamstress is below," Balin said.
"What?"
"The banners for the great hall, My Lord," Balin reminded him patiently. "You said you wanted to give her directions yourself."
Thorin shook his head as if to clear it. He remembered now, and wished he had delegated the task. At this precise moment he cared not what the blasted banners looked like.
"I will go," he said and limped past Balin, who knew enough of his moods and temper not to offer assistance. He would do his duty.
He reached the hall out of breath, his head pounding. He could see the seamstress standing at the far end near the dais, directing her assistants into taking measurements. He would get this over with quickly and then perhaps take a half an hour to rest in his chambers, before he had to provide a stoic face for the first meeting of the new council.
The floor was still covered in a layer of melted gold, from their failed attempt to dispatch the dragon. As he walked across it, Thorin felt again the wave of disgust with himself, with what he had become as soon as he had first entered the mountain. The gold floor served as a reminder. It sickened him each time he walked across it. He meant to get rid of it, one of these days.
Hearing his laboured steps, the dwarf woman turned and bowed.
"Hail Thorin, son of Thrain, King under the Mountain," she said formally as if facing him as a foreign dignitary from the head of an army.
She was a head shorter than him, with pale golden hair braided intricately around her head, and no strands loose on her back and shoulders. She was not young, but her features were elegant, almost handsome. She wore no jewellery, neither in her hair nor her clothing, and while her dress looked deceivingly plain, it was enhanced by a subtle and beautiful pattern of embroidery.
Perhaps it was his tiredness, or the building frustration of the day's events that made him do it. He knew not what it was, but he regretted it as soon as it was done.
In response to her elaborate greeting, Thorin scoffed.
He watched her raise herself to her full height, which was not terribly high, and her left eyebrow go up almost to her hairline. Something flashed behind her golden eyes, but it was gone in an instant. Had he not been King under the Mountain, he had the suspicion she would skewer him with a look. It seemed the new Erebor seamstress was all sharp tools. He almost laughed at that thought, but thought better of giving her further offense.
She said not a word more, but watched him without any shred of embarrassment, waiting for him to speak.
Thorin fought an unfamiliar urge to squirm. He bowed his head deeply in sign of apology. With a flash of panic he realized he did not recall her name.
"Mistress ...," he started, hoping she would put him out of his misery. If he'd known how badly this interview would go, he would have delegated it for sure. All he could do now was try to get through it as quickly as possible without further slights.
"Aire," she said, with another bow of her head, "At your service."
"Thorin Oakenshield," he replied, "at yours."
Her eyebrow went up imperceptibly. Her head tilted to the side as she tried to make sense of his alternating disdain and politeness. She blinked once and the curiosity was gone from behind her eyes.
"The banners, my Lord," she said professionally, pivoting on the spot, her right arm making a graceful circle to point at the bare stone walls behind them.
"Yes," he conceded, relieved to get to business.
"What do you have in mind?"
Thorin stared at the stone, his mind as blank as the wall was bare. The silence lengthened.
"Do you have something in mind?"
"Not as such."
"But you requested to see me in person before the work commenced," she pointed out.
"Yes." There was nothing else to say. This was just one more sign of his inability to delegate properly.
"I will draw you a design," she said, not looking at him, but speaking to the wall. "What do you wish them to express? Opulence? Strength? Majesty?"
"Beauty," he found himself say, and glanced sideways at her.
"I see."
"What? What do you see?" his voice deceptively soft. He felt that she'd been testing him.
She turned to look at him unfazed.
"I will make your tapestries, King under the Mountain," she told him.
"It hadn't already been decided that you'd take on the job?" There was a trace of disbelief in his voice. His eyes narrowed.
"No. When I decided to move back to Erebor, I wondered."
"What did you wonder?"
"About the mind of the King," she said. "One hears such tales."
"And how do you find the mind of the King?"
Her eyes widened just a touch and her mouth curved with irony. He was toying with her and she knew it. She knew it and was not cowed.
"Free from Dragon sickness, it seems."
"It was not always so, Mistress Aire," he told her. He wondered why he felt the need to confess that to her.
She nodded, unsurprised. "I had heard of that also."
She bowed low and with a few words gathered her assistants to her.
"I will have drawings for your Majesty in two days."
She was dismissing him. Thorin thought he should be angry, but his mouth curved in a smile.
"Very well." He turned abruptly and walked out of the hall with as much dignity as his wounds allowed.