Thorin stood in front of his people.
Bilbo stood a few feet away from him, hands clasped in front. His hair had been done in neat braids, and he was dressed in dwarvish layers: white shirt and dark blue overcoat, like moonlight on an ocean's surface.
Fíli and Kíli were on his other side. Fíli wore a crown of gold and pearls; Kíli's head was bare. Dís, behind him, stood patiently.
The entire population of dwarves in Erebor was assembled before him.
"Khazad!" He called, and the ambient sound dropped to less than a whisper. Their faces turned upwards, like sunflowers: bright and shining and hopeful, at long last.
"Erebor is reclaimed!" Thorin said, and waited for the cheers to die down, before he continued. "The dragon Smaug is dead, and the Bane of Durin's Line are burned. Their murdu'shurel is sent to Thatrûna. And we will see this kingdom rise to heights those who doubted us cannot imagine!"
This time, the roars went on for almost ten minutes. Thorin watched the crowd for that time, then Bilbo, who looked stunned and awed, and then at Fíli, who watched the people of Erebor with the fierce, possessive love of all of Durin's line.
"There is much we have achieved. There is more we can achieve. We all know that two flames shine brighter than one, Khazad of Erebor, and I am proud to tell you that-" he didn't dare stop, didn't dare pause, but he did allow himself a shallow breath to fill his lungs, "-I have chosen my yusthel."
Whispers filled the room.
"Bilbo," Thorin said, quietly, and watched those who'd heard light up in response, "come here."
Bilbo did. He also stumbled over the steps, and when he finally came level to Thorin, he hissed, "Thorin, what's going on?"
"I'm announcing our engagement," he said. "As I told you yesterday."
Bilbo turned bright red. "No," he said, "you're not, Thorin, you proposed last week! This was supposed to be about the Meeting, not what- not your love life! Thorin!"
"You could have told me this yesterday," Thorin muttered, taken aback. "When I told you."
"I was thinking about-" Bilbo cut off, and turned a red that looked particularly fetching against the blue of his collar.
"Yes?" Dís asked, positively leering from behind the throne.
Bilbo jumped. Thorin tried to muffle his laughter, but clearly it hadn't worked; both Bilbo and Dís sent him filthy glares and turned away.
"It's nothing," he told Dís, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. "Not fit for polite company, at least."
Dís rolled her eyes. "Both of you are prudes," she said, sounding disgusted.
"Is this really the time?" Thorin asked her.
She looked ready to answer, but then checked herself. "No," she admitted reluctantly. Then, a little brighter, "But I'll be talking to you later, nadad."
"I look forward to it," he muttered. Turned away, only to be called back by Bilbo.
"Thorin!" He said, sounding alarmed, and when he looked, he saw that Bilbo'd finally seen the- frankly predatory- looks on the Company's faces. Particularly Bofur, who was staring so intently at Bilbo that he looked like a deranged axe-man.
"Yes," Thorin said, at a loss for words. "I see them."
"I'm going to steal Bombur's cakes," Bilbo grumbled. Then: "And Bofur's hat, and Glóin's locket, and Dwalin's axe and-" he broke off when Thorin choked on his laughter. "All right, all right, you big lump. Go ahead and announce it. But nobody tells stuff like this to everyone a week later: a proper engagement's private for at least three weeks."
Kíli leaned in, grinning mischievously. "Weren't you saying you weren't a proper hobbit anymore, Uncle Bilbo?"
"I'm thirty years younger than you," Bilbo said despairingly. "Stop calling me Uncle!"
"Nothing said on the propriety of hobbits, Kíli," said Fíli, eyes alit with glee.
"Indeed not, Fíli."
"Boys," Dís said, and the two subsided, though their matching grins said this wasn't the end of it.
Thorin tipped a look at Bilbo, who flushed bright red and fiddled with his hands for a long moment. Then he said, "I said okay already, Thorin. Go on, tell them. They look impatient enough as is."
It was true: while he'd tried to manage- read, wrangle like a cowherder- his family, the rest of the hall was growing restless.
He began to talk, then, and the words flowed easily off his tongue. Thorin didn't remember precisely what he said- everything was lost in a dull haze. He remembered Bilbo's fierce blush, like a red sun, and the broad smiles on his sister's-sons faces, and the warcry that Dain led when the speech was done, which shook the very stone under his feet.
But mostly, when he started talking, all he could hear was his grandfather's voice. When he gestured, he saw his grandfather's arms. Everything was wavering at the edges, and then his chest was hurting, and he thought, oh.
He was aware of Dís' frown, and Balin's worried looks, but there was nothing for it- he could not stop there. Once the speech was done, though, he stumbled away as quickly as he could, feeling light-headed, and clasped Dwalin's shoulder, tightly, and dragged him to a side-room.
"I've been poisoned," he forced out, through ragged breaths.
Dwalin, who'd looked askance and then irritated, immediately turned serious. "When?" He asked.
"Slow-acting. My sides hurt; chest is worse. Head's spinning." A short breath in, and out. "I don't know."
Dwalin dragged him to a sofa and forced him into it; Thorin might have protested had he not just felt a particularly strong pulse of pain. Then he left, and Thorin slumped back, let his head rest for a long moment.
Everything went black.
When he opened his eyes next, Dís was sitting next to him, looking both fond and annoyed, in a blend of emotion unique to her.
He shifted, and she immediately turned to face him.
"What- happened?"
Dís said, startlingly carefully, "You finished your announcement. Told everyone about the meeting of Dale and Mirkwood and Erebor in two months' time. Then about the engagement with Mister Baggins." She paused for a long moment. "And then you walked out and told Dwalin you thought you'd been poisoned."
"Right." He paused and winced at the light. "Did Oin see to me?"
"Yes," she said. "He also pronounced you 'perfectly fine' but with a case of hyperventilation worse than he'd seen in novices at their first mastery." She arched an eyebrow when he flinched, though her tone gentled. "Thorin- what happened? You were laughing one minute, seemed fine. Your speech was perfect. What happened?"
"I thought-" Thorin broke off, and slumped onto the bed. He must have looked utterly confused, or tired; Dís' face creased into lines that spoke of something close to pity, and she ran a hand through his braids.
Thorin leaned into that warm touch against his will.
"Thorin," Dís said, and damn her to hell, but he knew that carefully modulated tone of voice; he knew the way it hid tears and anger and- "Thorin," she said, "did you have a panic attack because you were too happy?"
And her voice hid incredulous laughter- but more than that, there was an undertone of pity there, and that Thorin would not allow.
"No," he said flatly. When she didn't look like she believed him he went on, unwillingly, "I just- d'you remember Grandfather? The way he'd talk, and the people would listen, and he looked like a- a- Maia on his golden throne?"
"Yes," Dís said softly.
"I remember his madness," Thorin said wearily. "I don't remember anything but the way his hands clawed, in those last years, and anytime a single coin came in he caressed it like it was his own blood-" He shut his mouth sharply, and continued after a minute, feeling exhaustion down in his bones. "I didn't even know what I was doing, Dís, when we first arrived here. I didn't know about the dragon-sickness until it was too late."
She did not move, or say anything; just waited with the quiet patience borne of knowing him like she knew her own breaths.
"...I'm tired of being afraid," he said, finally.
Of sitting on a throne, and seeing nothing but the shine of mithril and silver. Of levelling a sword at his sister-sons, and not hesitating for a moment to swing it. Of holding a small body by the lapels, pressed so tight he could feel the hard stone of battlements even through it.
"You are not Grandfather," Dís replied. She had retreated, back into the formal distance she played so well; her hands rested in her lap. "And you are not Frérin, either." She tilted her head to the side, predatorily, when he made a wordless protest. "It's always been your problem, Thorin. You couldn't ever let it go. When you were little you wanted to be like Grandfather, and when it was clear he was too far gone to ever actually love you, you decided to be like Frérin." Her lips twisted. "And then Frérin died, and so did Grandfather, and I thought you could actually be yourself- but you just never let go of them."
"Dís," he said.
"Our family was broken before Smaug ever came," Dís said firmly. "And you, my lakhad, mashmûn nadad- you were the easiest broken."
"That's enough, Dís," Thorin scraped out. "I was the eldest. I was the strongest. I-"
Dís' eyes were shadowed. "You were a weapon Grandfather made to keep Father in check. Thorin- you did everything he asked of you. Frérin wouldn't have."
"Frérin loved Grandfather," Thorin said, and ignored how it felt like someone had punched him in the chest, even after all these years, to speak of his brother. "He adored him."
"Frérin," Dís said scornfully, "was a foolishly selfish boy who thought the world revolved around him. He was never in awe of Grandfather, Thorin, he was in awe of Grandfather's power! Believe me, he wouldn't have done anything for anyone if he didn't get something back."
Thorin gaped.
He'd made a choice, consciously, to not remember the time in Erebor as a child, mostly for his own sanity. It'd gotten worse, after Azanulbizar- brother and father and grandfather felled in a single battle, Thorin had abandoned most memories that were of anyone he missed. He'd forged and smelted and drowned himself in a numbness that even now was a shield that allowed him to function.
Dís gentled. "He loved just as deeply as he was selfish," she said, finally reaching out and clasping Thorin's hand in hers. "He was a kind boy, Thorin, and a good boy. But he wasn't a saint." She sighed, heavily. "Do you remember what you told me, after Vili died?" She asked, tightening her hands on his. "I asked you what you do, when everything you have is ripped from you. I asked how to rebuild. And you said-"
"Just start it on the first day. By the tenth, it's a habit."
"-yes." She laughed, lightly. "You never took it, did you? Everyone was so broken-up about it, and then you just- picked up the pieces for everyone else. And forgot about yourself in the process. Idiot," she said, but it was fond. "You did it for everyone else, but Mahal- you never rebuilt anything, did you?"
"I didn't think about it Dís," he shot back. "For years I couldn't remember if I wanted to. By the time I did- I didn't want to."
"Oh, Thorin," Dís said, eyes looking sad and pitying and vaguely irritated, all at once, "you've never stopped thinking about it."
He glared at her, but Dís wasn't fazed; she just continued, with a sort of blank, grim determination.
"You didn't stay inside Ered Luin because you couldn't bear being somewhere that killed Frérin. You didn't ever walk into a mine after Azanulbizar because Grandfather was a miner. You- Mamahdûn's stars- you punched three dwarves in the two weeks you visited me just a decade ago, for talking about Father!"
His sister. Thorin had a headache that could have rivalled his head after Azog nearly split his skull. He had panicked, he knew it; but what else were you supposed to do when faced with the ghost of your dead Grandfather? When faced with the same circumstances, when he'd already proven he couldn't be trusted- what was he supposed to do?
"Never, not once, not for almost a hundred years." Dís rolled her eyes. "And we've all allowed it, because none of us were in a place to care for you, we all had our own problems. But this ends now, you hear me?" Her face turned serious. She got off her chair, and knelt before him; placed one hand on the side of his face, gripping his jaw almost to the point of pain. "Nun'umudtu: enough. Enough. You have friends, now, and you have family. Let us take the burden for once, in your Vala-forsaken life."
Thorin felt something shudder inside of him, like a boulder scraping down a hillside made slippery by rain. His mouth was dry, he realized; his hands were trembling very faintly.
If Dís let go of him, right now, he'd- he didn't know what he'd do, but it would be sufficiently dramatic, and self-sacrificing-bordering-on-suicidal. He could feel it rise up in his chest, held behind his teeth with iron will and the stubborness Mahal bred into his dwarves' blood and sinew.
But she didn't. Dís held onto his jaw, face forced to meet her eyes with all the careful blend of firm love that she'd perfected. Her eyes were very brown- Kíli's eyes, their mother's eyes- but there wasn't pity there, any longer: just sympathy, and a compassion so deep it felt more shocking than even Bilbo's betrayal of the Arkenstone.
"I am King," he breathed.
"You think I'll let you go gold-mad again, nadad?" Dís asked archly, and then pressed her forehead to his, slotting into place like she was twelve again, twelve and watching Erebor fall to dragonfire and dust. "You need a break, you tell me. You tell Balin, or Dwalin, or Fíli, or Kíli, or Bilbo, or a hundred other people who'll sell this entire kingdom to save your sorry life."
"Dís," Thorin said, and faltered.
She exhaled a half-laugh, half-sigh. "You're not Thrór, and you're not Frérin. You are Thorin Oakenshield: foolishly brave, dangerously romantic- you're my brother, and my sons' uncle, and our people's king. And if it comes down to it, I will tell you these things as many times as it's needed until you believe it."
Thorin didn't say anything. He had no words for it; none that adequately described how he felt, at least. Just the old, tired gratitude of a worn-out king. But he relaxed into her embrace, and allowed himself to shudder slightly, like the bone-ghosts of his past were finally leaving him.
…
Sifa thanked whatever Vala was looking over her when the population of Erebor decided to collectively ignore her, rather than gossip about her.
Perhaps it had been Dís' fearsome glares the first weeks on the march from Ered Luin. Perhaps it had been a desire to move on from old tragedies, on all sides. Perhaps it had been nothing but Mahal's blessing, for trying to save the Longbeards from themselves.
Sifa was of the opinion that it didn't matter. As long as it helped her, she'd manage.
Now, it was nigh invaluable.
Digging through old works in the library, she had her head down and body mostly hidden. As long as she didn't look too interested in anything, the gossip-mongers wouldn't so much as look at her. If she was particularly good, they'd likely never know she was there.
And the acoustics in this section were remarkable: Sifa could hear them clearly, despite not being in sight of them; she'd seen them coming and ducked away.
"-we brought an army," one of them was grumbling, a little muffled.
The other, taller and thinner, said, "We didn't kill the dragon, though. Oakenshield did it alone."
"They just chased it out of the mountain," the short one retorted. "That Man killed Smaug, not any dwarf. Poor thanks, I'd say, too: setting fire to that Pond-town or what not, and then not giving any gold. No wonder they say Longbeards are greedy."
"You're a Longbeard," said the tall one, dryly.
"I'm just saying that we deserve more!" It sounded like the dwarf had slapped his hand against the wall. After a moment, he muttered, "It doesn't matter. I can't find it anywhere. The Head of the Guild- you know, the Scrivener's- he's a slavedriver, I tell you."
"I don't think he sleeps either."
"D'you get enjoyment out of contradicting me?" He asked irritably.
"Yes," the tall one said. Then, "Oakenshield's not trying to take over the Iron Hills. He's happy here. And I know you've got family in weird places, Fenrid, but be careful. The Longbeards are good people. Best not to get caught up in that politics."
"What do you know of politics?" Fenrid- the short one- grumbled. There was a long silence, and then he said, "Alright, alright, stupid question." A sigh. "Come on, there's nothing more to find here, I've looked everywhere."
Sifa waited a full three-hundred count before walking out, coolly.
Her mind whirled over the possibilities. There was a dwarf who was unhappy with Thorin's rule, from the Iron Hills, and he had family backing. His name was Fenrid, though- that would make things much more complicated; Fenrid was such a common name she could think of seven off the top of her head.
But he was likely in the Scrivener's Guild, and that was the smallest of the ones starting up. It would be easy enough to identify him through that.
And then what? His entire family wouldn't be in on it. Just a few highly placed individuals with enough power and intelligence to think they could gain something from a war between the Iron Hills and Erebor. So Sifa had to find out who, and quickly.
...unless it wasn't a war, but rather a coup.
Dain was keeping a skeleton army, now, outside Erebor; the dwarves not stationed there were put to work in Erebor's Guilds, while actual Ereborean dwarves from across Middle-Earth were notified to the newly-retaken Mountain and asked to return.
The hope was to keep everything rotating, and in a year's time allow Dain to leave with a full army, as well as swell Erebor's population.
Most of the Lords and Ladies inside the mountain were from Dain's kingdom. They would have seen the gold of Erebor, and they would have coveted it.
Sifa started walking a little faster. She'd find out who Fenrid the Scribe was, and then she'd go to a bar close to the mines and listen to some more gossip, and then she'd go talk to Fíli about whether or not Tauriel managed to cool off a rampaging Kíli before he revealed everything to his Uncle.
The fear Sifa held was her own, but also not: it was built by the whispers of a wise-woman and forged by people whose actions only proved their foolishness. She knew things that would get her killed, and she could not stop, because-
Because once upon a time, when everything was taken from her, and when she gave the rest away, an exiled prince did her the courtesy of looking her in the eye and caring.
She owed him four decades of brightness, of laughter, of allowing her to be something more than a pariah. She owed him far more than his life, but she hoped he'd settle for his sanity.
They will go mad, whispered Blaír's voice, a memory that was both prophecy and warning. The only way to stop it is forbidden.
Now, Sifa dug her fingers into the linen cloth of her skirts, and thought, I am a child of a race forbidden by Sulladad himself. But I am a child of Mahal, and I will forge my own way as needed.
…
"Hi, Dori!" Fíli chirped, entering the headquarters to the Weaver's Guild. He was met with a workroom that covered every flat surface with cloth, or string, or needles; he winced at the stain he saw on a low-lying table, probably waiting to be cut up for decorative frills.
Dori looked back at him, and waved him over to the table he was hunched over.
"Hold it firmly on the long end," he ordered, and proceeded to cut a full third off. Putting it away, he asked, "Now. Redêl, anything you need or do you just need your hands busy for an afternoon?"
"Well… I really want to talk to Nori." Fíli shrugged carelessly. "Just have a couple questions for him."
Dori arched an eyebrow. "You couldn't find him?"
"I've been searching for a week," he said.
"Ha! Teach aklum to hire thiefs," he grumbled, and then grew serious. "Anything important?"
"No." Fíli hesitated. "It could be. But I don't know, and I think Nori's got some information, so… best to take care of it before it becomes important, right?"
"Tell you what. Come to the Guild meetings for three days straight- no complaints, no coming in halfway through saying I forgot- and I'll tell him to talk to you tonight."
Fíli inclined his head. "Sounds like a good deal. Though I'm getting the raw end of it."
"Raw?" Dori asked. "Raw? You should've gone to Balin! He'd bleed you dry and ask you to pay for the burial! We're guildmasters now. Nothing for it, if you come in on official hours."
Fíli rolled his eyes stated his thanks, and walked out. No need to make things more complicated than necessary.
As he was passing by the miner's area, he ran into Sifa.
She looked- normal. Paler, perhaps, if someone knew her well, but almost like nothing had changed. When she saw him, however, she went painfully still, and then tipped her head to the side.
He followed her to a vendor, where she began haggling over a piece of cloth; when she was finished she stepped aside, just close enough to brush him, and said, "We need to talk."
"Get in line," he hissed back, looking utterly absorbed in examining a dagger.
"Tonight?"
"I've got to meet with Nori."
She made a face, though it was gone when he looked at her next. "Fine. Come after that, then. It's not like I've got anything to do." She paused. "How'd it go with telling Kíli?"
"Tauriel talked him down," Fíli said. "Find anything important?"
"I'll tell you tonight." Sifa suddenly reached out and gripped his forearm. He stared at it blankly. "Take care, stay safe, and don't do anything stupid, you hear me? Nori Brison is definitely smarter than you think. Don't let your guard down for a moment."
And then she left.
Fíli didn't see where she'd gone, but he left for his quarters right after. He'd taken off his overcoat with a grimace when he saw the shiny person staring at him out of the depths of his favorite armchair.
"Nori," he said, resigned.
Nori shifted a little. "Hello, redêl," he said, an odd emphasis on the title. "How are you doing today?" He didn't pause for an answer. "Played any pranks on anyone? Disobeyed your parents?" He leveraged himself up, so he was out of the shadow. Fíli saw the angry light in his eyes and grimaced. "Lied to anyone?"
"You were- there," Fíli said dully. "When I was talking to Dori."
"Yes, I was," Nori said furiously. "You haven't looked for me for a week. Ya haven't spoken two words to me all week! We were in the same meeting yesterday. What, did ya think that just because I'm all legal now I've stopped using me eyes? How much effort does it take to open your mouth and say-"
"I needed it off the books," Fíli interrupted. When Nori glared but held his peace, he went on: "Things have happened. I can't say what. Lives- not my own- depend on it." He took a steadying breath. "I'm not asking as redêl right now."
Nori relaxed a little. His eyes swept over Fíli, likely seeing the sleepless nights, fear and anger written all over his body. There was something very disconcerting in his face when he spoke.
"Is that an order?"
Fíli chewed it over, and remembered Sifa's warning: don't let your guard down.
"No," he said evenly. "But it is a request. As a friend."
"Let's say I don't want to do it. Then-"
"-I'll order you."
Nori's eyebrows jumped, almost to his hairline. "That important?"
"Could be," Fíli said.
He nodded, and sat down. "Fine. Ask away, redêl. And remember-" he smiled, unnervingly wide, "-you are always the crown prince."
…
Bilbo looked to Tauriel.
This was terribly awkward.
He'd approached her through a vague sense of her loneliness- they were the only two non-dwarves inside Erebor, after all, and it must have felt crippling to be so isolated. They could probably make a sort of friendship on that alone.
But when he went to ask her to join him for tea one afternoon, she'd been talking to Kíli, and the two had gone so painfully still he'd backed out of the room immediately. When he returned a day later, she'd scarcely looked him in the eye, though she'd accepted his invitation- he didn't know why she had, because she certainly seemed miserable enough poking at the biscuits.
And all that was before the entrance of Balin's coterie of teachers, all intent on confusing him on the simplest of dwarven customs by the time he got married. Nienna's tears, they were contradictory on everything- from what color his clothes ought to be, to the angle he bowed to different ranks of nobility, to the precise number of minutes he was allowed to spend with Thorin every day.
"Yes, yes, I'll talk to you in an hour's time," he told them, ushering them out before they could further alienate Tauriel, who was watching his interaction interestedly.
"My sincerest apologies," he told her, after they left, seating himself. "They're all very pushy. It can get a bit… overwhelming."
"That seems to be dwarven code for I like you," Tauriel replied, body relaxing to a further extent than any of his questions on courtship had managed.
"Yes!" Bilbo laughed. "It does. Oh, they're all so annoying. One day they'll tell me I should wear red, then the next they'll tell me green, then the next purple. I've got no bloody peace!"
She smiled, thin but true. "Perhaps you should speak to- Lord Dwalin, I believe?- he was in the Company, was he not? He'd likely enjoy spending the time with you, too."
"Balin," he corrected, and tried not to think about Dwalin actually spending hours poring over contracts. Merciful Vala, he'd probably take an axe to them if he got too frustrated. "But it was Balin who actually assigned them to me. He's too busy with the initial drafts of the Meeting to worry about me, so… I've got a-"
"Gaggle?"
"-retinue," he said firmly.
Though it was an amusing picture: six stout dwarves, a foot taller than him and bristling with steel, following him around like baby ducklings.
"Well, if it truly is of such importance that they need to teach you for so many hours, then I suppose I know of one person who can help." Tauriel paused for a moment. "She's rather private, however."
"But she knows these- rituals?"
She nodded, dark hair falling over her face for a moment, before she tucked it back. "She's rather knowledgeable, I'd say. Definitely more than Kíli."
Bilbo sighed. "That's not a very high bar."
"Perhaps not." A graceful shrug. "But it couldn't hurt, could it?"
"Perhaps not," he echoed. After a long moment, he shook off the gathering gloom. "Truly, my sincerest apologies. I invited you here and I've been so self-absorbed. Tell me, how goes your life in Erebor?"
Tauriel stiffened once more, but she answered willingly enough. "Quietly, all told. Though after the Battle I think any sort of peace would feel that way."
Mirkwood was at peace, and you spent your days hunting giant spiders. I don't think you know what that word means.
"Well, the Shire was always rather peaceful. Never quite as busy as this, I'd say," Bilbo said.
"Indeed. I think, someday, I would like to visit such a place." Tauriel offered him a faint smile. "Our stories say Valinor is such a place: a land of plenty, of joy, of peace. To experience it here, in Arda, would be a gift."
"Comparing the Shire to Valinor!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Hamfast would have given you a hundred plum-puddings if he heard. I suppose I'll have to settle for the rock candy these dwarves enjoy." He poked one, sitting bright and purple on the tray, distastefully. "Can you imagine, they just melt the sugar and color it and make it in rock-shapes! No decoration whatsoever."
"Elves make star-cakes," she replied, sketching the shape with her hands. "It's rather difficult if one doesn't have patience. Either it becomes a nicely glowing mass of sugar and fluff, or it just becomes a very sticky, sugary glue. The rock candy is rather addictive, however."
"We decorate our cakes with flowers and, if one is particularly skilled, frosting," Bilbo said. "And no, it is not."
Tauriel outright grinned, and he thought he could see the edges of her that met Kíli's in that moment; often, she was so reserved people couldn't understand how Kíli could love her- but there was something in her eyes that spoke of warmth, and something in her lips that spoke of laughter, and something in her spine that spoke of pride- and Bilbo couldn't think of three other things that described Kíli so well, so perhaps it wasn't so much a mystery at all.
"When I was young," she was saying, "I didn't have so many childish things at all. My parents were wanderers; they had little time for star-cakes or ribbon games. I always thought it was because they simply didn't find it important, but when I turned ten I begged them for one cake, just a taste- and they gave in." Tauriel pressed a demure hand to her lips, as though trying to force a smile back, before giving it up as a lost cause. "Turned out that Emel had less aptitude for baking than she did for singing, and she could make every bird in the forest fall quiet in a quarter-league radius. Not," she added, "in a good way."
Bilbo laughed. "My father was very much the strict parent," he found himself saying, though he hadn't thought to; there was a faint ache, however, in Tauriel's face, and he thought he understood that pain very well- an old scar that barely twinged, only thought of in passing.
An orphan's curse.
"And your mother?" She asked, warmth suffusing her face.
"She was an adventurer herself, went with Gandalf to all these places." He waved a hand. "She stayed in Rivendell for a year, I heard, before deciding to head back. And then she got married to Bungo Baggins, most proper bachelor in the Shire." An incredulous laugh. "I never understood it, you know. Nobody else did, either, but… they were in love."
"I'm sure nobody will understand your marriage either," Tauriel said wryly.
"Nor yours."
"Well," she said, "I don't think we do, either."
Bilbo inclined his head: fair point. He then looked at the time and grimaced. He had scarcely fifteen minutes before they came back, and he needed to get rid of the trays and get a couple more chairs-
"I'll take my leave," Tauriel said.
Bilbo looked at her gratefully. It was such a refreshing change to have subtle cues be addressed and reacted to; he was well aware that had she been Fíli or Kíli, he'd have to tell them to leave before they left.
She rose and was to the door, when she paused and turned back, looking oddly hesitant.
"Would you like to have tea with me, sometime?" She asked.
Bilbo lit up. He smiled widely at her, and said, "Oh, of course! I think it'll do some good for both of us to have someone not-dwarf to talk to, don't you?"
"This was- a pleasure," Tauriel replied slowly. "I think it will be a nice distraction. Thank you, Master Baggins."
A perfunctory bow, and she left.
Later, in the comfortable exhaustion borne of boredom, Bilbo wondered, distraction from what?
…
"So what happened?"
Sifa had been waiting in the damned room for almost four hours. The least Fíli could do was give her a straight answer.
"Nori's got contacts," he told her, after sinking into a chair. "I wanted to hear if he knew something of what's going on."
"And?"
"He said Uncle's been keeping him busy, out of Erebor. Apparently he thinks there'll be more trouble coming from that side." Fíli looked directly at her. "Everyone's worried about the Meeting."
"Mirkwood and Erebor and Dale in one room," Sifa said darkly. "It's a recipe for trouble."
"Well- yes." He grimaced. "So Nori's been focusing on Dale, mostly, 'cause it's closer than Mirkwood and men are easier bought off than elves." At her look, he said, "His words, not mine." And went on, "Mirkwood and Laketown had a deal going on for some time- it was because of Thranduil that there was any Laketown at all, apparently. He shipped some food and drink in every winter. Don't know why."
"Probably old treaties," Sifa said.
Fíli shrugged. "So, now, Bard Dragonslayer probably wants to maintain that relationship with Dale and Mirkwood. Which leaves us at a disadvantage."
"Little wonder your Uncle's worried, then."
"Yeah." He paused for a moment and fiddled with the loose laces of his overcoat. "Nori says the elves- and, a bit less than that, the men- are waiting for an insult to withdraw from the Meeting."
Sifa frowned. It didn't make sense, not really. Erebor wanted to renew old treaties. It was a reasonable thing, all told. So why wait for an insult?
Unless… they suspect something.
"We cannot eat gold," she said quietly. Looked up and met his eyes, hooded with a horror that said he'd seen it, that he too knew what was to come. "Fíli," she whispered, "do they mean to starve us?"
"Dain's food can last us until winter," he replied. "But through it? Not so much. And we'll be placed fully under his debt if we ask for those stores."
Everything was coming together, and it formed a picture both bleak and infuriating.
"Iron Hill dwarves are unhappy with being ruled by Erebor," she said flatly, running through the permutations in her mind- how this changed everything, how this affected what they would do. "There's a family who're stirring up some trouble there. I know who, and I'm keeping tabs on them."
"Good," Fíli said.
But Sifa was not done- she was not close to being done.
"Let's assume that they're unhappy with being a vassal kingdom," Sifa said slowly, feeling tension spiral through her shoulders. Fíli straightened, looking at her. "Let's assume they want to be separated from Erebor, but it would be suicide to do so- the Iron Hills aren't rich enough to be a warrior state even if they spend decades investing in it, they've got nothing to trade with."
"Alright," he said. "Then we're left with them wanting to be equal to Erebor."
"...but what if they install their own king onto the throne?"
"Dain?" Fíli asked, looking startled. "He'd never agree. He's too… how would you say, bingurthu? Without ambition. He's happy enough ruling the Iron Hills."
"And all his nobility are as well?" She asked archly. Shook her head. "Let's say they want to place him on the throne. Let's say they do this. Why not do it when the Meeting happens, when they can have two impartial people- two kings- as witnesses?"
"A coup?"
Sifa thought, Do you understand why I'm terrified, right now? We are children, and we are playing such a dangerous game-
But such thoughts led nowhere. Despair only festered.
"Perhaps," she said.
Fíli sighed. "We'll need to make sure they're not insulted, then, when they come."
"The treaties will have to be fair."
"Uncle will listen to Balin about that."
"Tauriel and I aren't as busy as you or Kíli," she said. "We can draft a treaty that doesn't insult anyone." A faint, wry twist of the lips. "Besides, how hard can it be?"
Fíli sighed, again, and got up; he took a bottle of wine he'd hidden somewhere on his person and popped the lid open; drank deeply, and handed it to her. Then he sank into the chair, sprawling bonelessly.
"You'll regret that, I'm sure," he told her.
Sifa took a deep swig. She'd never liked wine all that much, but this was- strange. Lighter, fruitier, and intoxicating in a way she hadn't experienced before.
"Elf-made?" She asked.
"Yes."
"This is a nightmare in the making," she told him. "We're all going to die."
"I'll save a space for you in the Halls, then," Fíli replied blandly.
Sifa tossed him the bottle. "Shut up. We need plans. We need contingencies. We need-"
"Sifa," he said tiredly, "all due respect, but shut up."
She made a face at him and took back the bottle. "Don't be stupid."
"I'm not!" He deflated. "But not tonight. We'll make plans, continents, whatever, tomorrow."
"Contingencies," Sifa said.
"You're a snob."
"Never said I wasn't."
Fíli relaxed into the chair, and drained the bottle- Sifa waved a hand airily at his mumbled apology.
The world was already spinning hazily, gaining the dreamlike edge strong alcohol lent. She felt numb instead of relaxed though, like someone had unmoored her while unbalanced; too many things running around her head, and too many unnamed worries.
Time passed. Sifa drowsed in her chair, too warm and lazy to move. Fíli must have felt the same: he hadn't moved either, and they were slumped together in matching poses of exhausted drunkenness.
Then Fíli spoke.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he began.
Sifa looked at him blearily. "And?" She remembered to say.
"I think… I think we can make it work."
"You had to tell me this while we were drunk?" Sifa demanded, trying to rise from her chair and unbalancing.
Fíli laughed, loud and wild and full-bodied. "I'd forgotten about it!"
"Did you really?" She deadpanned.
"I didn't-" he broke off, looking ungainly and awkward as if he were thirty once more, all thick bones and heavy hair and none of the warrior grace he grew into.
"Don't hurt yourself," Sifa drawled, slumping back into the chair.
But her heart was pounding, and there was a warmth in her fingertips that hadn't been there moments earlier. When she'd told Fíli that she'd never choose the path of khabbuna, she'd spoken true: it had never quite agreed with her. And it was selfish, perhaps, to want something only on your terms, but it was the kind of selfish that she couldn't unlearn; it was something she'd woven her entire existence out of.
"Don't be mean," he retorted, voice slurred at the edges, and then he softened. "Do you think we can- are you willing to- try?"
Fíli was a lighthouse on a craggy cliffside, steady even through the worst winter storm. He was warmth, the sunlight after summer showers and fire of a lit forge. He was kindness and honor and duty, and he held a softness in his core that Sifa would never have.
Sifa remembered a callused palm, pressed against hers in a time of despair, and she remembered hope.
"Yes," she said.
…
"May I come in?"
Tauriel looked up and nodded to Sifa, who stood in the doorway. Then she looked back down, to her book, before glancing up at her once more, when Sifa sat down heavily. There was an unnameable weight on her shoulders, and something about her eyes that was both frightened and frightening.
Gently, Tauriel set the book aside. "Is something the matter?" She asked.
"How much have you spoken to Fíli?"
"Not since the announcement of the Meeting," Tauriel said. "Why, has something happened?"
And Sifa explained, at that: of a dwarven contingent sent by a King of Erebor, nearly four centuries previous, to explore a mining region north of the Lonely Mountain. Of the colony established there; and then the arrival of Smaug, who displaced those of Erebor- who then headed to the closest place that would shelter them.
Of a long, cold winter in the Iron Hills, during which as many dwarves starved as they did fleeing Smaug, and the dangerous trek southwest, that spring: of arrival in Ered Luin and safety, only to find it cursed with shaking mines and scarce resources.
Of poverty, and a fiercely prideful race ground down with blow after blow, and the vengeful joy that came from reclaiming what was taken unjustly.
"Times are no longer as bad," Sifa said, hands folding in her lap, as golden as lamplight. "We've found mines deeper inside, and a few veins of iron and silver. But there are those in the Iron Hills who think the people of Erebor ought to pay them back, for a century of hardship made even worse."
"Is it that bad?" Tauriel asked.
For it did not seem overmuch, to ask for something in return for a century of support- even if it was not particularly gracious, or polite.
"What is needed will be given," Sifa replied, cold as blooded steel. "What is asked for, or requested, honorably: it will be given. But not like this. Not by stealing in the dark, not through poisoned knives and whispered words and threats. The dwarves of the Iron Hills forget themselves, in their greed. They forget that they are Longbeards, and that they have sworn fealty to the King Under the Mountain."
She looked, Tauriel thought, like the ancient dwarf-queens from the tapestries in Mirkwood. Hair braided back, an expression on her face not of the cold boredom of elf-royalty but such fierce passion that it seemed to leap out of wool, seemed to sear into one's soul.
It had frightened Tauriel when she'd first seen it.
It frightened her now, to see it on a face not frozen in cloth but shifting and moving and alive.
Sifa must have seen something of that in her face, for her anger faded, replaced with a rueful look that reminded Tauriel of Legolas after he raged over something and came to her the next morning, calm once more.
"I apologize," Sifa said, quirking a smile. "But there are things that are infuriating, and then there is treason: I do not take such things kindly. I never have."
"No need," Tauriel replied, waving it away. What was a snappish tone, among friends? Particularly dwarven friends, who were as quick to temper as they were to forgive? "But," she continued, mostly in hopes of finding out what Sifa wished to do about this entire mess, "whatever can be done without telling the King? And banishing me, as it were, which achieves their goals entirely?"
"We must stop them," said Sifa. "We must do it quietly, and watchfully, and these are not dwarven traits, Madam Elf: this is your purview."
"I am glad to be of use," she replied, dry.
Sifa's face sobered quickly. "They wish you banished to sow anger in the line of Durin," she began. "If you live, Kíli will leave with you, and weaken Thorin Oakenshield's reputation. The Line itself will definitely be weakened, with the redel gone, but that is… far off. If you die, they can push for a match between Kíli and someone else, of their choosing. When he refuses, they can claim insult."
"If I die," said Tauriel.
"Yes," murmured Sifa. "If. Now. That ensures dwarven kingdoms do not question a coup, but the elves, and men? They will need an explanation. But it is easier to simply offer them insult, and before everything devolves into war, step in with a handy solution."
"The Meeting of Three Kings," Tauriel said sharply. "We spoke of it, when we bearded the assassin. If they mean to attack then…"
"Offer men and elves insult," Sifa repeated. "And step in with a solution." She paused for a minute, a half-smile curling over her lips. "Which, incidentally, is why I am here."
"Why?" Tauriel asked.
"How would you," Sifa asked, eyes glittering like a lit forge, deliberately slowly, "like to draft a treaty that does not offer insult to any of the three races?"
Tauriel spluttered.
"What." After a pause, in which Sifa did not burst out in laughter or call it a joke, she said, "I knew the princes to be foolish, but not that you would join them. I don't even- do you have any idea how hard it is to draft such a treaty?"
"I haven't done one before," Sifa said blithely.
"How long do we have?" She asked.
"Three weeks," Sifa said.
"Three weeks," Tauriel said flatly. "Just over a fortnight to get past cultural differences, look at precedence, make sure everything's benefiting Erebor, and ensure nothing's insulting to Mirkwood. Or Dale."
"When you put it that way," Sifa said, "it sounds rather difficult."
Tauriel looked at her disbelievingly. "Really? Because it sounds almost impossible, from where I'm standing."
Sifa rolled her eyes. "We try. That's the point, yes? We try, and we might fail, but we might succeed as well."
"Was this what Mithrandir told Thorin Oakenshield, to set out east and take on a dragon?" Tauriel asked. "We try and we might fail, but we might succeed as well?"
"I, personally, think we've a better chance than the Company did against Smaug," Sifa told her.
"Oh, really?" Tauriel retorted. Her head ached already, thinking of what would be needed.
She was not a scribe, she wanted to protest, but then she imagined Sifa's reaction to that: it wasn't as if either Fíli or Kíli were scribes either, and they weren't elves, at that, to identify possible insults. Like it or not, she was bound to the work.
I will regret this, she thought, and said aloud, "We are not going to be able to sleep."
Sifa bared her teeth, alarmingly wide, and said, "This will be fun."
…
Kíli caught up to Fíli, catching his shoulder.
"Nadad," he said, swiveling him around and pressing him to the stone. "Is something going on?"
"There's a lot going on, Kíli," Fíli retorted, yanking his arm away. "As I'm sure you know. Anything specific?"
"You've been acting strange."
Fíli paused. "Have I?"
Kíli exhaled sharply. "Yes. You've barely been in our rooms for a month. And when I do see you, you look terrible!"
"Thank you," he said dryly. "It's clear why Uncle's been keeping you away from meetings on the Meeting: you're going to call the elves weed-eating tree killers in ten minutes' time of their entering Erebor, and smile while you do it."
"Fíli," Kíli said, not sure if he was insulted or irritated.
His brother sent him a look that perfectly mixed exasperation and condescension.
"Kíli," he mimicked, and started to walk. Kíli followed, disgruntled. "I've got to talk to Mother about some things with the jeweler's guild," he explained, waving a scroll about. "Apparently they've found a nice seam of thikil'abnith in the northern mines, but the foundation's a bit shaky. They're wondering if they should stop and wait for proper support, or risk losing out on the shine."
"Steel-stone?" Kíli asked. "I thought they could make it shine with that process, what's it called- Grit's?"
"Lirgs' Process," Fíli said. "And they can, but it takes a fair number of people to get it going, and even more to keep it working." A shrug. "We don't have that many, yet."
Kíli rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Amad's going to take care of it. What matters is that you're suddenly looking like you've seen a ghost, and you've spent the past month avoiding everything and everyone like the plague!" He leaned forward and grabbed Fíli's arm, though he softened his tone; there was no need to make Fíli defensive. "You haven't even gone to sparring with Dwalin, and he's getting mad about it."
Fíli looked faintly worried. "When was this?"
"Oh… a week ago."
"And you didn't tell me?" Fíli yelped, now looking definitively worried. "Kíli!"
Kíli folded his arms over his chest.
"Dwalin's going to kill me," he moaned. "I'm going to die and it's all your fault!"
"Just tell him you were with Balin the whole time," Kíli said unsympathetically. Fíli groaned even louder at that: both of them remembered a time when Balin had gotten so irritated with Dwalin for stealing his students that he'd issued a challenge to his brother to establish a quota of warriors taken from scribe-school.
"He's going to kill me!" Fíli cried. "You know it very well, you blasted selfish-"
"Fíli," said Kíli, stepping forward and pressing him back, so Fíli's back was against stone; it served to cut off his brother's increasingly vulgar curses as well. "What is going on?"
Fíli eyed him for a long moment. He was still pale, Kíli noted, and there was a tension still in Fíli's face like a strung bow. But it was no longer as oppressive as it had been before they started talking.
"You know about the attempt on Tauriel's life," he said, almost soundlessly. "Yesterday I found out that it might have to do with Iron Hill dwarves who don't like us." He yanked his arm out of Kíli's grip, and stepped away, ignoring Kíli's sudden intake of breath. "I have to go-"
"I thought it had to do with Sifa," Kíli said bluntly, pushing past the initial surge of fury at remembering Tauriel's pale face, the steady way she said I will not leave and the thought of her throat being slit, red against white against green.
Fíli went paler, and there was something in his eyes that told Kíli he was being measured for some trait that went beyond even brotherly loyalty.
"It's not-" he paused, gathering his thoughts. "It's not so simple as her," he said. "Just a lot of things. Coming together at the wrong time. We need an heir. The line can't end with you." Fíli's hands tightened on the scroll, crumpling the paper. "So we have to move fast. Sifa-" his eyes were glassy with terror and anger. "-doesn't understand."
Here was the person Kíli'd been fearful of when he awoke after the Battle: here was the person who bore burdens without flinching, and then startled when he stumbled under them.
"Nunur'amrâb," he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around him. "I knew you to be a lalkhûn, but never this much of one. The line ending? I'm not even eighty. You're just past it. Uncle's there, and so's Amad, and nobody's trying to kill us-" which still angered him deep inside his bones, in a way he couldn't describe. "-so we're fine. Fíli: breathe. Breathing is good. And if you worry about this, I don't know how many times I've told you, tell me. Tell anyone. Mahal- go to the mountaintop and tell him if you have to."
The aborted hiccups running through Fíli's frame lessened, in both intensity and number, and a moment later he pushed Kíli away. He was still looking shaky, Kíli decided, but not quite as unsteady as before. The taut, sallow look of his face had faded.
"Are you not frightened?" Fíli asked.
Kíli tipped his head to the side slowly. "I do not think so much as you, nadad," he said. Overriding Fíli's protests, he continued: "And that is why I am glad you are redêl, and I am not. So… I act, and do not think. While you see the darkest path I see the brighter one." A sigh, playful and jarringly honest at the same time. "But I am frightened. We are alone in this, as we have never been. It is terrifying. If we lose, I lose Tauriel, and do you think I am not scared of that?"
Fíli stared at him. Then he said, plainly, "We can't tell anyone. That's what frightens me. If we don't carry it off- best thing that'll happen is that Dain becomes King."
"One thing at a time," Kíli replied firmly. "We've fought Orcs and wargs and a dragon, and we've done it together. What's Balin's saying? 'The foolish dwarf mines the shallow stream and comes with flakes of gold. The cunning dwarf mines the deepest crevices of a mountain and comes with nuggets of gold. But the wise dwarf mines the dangerous cliffs, and unearths the source of it all.'"
"What does that have to do with us?" Fíli asked flatly.
"No risk," said Kíli, "no reward. And we are taking the largest risk, Fíli, so we can get the largest reward."
"It's our people."
"And it's for them we're doing it."
Fíli nodded, but he looked resigned and exhausted, and Kíli felt his patience fracture.
"Nadad," he said sharply, and when Fíli startled, he kept his irritation at the fore. "We are khazad. We are Durins. We do what we must, and keep to those oaths. Would you deny it?"
Once again, Fíli stared at him as if he'd never seen Kíli before. But before the silence got anything more than faintly awkward, he spoke.
"No. I would not." He sketched a bow, and then flicked his fingers in the sign for thank you. "I must deliver this to Amad," he told Kíli, gesturing to the crumpled roll of paper in his hand, though his tone sounded slightly regretful. "Tell Dwalin I'll come to the practice grounds tonight. And…" After a brief hesitation, he said, "Let us talk tonight, nadadith. After supper. I think I've spent too much time in my own head."
"You always do," Kíli said. "Fine. I'll tell Dwalin, but be ready for a beating the likes of which you haven't seen for decades. He's on a warpath."
Fíli glared at him, a fine red flush on his cheeks. "And whose fault is that?"
"Yours," said Kíli, and walked away.
…
Bilbo knocked on the door.
Firmly.
Not timidly, not at all. Not with a hand that faltered halfway there and might have dipped away had he not remembered the hellish gleam in the Royal Gaggle's eyes.
"May I help-" The dwarf who opened the door looked startlingly sharp-edged. Her dark hair was braided in a fashion similar to Oin's, and though she did not have a beard her sideburns were long enough to hold several small braids. Her skin was darker than any of the Company, but what drew the eye was her expression of barely concealed irritation.
Upon recognizing him, however, she spoke politely enough. "Consort-Presumptive. How may I help you?"
Bilbo would have dithered, had he not recognized that flare of impatience on her face: Thorin's own brand of disdain was remarkably similar.
Instead, he chose bluntness.
"Lady Sifa," he greeted, and continued, "the Lady Tauriel told me that you've knowledge of dwarven rituals." He pasted on a hopeful smile. "Would you be willing to spend an afternoon telling me of it?"
She looked startled, and then resignedly exasperated. "I am a word-smith," she told him. "Not one of the Scrivener's Guild. The Lord Balin would be a far better choice than me." A graceful lift of the eyebrows. "I'd heard tell of a group of seven dwarves assigned to tell you this very information."
Bilbo's cheeks heated uncomfortably. "They're very contradictory," he said.
It was all so stifling. Bilbo had wanted a wedding on one of the balconies: if he couldn't have earth under his feet, he'd make do with sun; but the Royal Gaggle were insistent on a wedding in the marble-bowers of the third Durin, for reasons still unclear to Bilbo. Bilbo had wanted to send invitations to elves, but he'd been refused categorically. Bilbo had wanted to talk to Thorin just yesterday, and been effectively blocked from doing so for a full evening.
Had he not seen Balin's exhausted face, he might have thrown a tantrum that would have done Thorin proud. But Bilbo had seen Balin's weariness, and he'd understood that it wasn't some purposely cruel joke being played on him; it was just the rigors of royal life wearing on him.
It was why he'd come here. If he could have someone try to explain to him these traditions that dwarves took so seriously, without frills and with patience, he'd certainly be able to understand.
Some of that must have shown on his face. There was no other reason for Sifa to step back, and wave him inside, and even less for her to offer him tea and biscuits with a sympathetic look on her face.
"Did the dwarves assigned to you say something specifically strange?" She asked, when he glared into the cup mutinously- too much sugar and a foreign taste, but tea nonetheless; Bilbo was at once homesick and not. "For there is much in our culture that is different from others', and without proper explanation can appear… baffling."
"When I left them they were debating over Consort or Queen," Bilbo told her grumpily. "Even though I told them multiple times I'm not female, they refuse to believe it!" Looked up, to see her carefully blank face. "...is that not correct?"
"Consort or Queen," she said, waving a hand. "They are not the same thing. Khuzdul… does not have a name for Queen, as in Westron. It is as close a translation as you can get, I believe, but it is still imperfect."
"I don't understand."
Sifa sighed. "It is a long explanation indeed, if you wish to start with that."
It was a way out, if he wanted it. Bilbo sipped his sugary tea and remembered the way the Royal Gaggle talked around him, like he couldn't understand what they were saying, and when speaking to him always addressed him as they would a child.
He said, "It's as good a place as any."
"Very well," said Sifa, shifting slightly as if to get comfortable. "Then I shall begin by telling you that my people's first language is Khuzdul, and Westron is a close second. What I mean is: there are some things we name in Khuzdul that cannot be directly translated, and when they were translated they were not done so with the greatest care." She smiled, faintly. "It is what has happened with- Queen, and Consort, and, I think, King."
"Are you saying Queen isn't Queen in Khuzdul?" Bilbo asked.
"Precisely." Sifa placed her cup to the side, and began gesturing as she spoke; it felt reassuringly like his cousin Drogo's mannerisms. "King Thorin has named you his yusthel, and the best translation of that would be-" she hummed for a moment, breaking off, and went on, "-partner, the one and only. Or, rather, his true partner."
Bilbo frowned. "So, that would be your title of Consort, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then what is the difference between Consort and Queen?" He asked helplessly. "I am not female, so I am not Queen. That is how it is in Westron. Is Consort not just a- name, replacing Queen?"
Sifa's face shifted, like she was both surprised and angered. "Have they told you nothing?" She asked sharply.
"No," Bilbo replied.
Sifa sent him a hard look, and then relaxed, albeit slightly unwillingly. There was a hint of discomfort in the line of her shoulders.
"Many dwarves do not take wives," she said, almost tonelessly. "Not enough dames, you see, and there are dames who do not wish for any sort of husband- they might take another dame, or choose to become a khabbûna: to marry her profession.
"And so, as the kings are dwarves, they can love whomever they wish, be it dwarf, Man, or Hobbit-" she gestured to him, "-but they must also do their duty by their people, and marry another, to carry on the lineage."
"What," said Bilbo, feeling his ears start to ring distantly.
Sifa looked at him pityingly. "If the person the King loves is unsuitable for the political landscape, they must take another, a wife who is suitable to the people."
"Nobody told me this," Bilbo said numbly.
"No," said Sifa, looking annoyed. "They wouldn't have, the idiotic children. Likely afraid you'll leave, if you hear of it, and they'd be determined to keep you here." She slanted him a measuring look, and then, suddenly, grinned. "How many times have you proven them wrong, Master Baggins?"
He blinked slowly, ears still ringing. "Ah. A few, I think, but mostly I- did what I had to do."
"Stubborn," she said, almost laughing, "and dutiful, and with a heart large enough to swallow Erebor whole. I do believe, had it not been the King you fell for, you'd be chasing them off with a stick."
Then her laughter faded, replaced with a look that was, while sympathetic, not coddling. Bilbo felt flushed and awkward and uncomfortably like he had when facing off against Azog, and, against his better judgment, he said, "I still am, you know. There've been at least five jewels left on my doorstep, and none of them are from Thorin."
Sifa's face darkened for a moment, but then she seemed to forcibly lighten. "That's very rude," she told him. "But not altogether unexpected, I suppose. Any jewels given after the King declared his courtship?"
"No," said Bilbo.
"There you have it," she said, satisfied. Her mien remained calm, when she continued: "There are contracts, you know, for this sort of thing. Thorin Oakenshield might be forced to take a wife- that is something that will be determined by his Council, and is certainly out of your hands- but you can guarantee that he has no relations with her, when and if that happens."
"Relations?" Bilbo asked delicately.
Sifa's lips pinched shut. "The marriage bed," she replied.
"Ah."
"Indeed."
A moment's pause, then: "The King has his heirs. If you wish it, a contract can be enforced. That the dwarves assigned to you are even debating over whether or not your title is Queen or Consort is… a good sign."
"I can't bear children," Bilbo said.
"Details," she said dryly. "Master Baggins-"
"Please, call me Bilbo."
"-Bilbo, we dwarves are possessive. We hold onto that which we claim ours, and it takes much to let it go." Her eyes swept over him intently. "Did you know, our wedding vows are may the grips of our souls never waver? Such a binding is irrevocable. No dwarf would even question it if you desired Thorin Oakenshield to enter your bed alone."
Bilbo's hands drummed out a rhythm against his leg, and he felt his cheeks flush again- if he wasn't careful, every dwarf from Erebor to the Iron Hills would think him a fainting tween from the Shire. Come to think of it, they probably already did see him as such.
"Why are they debating Queen or Consort, then?" He croaked, and leaned forward to set aside his cup of tea: it had cooled, and with it the sugar had hardened, so it tasted like some watery confection Lobelia made with great gusto and little patience.
Sifa looked, then, highly amused once more.
"Because," she said, "they probably think of you as female."
Bilbo choked, and reflexively sipped the tea, and then regretted that very much.
"Why?" He managed, after a full minute of trying to breathe through his airway.
"You dress unlike any dwarf, and your hair is finer than most male dwarves, and-" she tipped her head to the side, "-you're curvier than most males."
"I beg your pardon," he snapped. Then he saw her twitching lips, and leaned back grumpily, as Sifa lost the battle with her composure and started to laugh, loudly. "'Tis rude to mock," he told her.
"I'm sorry," she retorted, through gasps, "but it wasn't I who was desperate enough to knock on a stranger's door and ask for help with private matters!"
"No," Bilbo agreed, and slanted her a look, both curious and desperate to change the topic. "But come to think of it, all I know of you is that Tauriel likes you, and you know much of dwarven history and rituals, and you've more patience than the Royal Gaggle."
Sifa arched an eyebrow incredulously. "Royal Gaggle?"
"The dwarves assigned to me," Bilbo said, lifting his chin. When Sifa did not reprimand him, he said, "They are. And they're rude, and domineering, and I think if it wasn't terribly undwarven, they'd be biting each other like geese, so it's a perfect name."
"They're the Lords of the Iron Hills," she said mildly.
"Yes, well." Bilbo sent her a hard look. "This was all to distract me from talking about you, wasn't it?"
"No," Sifa said, and sighed when he didn't let it go. "No, it wasn't. But there isn't much to tell you about myself, and less still that you would be glad to hear." Her eyes were intent once more, and a touch sad, but with a sardonic edge underlying it all. "It is not a happy tale, Master- Bilbo, though I suppose there are few enough of those in our history."
"I've heard of Thorin's story," Bilbo told her. "It cannot be sadder than that, I think."
She tipped her head to the side, and her eyes lit with a dangerous gleam. "I was, once, betrothed to the Prince Fíli," she said. "Until my father wished for something that was not his, and was banished for that greed." Her eyes lifted to his, unyielding like steel. "The betrothal was broken off."
"Not so sad as Thorin's," Bilbo said, taking care to keep his voice as unpitying as possible without being cruel.
"No," she agreed. "Though the Durins have a pain all their own. I-" Sifa looked terribly awkward for the first time, and he frowned mentally, thinking it over.
Oh.
"Did you love him?" Bilbo asked curiously. "Before the betrothal got broken off, I mean."
Sifa's eyes were shadowed, and her face was at once frightened and challenging: afraid, likely, for what he could say; and challenging because she was a dwarf, and they'd never face any fear without steel, whether in spine or hand.
"No," she said, looking straight at him, jaw clenched mulishly. "Not as such. I found him irritating, and grating, and far too childish for my own comforts." Bilbo laughed, and some of the stiffness leaked out of her body. "It was- after. My father's banishment was shameful, you see, and my mother and I kept our home and title by the skin of our teeth, and nobody would speak to me without sneering, or a sort of pity that digs under your skin-" she broke off, fingers rubbing over the thin skin of her wrist as if thorns had slid in. Calmer, she said, "Fíli spoke to me, and he treated me as if nothing had changed, and that was a kindness unexpected but- present, nonetheless."
"It's a terrible thing," Bilbo said, remembering long silences in a smial built for a rambunctious family, "to be left alone in the world."
Sifa nodded, and sighed, and the weight of her shoulders dripped away. "And yourself, Bilbo? You have named yourself elf-friend and dwarf-kin, and you are set to be consort to the seventh King of the dwarves. But what of your life before the adventures of dragons?"
"The Shire was very calm," he said, reaching for words to answer this. There was still a hazardous light in Sifa's dark eyes, and he thought he'd have to speak very carefully now, for she had offered him both trust and truth and clearly, she prized both dearly. "It was always- quiet. All save the Fell Winter, of course, but I was still a fauntling when that happened, and both my parents survived that."
"Then how did you come to know loneliness?" Sifa asked.
"My father was traveling to Bree for a meeting between some other merchants in the area, and he fell sick on the way back," Bilbo said. "He was not young, and it was winter, and the chill took him. It was very quick." It had been, too; Bungo Baggins had been a withered, pale husk by the time he died, but he hadn't been forced to suffer overlong. "And my mother, she…"
It had been very many years since he spoke of them like this. Bilbo had mentioned both his parents to the Company, but none had seemed over-interested in tales of a too-proper Hobbit and his foolishly adventurous wife, so Bilbo had held his tongue on both matters.
But he could still smell his mother's rose hip tea, when the winds of the mountain shifted correctly.
"She was the one who knew courage, the Shire would say, but. Well. She was selfish, and burned bright as a star, when talking of her adventures with Gandalf, and she was the kindest person I knew- apart from my father of course- and for the longest time I couldn't understand how they could love each other, either of them, they were so different, but now it's. It's clear."
A quiet hand on his, hair like starlit water, eyes like the coldest stars; kindness, running through veins like flame under the earth, and an honor so strong it could bend the very Vala to his plight.
"In our histories," Sifa said slowly, "there is a tale of two dwarves, in the first war against Morgoth. They commanded no armies, and held no fae power, and were as every other dwarf in the land. But then they met each other, and there was a fury on that day, in the battlefield, and the Orcs were driven back faster and with less casualties than ever before or after. We call them battle-wed, those dwarves who find their love in the heat of blood, after them, even if they do not meet in war as such."
"Thorin and I aren't wed," Bilbo said quietly.
"No," said Sifa, eyes level, face calm, like a steady harbor in a roaring sea, "but I think that you are battle-wed. That there is a heartbeat twinned to your own, and a warmth that you feel even when not beside him. What is the formality of a marriage, when such is done already?"
"I was told Mahal gave his blessing to your unions, and that was what made it work," Bilbo replied.
"Not in ishmerafrân'mudtul," she said quizzically. "Not for every marriage we dwarves perform. Valar above, did you think so? Mahal'd not have time for anything else, then, he'd be so busy officiating!"
He sighed, and smiled, and they fell into silence. But then Bilbo saw her look at the door suddenly, guiltily.
"I'm not quite as busy as the rest of the mountain," she explained, seeing the look on his face, "but that does not mean I've not work to do. I ought to have delivered some number of books hours ago, but-"
"My apologies, then," Bilbo said, and started on his feet, ready to go, when she spoke sharply.
"This was a pleasure."
"I," he said, looking at her, both startled and jumpy.
"I think it might be nice if you came for any explanations you might need," she said firmly, tone gentling. "I am certainly not as busy as the Lord Balin, and I think your- gaggle- might have some troubles explaining things, and it won't do to have the Consort ignorant of such matters." A brief hesitation, then: "Only, I've one request."
"What is it?" Bilbo asked warily.
Sifa's hands tightened convulsively, and she looked regretful; but her voice did not waver. "Do not ask to become Queen."
He flinched, waving his hand wildly. Before he could find words, however, she spoke, and while her words were not kind, her tone softened the blow a little.
"Thorin Oakenshield is enamored of you, and he is, also, in debt to you. He threatened you, Master Baggins, when you sought to save him, and he holds himself craven for that." Her eyes were dark with some memory, and her words darker yet: they struck at something inside Bilbo like tolling bells. "If you ask it of him, whether on a dare or some other desire, he will grant it. He will fight an entire mountain, and it scarce matters who wins that battle: the price is too high. So. To you, as wergild for offering information, I name this price."
Bilbo floundered for a moment. Sifa waited him, patiently, face as immovable as carves granite.
"It's yours," Bilbo said. Then, unable to help himself, "I thought I told you to call me Bilbo."
Sifa nodded, once, and the shadows fled from her face as if they'd never been. "Apologies," she said. "I thought there was a need for formality in the moment."
"Dwarves," he muttered under his breath, "unable to hold off on majestic rudeness for even half a second!"
She looked amused once more, and Bilbo realized he might not have spoken as softly as he thought- but she only said, "If I am to call you by your given name, then it is only proper that you drop all honorifics of mine. Please, call me Sifa." And then, before he could respond properly, she stood and gathered a stack of books from a nearby stool, and sketched a sort of bow. "I do have to hurry for this- I'm almost an hour too late- so I hope to see you soon, Bilbo."
She left the door open and left.
Bilbo looked at the carefully decorated room that looked almost uninhabited, and the tea that tasted nothing like what he brewed in the Shire, and the stacks of books around the desk that held no dust, and he smiled slowly, delicately, like a solstice dusk over Tookborough, and he left.
…
Dís was in the process of calling her sons to breakfast when she came across Thorin in the hallway.
"Have you seen either Fíli or Kíli?" She asked.
Thorin was muttering something under his breath as he did the buttons of his waistcoat up, and he looked both tired and happy, in the strange mix that she hadn't seen on his face ever before.
"No," he said, and went back to mumbling, walking away from her.
Dís rolled her eyes and turned the corner, just in time to meet Bilbo, coming from his rooms.
"Have you seen my sons?" She asked him, perhaps a bit too sharply.
Bilbo, shrugging on his waistcoat, paused. "They headed out to breakfast almost an hour ago. Something about training with Dwalin?"
Dís swore. "I delay my own breakfast to bring them, and they've not the kindness to await me. I don't know where I went wrong!"
Bilbo laughed, and said, "Well. I'll accompany you there, if you'll accept the substitution."
"A far better substitution than expected," Dís said dryly, and Bilbo laughed once more, full-bodied.
They'd almost left the corridor when they heard a muffled thump from behind them. Dís and Bilbo exchanged looks, and they turned as one to the right: towards the royal family's rooms.
"What-" Bilbo began, only to cut off at Dís unsheathing her sword.
It'd been a soft sound, but assassins were not unheard of, and Dís would much rather face the cowards who dared to enter the royal family's quarters like thieves in the night by herself- hadn't her kin faced enough already?
Plus, she was irritated, and would dearly like to sharpen her blade on some deserving person's throat.
Her quarters were empty, and Thorin's, next to hers, were as well, which meant the thieves were in her sons' rooms, and she felt cold rage flicker through her veins and her hand tighten on her sword, almost to the point of pain.
She threw the door open, revealing no weapon-bearing dwarf.
Only Sifa, who had gone pale at the sight of her and paler at the sight of the sword.
Sifa, who was in her sons' rooms.
"What are you doing here?" Dís forced out through clenched teeth, stepping in. She saw the scroll in Sifa's hands, and she asked, flat and sharp, once more, when Sifa did not answer: "Why are you in my sons' rooms?"
Sifa's eyes darted to Bilbo, behind her, and then to Dís' face. "I wished to speak to them," she said calmly, and that irritated Dís more than almost anything else.
"Why?" Dís asked coldly.
"Are you their keeper?" Sifa retorted. "I've committed no crimes, Princess Dís. They've no complaint to my presence here."
"So they know you're here," Dís said, and Sifa looked startled. "My sons consort with elves and disgraced dames. At least Kíli tells me when he does such things. My other son hides it!"
"I will not defend them," said Sifa, still with that damnable politeness. "They are your sons, and make their own choices. And, as I've told you: they are heroes, and are full-grown. They will do as they wish." She sketched a courtly bow brittly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going."
She was at the door when Dís grabbed her arm tightly.
"Let go of me," she said lowly, eyes bright and suddenly furious.
"Do not come near my sons," Dís said, just as quietly. "Or shall I tell them what you are?"
"Who," said Sifa, yanking her arm away, and stumbling slightly. Her chin was firmed, however, and her bearing remained dignified. "I am a dwarf, no matter what else. And until your brother banishes me, Princess, I remain such."
"Just barely," she reminded. Then, unable to help herself, Dís said, "Kinslayer."
Sifa recoiled, and she looked as struck by that as she'd done decades previous, shaken and broken by it.
But then she recovered, and her face turned cold: a mask, perhaps, but a good one.
"I am-" Sifa's voice cracked, and she turned her face away, and then looked back at her. Tears stood out in her eyes, but her voice was as sharp as broken blades. "-no kinslayer. I've never raised steel to my blood, and you've no proof. I am a dwarf of Erebor, and I'm a noble one at that. Say what you will, Princess Dís. Tell your sons, and tell your king, and tell the people, if that is your wish. I did what was necessary, and- and I would do it again."
She scrubbed a hand across her eyes and sent her a fierce look, once more, before turning and walking swiftly down the hall.
Dís watched her go with a tired heart, and she sighed; at it, Bilbo entered her field of view.
"Kinslayer?" He asked carefully.
"It is not a tale meant for ears such as yours," Dís said abruptly, and strode away before the flare of regret at her sharp words could make her go back and apologize to him.
…
Fíli had not seen Sifa all day, and that worried him: she had said she'd bring a copy of the treaty she and Tauriel had almost finished drafted, and Sifa hadn't, despite a propensity for punctuality that he'd never seen falter.
And then there was the awkward way Bilbo moved, like he was aborting little gestures towards either himself or Kíli; and the stiff, locked posture of his mother, which spoke of a cold, deep anger he hadn't seen since they'd had to beard the treasurer who'd been skimming off the top of gold that was already scarce enough in Ered Luin.
But Fíli was busy, and he was unable to truly do as he wished; the meetings for the Meeting of the Three Kings were getting longer and more important, for they had just less than a fortnight to get Erebor ready for such an endeavor. It took him that evening, to finally corner Bilbo and get an explanation.
She- your mother and Sifa- said a lot of things, Bilbo told him, hands fluttering nervously around his sides. But Dís wanted her to stay away from you. And she wouldn't really explain why. It was all very confusing.
Fíli went hunting for Sifa.
She wasn't in any of her usual haunts. Not the library, or her rooms, or Tauriel's, or his own; not the taverns or even mines.
Fíli swore under his breath, and continued to search.
When he did find her it was a stroke of sheer luck: he chose a shortcut to the royal halls and therefore cut through the stone-gardens of an old queen, in which Sifa was hiding.
The gardens were ruined by Smaug and hadn't ever been restored as the rest of the Mountain- likely, nobody cared about decorative stone. Giant stone helmets of statues littered the ground, moss growing over them, lending the entire room an earthy dampness.
The curves of the stone helmets was likely what allowed the sound to carry to him, and Fíli recognized the stifled hiss easily.
He picked his way through the stone carefully, checking the shadowed crevices until he found Sifa, curled into herself and pale in the hollow of a helmet.
Fíli didn't say anything, but rather reached for her, pressing fingers to the chilled flesh.
Too long to tell after that, she uncurled, and reached for him as well, blunt nails digging into the inside of his arm.
"What did my mother say to you?" He asked quietly.
Sifa inhaled sharply, and though she stiffened she also shifted closer to him.
"Nothing I did not expect," she murmured. "It was a long time coming, and- unsurprising. But I hadn't expected her to be so blunt, I think; and I've not heard such accusations in a long time."
"What accusations?"
For a long moment, he thought she might answer, but Sifa only shook her head and said, dully, "Not right now."
Fíli sighed. Time for a new tack, then. "Bilbo told me she told you to stay away from me."
"Yes," Sifa said.
"That you both said a lot of things."
"Yes."
"Don't stay away from me," he told her, and some long-hidden inheritance from his mother's blood emerged, making it an order. "I couldn't bear it if you- weren't there."
"Don't," Sifa said, sharply, twisting so she could meet his gaze. "Don't you dare say that, Fíli. You've walked for eight decades and more without me, and you'll do it for longer if needed. The paths we've chosen are lonely. I'll not bargain your soul in my desires, and you better not bargain mine in yours."
Fíli sighed, once more, and gathered his arms around her. "I wouldn't," he promised her, lacing their fingers together. "But." And, suddenly, his tongue felt heavy with the weight of long-held-back words rising up. "I would like to walk beside you, for as long a time as you'd permit."
"That has to be the most back-asswards proposal I've ever heard of," Sifa told him, staring. She looked more relaxed then than she had in the entire conversation. "You've outdone elves in subtlety, let me tell you-"
Fíli shoved her.
"-truly, impressive." Sifa's bark of laughter stopped almost before it began, and she looked at him with a sobriety that made him want to stiffen. "Marriage, hm?" Eyes darted to their laced fingers, and then met his. "I don't want a big fuss of it all."
"A private ceremony?" Fíli asked dryly. He could not hide his smile at her affirmation.
"Yes," she said, and fell silent, tracing the earth pensively. Fíli let her think in peace, and enjoyed the warmth that came from being so close to her, after all this time. After a pause, she spoke: "I would not be averse to doing so tonight."
Fíli choked. "Tonight?"
Sifa turned to him, and her dark skin shone like a golden river-stone, eyes glittering with an anger that he'd never before seen on her face.
"Tonight," she said. "For I know my answer will remain, whether it be now, or tomorrow, or a hundred years hence: to stand beside you in any way possible." The savage emotion playing across her face shifted into one of deliberate calm. "And as I told you, I've secrets that must come out. I suppose this is as good a time as any for some of them."
"Sifa," Fíli managed to say.
Sifa arched an eyebrow. "If you don't want to, all you have to do is say the word."
Fíli looked out over the shadowed garden, and he remembered the fear he'd felt, thinking he'd lose Sifa- he remembered steady warmth and quiet words, and he thought, I want this.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
She laid her head back, onto his shoulder, and said, "I love you," so softly he almost did not hear it; and then, she said, louder, "I've a story to tell."
"An important one?" He asked.
"I'm not one to say such things if they are unimportant," she said pertly. Fíli snorted with laughter, and Sifa reached out, brushing his hand. "It is terribly important."
"Very well." He shifted, settling so his spine curved against the stone helmet comfortably. "Go on, then."
Sifa slid out of his arms and knelt before him, back straight and hands on her thighs, in the traditional pose of a taleteller.
"In the First Age," she began, voice turning deeper, richer; melodious as a bass violin, "the Seven Fathers awoke. Six of them together, in the Blue and Red Mountains, and the eldest alone: at Gundabad.
"The three pairs built great halls in the mountains they woke in. But Durin wandered from Gundabad for many years, and when he arrived at last in Khazad-dûm he spent even longer carving the halls as he wished." Sifa's hands sketched through the air like little birds. "He asked for help from his kin, but two pairs were too far to send troops, and the other pair, in the Blue Mountains, was locked in strife against elves. And so, Durin carved the halls of Khazad-dûm alone, and held to his rage."
She paused.
"That's it?" Fíli asked, disappointed.
"Durin's heir went to Erebor to rule, for Khazad-dûm was peaceful and had plenty," Sifa said, ignoring him. "And even as Durin died, his heir ruled over both mountains from Erebor. 'Twas during the heir's lifetime that the War of Wrath happened: 'twas during the heir's lifetime that Nogrod and Belegost were sundered, and destroyed.
"The heir of Durin remembered the callousness of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and he did not send them aid, even as they begged. Yet those Firebeards and Broadbeams who could escape those halls did, and they were scattered; kingless. They headed to the halls of Khazad-dûm, and some who abhorred the Longbeards for their uncaring nature turned east, and headed to the Red Mountains. None know if they made it, or perished in the attempt."
Sifa was a gifted storyteller.
"Many came to the halls of the Longbeards, and swore allegiance here. Among them- the last of them- was a single Firebeard, her name lost to history, all that remains the title she was given: Harasul-zagr."
"Flamesword," said Fíli.
Sifa inclined her head. "She saw the gold of Erebor, and the riches that it yet held, and she felt a rage as unending as the fires of Mount Doom itself. Her people had begged for help, and for the pride of the heir of Durin it was not answered. And so, as she stood before a kingdom swollen with refugees, she did not yield her sword, or bend knee to the king of the Longbeards."
Hands danced through the air, and Fíli could see the dark gold of Erebor's walls, the young warrior-woman grieving a lost land and incandescent with fury, the gold-encrusted king who turned his back on a people beggared.
"She was the last of the Firebeards, and she held that title with pride," Sifa continued, voice rolling like a terrible boulder, majestic and unstoppable. But then, she went still: hands dropping to her sides limply, eyes tightening. "When Durin's heir founded Erebor, he called it the Proud Mountain." And here, he saw her hands flicker again, the thread taken up once more. "Flamesword, last of the Firebeards, renamed it on that terrible day. She called it the Lonely Mountain, alone in pride and honor, and alone in kin."
"What did she do?" Fíli croaked, though he knew Sifa would answer only as the tale unravelled.
"She saw the dried blood on her sword, and the gold on Durin's chest, and the fear of her companions' beside her, and she said, 'Curse you, and all your sons. The blood of the Broadbeams, the blood of the Firebeards: it is on your hands, and on your soul. For gold you have held your silence. For gold you have turned your faces. For gold you have allowed your kinsmen to die! If you wish it so much, keep your gold. But know this: the gold you so covet, heir of Durin, shines with the blood of my kin.' And so, Flamesword cursed the line of Durin with gold-madness."
Fíli felt his heart pound, and his vision sharpen, and his hands ache for a sword. But there was nothing for it: before him was only Sifa, and a tale he did not even know to be true.
(Nothing, save for a thing in his chest that tightened, and a feeling as if a nameless fear had been shoved into light.)
"Flamesword then left the halls of Erebor, and wandered the world. Inside the Lonely Mountain, however, the heir of Durin went mad. He saw only gold, wished for only gold; his wife and sons wept beside him and begged him to return to them, but there was no answer. Finally, the heir's son rode out, determined to bring some measure of peace to his father's halls. He found Flamesword, and begged from her a boon.
"And she, older and wiser, offered what she could: a ceremony of the soul, to serve as shield against the weight of the deaths." Sifa's eyes sharpened. "An innocent soul, matched to the King. A ceremony called Ishmerafrân'amrâb."
The old khuzdul name for marriage vows was ishmerafrân'mudtul: ceremony of the heart. This, what Sifa said, was ceremony of the soul.
"To save the line of Durin," said Fíli. "But Gandalf fixed it. He did something. He-"
"Sixty years ago," Sifa said softly, "Iron Hill dwarves entered Erebor and were slaughtered where they stood. It was the last time Smaug was seen, and there are records of a darkness that sank into the air as far as the southern reaches of Mirkwood. A curse, one could say, across the gold of Erebor. But you know as well as I that curses- the longer they stay, the more potent they are. Sixty years and it took a wizard to cleanse it."
"If what you speak is true," he said, "then this is more than six thousand years old."
"Just so."
Fíli sighed, and watched Sifa curl away, relaxing out of the stiff posture of tale-telling.
"Why haven't I heard of it, then?" He asked.
"Because your great-grandfather was a fool and more," she said testily.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." A grim smile played across her lips. "Thrór was a good king, perhaps, but one far too inclined to lead with his heart, and not his mind. After Thrór's father died- King Dain I- Thrór tried to commit an ishmerafrân'amrâb with the dwarf he loved. She was struck down by Mahal for some crime or another. And in a deep despair, Thrór struck down the very ceremony that might have saved his mind." She shrugged. "The ishmerafrân'mudtul was not enough to save his mind. And he did not stop there: he erased every last notation of ishmerafrân'amrâb he could get his hands on. I only found this out through luck."
"Another one of your secrets?" Fíli asked.
Sifa smiled, and said, "Yes." Then, she shuffled forward, eyes bright. "I propose this, tonight: we shall bind ourselves before Mahal, in the ishmerafrân'amrâb."
"It is not safe," Fíli said.
"When you left, to reclaim Erebor," retorted Sifa, "was it safe?"
"You can't hold that over my head forever," Fíli warned, but she only arched an eyebrow, and he surrendered. "It isn't me who's in danger. Mahal didn't strike down my great-grandfather, he struck down his lover. And you won't gain anything by it. So-"
"It is for Flamesword that we have a Queen," said Sifa, sharply. "For her curse. Because if our kings love another, or love someone unsuited, they can keep their heart and keep their mind as well. But I've taken a vow from you, redêl: that you will never love another. And the price of that vow shall not be your mind, that much I swear to you."
And after that, there was nothing more to be said. Sifa's mind was made up, and Fíli's was as well. They lingered, however, for a long moment: Fíli carding through her hair, relishing a silence that was unweighted with things unsaid.
...
"This is necessary."
"For the blood of kinsmen, aye. You're sure they won't know who it is?"
"They kicked out Gunnig quietly. They don't want this blasted about, I'll tell you that much. Now. Keep your eyes out, when ke comes you just sprinkle it on…"
…
Sifa led Fíli to her rooms and bade him to sit, as she gathered everything necessary for the ceremony.
Somehow, it didn't surprise him that she knew how to conduct it.
And indeed, in a matter of an hour it was over: Sifa turned to him, and led him to a curtained-off area that bore a brazier with a small, cheerful flame curling out of it, and a low pillar to the side that supported a silver platter.
A window, high and narrow, allowed a thin sliver of moonlight to fall down on them.
"What do you want me to do?" He asked.
"Come," she said, and stood before the brazier. Fíli stood across from her, opposite the brazier, and mirrored what she did; as Sifa reached out and crossed her wrists, just over the flame, he did the same.
"I, Sifa, daughter of Glifa, ask for a bond," she intoned, eyes meeting his steadily, "with Fíli, son of Vili. There is blood hewn between us, and sacrifice, and tears." A slow, steady inhale. Fíli could feel her racing pulse through her wrist. "By Mahal's mercy and Kaminzabdûna's grace, by Usahu's compassion, and Mamahdûn's blessing, we shall hold true to the bonds of kinship."
And here, Fíli spoke the words she'd coached him on.
"Aye," he said. "Through fire and hell, distance and exhaustion; we bind ourselves first to the vows we swear here."
Sifa said, voice like the smooth flow of lava, so hot it flowed as liquid, "By fire and stone, through death and beyond, I pledge myself to Fíli, Son of Vili. May the grip of our souls never waver."
Starlight, shining down on them, brightened. The flames rose, a little, and when Fíli looked around them the walls glittered with a thin sheen of ice.
"By fire and stone, through death and beyond, I pledge myself," he echoed, "to Sifa, Daughter of Glifa. May the grips of our souls never waver."
Then she let go of his hands, and took the bracelets he had seen on the platter next to them, and slowly reached out. Fíli held out his wrist, and she flipped open the clasp, slid it on.
It was a little thicker than the ones usually favored by dwarves- less ornamentation, more smooth metal. Though how Sifa thought they could fool anyone with these as thandmesem-mudtul was beyond him. Those bracelets had no beginning and no end, forged by the hands of the bride and groom, labored over for weeks on end.
These couldn't compare.
But, as he watched, Sifa simply reached out and pressed his hand closer to flame. And when she reached out and pinched the clasp between her fingers, it sculpted as if made of clay.
Fíli stared at it in shock.
The brazier was nowhere near hot enough to melt the metal. Even if it was, there ought to be some burns along the rest of his wrist, where the metal was actually touching skin.
There wasn't.
"Mahal's blessing," she said, almost soundlessly.
"Ah," said Fíli, a little weakly. Then he reached forward and took the other bracelet, sliding it on her wrist. Held it close to flame, and pressed the metal clasp together; it was just a little warmer than her skin. It bent like a sort of thick syrup.
With the clasp gone, Fíli took a moment to make the seam of joining a little decorative, and so did Sifa. When he finished, she smiled at him, and took a dagger from the platter, and pressed it into his hand, the one bearing the metal bracelet.
She waited until he had a grip on it, and gently drew it up so it rested on her neck, in the place between pulses. Fíli almost choked, but then felt the chill of steel against his own neck, and froze. Sifa looked stiffer, he thought; not afraid, but unsure.
"When dwarves bind to their khi," she said softly, "it is a ceremony of their heart, their blood, their life. It is a celebration of joining." She swallowed. "This ceremony is a binding of the soul, and steel, and blood. It is a celebration of equality. But also: through death and beyond. There is no end, not after this. For the rest of our lives, we hold a knife to each other's throats." Her eyes were very level. "The tenets of Ishmerafrân'mudtul are love and family and respect. The tenets of Ishmerafrân'amrâb are honor and mercy and trust, and that is why-" she inhaled slowly. "-we hold a knife. Those are dangerous concepts."
Fíli did not move an inch, and said, "Will you kill me?"
"If you bring dishonor on me, on those I term family- I will have no choice." Sifa's hand trembled just a little, and firmed. "If I do it to you, you must end me. It is- the duty of stone. The steadiness. And the honor of flame."
He nodded slowly, and waited; the chilled dagger was gaining the temperature of his flesh, now.
"This is one last chance," she said abruptly, eyes dark and wide and gleaming like silver coins, like stars in a moonless night, "to leave. Slit my throat and go, if that is your wish." And then, in a whisper, "Do not stop your hand for pity, or mercy."
Fíli felt something strange rising up in the room, a faint pressure. Lightning, he thought- the faint scream before the very sky split apart in Usahu's rage. The brazier no longer held a small fire. It burned, white-hot and blazing. The ice edging the walls had thickened, and the starlight was bright enough to rival the sun at noon.
"For love, then?" Fíli challenged, voice steady as a mountain.
Sifa's face softened. "Yes," she said, "that is- a good answer."
Fíli arched an eyebrow, and a faint smile stole across her face. She let her arm drop. Fíli let his fall as well, though he made a point to rub a finger across her cheekbone: Sifa's mouth pursed at that with some emotion similar to resigned irritation.
"We consign these daggers to Mahal's mercy," she said, and stepped forwards, dropping her dagger in the brazier. It shot up three feet, and held its height as Fíli dropped his; as he watched, the fire twisted, and Sifa simply stood there, feeling the heat lash across her face. He did not know what they were waiting for, but-
-the fire winked out.
Sifa beckoned him closer to the brazier, and when he did, Fíli saw that the daggers they' dropped inside- a pale silvered metal- had changed.
He reached out and prodded it, and when it didn't burn his fingers he picked it up. It was heavier, now, with a run in the middle of a deep gold that twisted the balance. Along the hilt were carved runes in a language he could not read.
"What is this?"
"Symbols of our bond," Sifa said. "As bracelets are to those of the Ishmerafrân'mudtul, these are to Ishmerafrân'amrâb. As I said- this is no soft thing."
"Danger," murmured Fíli.
Sifa nodded. Then, deliberately, she knelt.
"The Valar have witnessed the binding ceremony as pleaded," she announced. Her hands lifted, sketching something in the air that Fíli couldn't identify but recognized as Iglishmêk. "As pledged, the troth is fulfilled. I beg of them to hold true to such bindings until the rightful moment of death."
For a moment, nothing happened.
But then ice suddenly melted away, and starlight faded, and the very earth under their feet relaxed. Fíli felt a tight knot in his chest relax.
When he looked, however, Sifa trembled in front of the brazier, and wasn't moving- her hands were flat against the ground, and she looked as if a breeze could topple her.
Fíli knelt beside her and said, "Sifa?"
Sifa wrapped herself around him as if seeking the warmth, and stroked a hand over his back. "I am- what did we do?" She asked, and Fíli laughed, because he didn't know either: only that they'd walked into fire and come out unscathed, and he knew enough of such things to be grateful for it.
"I don't know," he mumbled into her hair. "I don't know, Sifa, I think we were stupider than Kíli at midsummer festivals. I-"
"Before Mahal himself," she gasped through her laughter. "Oh, Vala have mercy, we called them before us to pledge ourselves!"
"I know," he said, and wondered if he'd ever want to leave her arms. "I know, khebbêl, I know."
Sifa sighed. "Come, then. We've much to do tomorrow, and it's later than I'd hope." She led him to her bed, and he tilted a look at her, which she steadily ignored.
"I don't sleep well with others beside me," she told him blandly, and he arched an eyebrow. "Apparently," she said, just as inflectionless, "I've a tendency to kick."
"I'll sleep as far from you as possible then," he said, and she gentled her look.
"I told you I would not offer you anything more than children in bed," she said, half-gentle and half-sharp. "And, if necessary, the safety of my arms. Now: sleep, Fíli. Tomorrow will be a long day indeed, and we'll need our rest."
Fíli smiled.
Under the covers, after the candles had been blown out, Sifa shifted slightly, and said, "Khebbêl?"
"You set fire to metal," Fíli said, dryly. "I think you deserve the name."
Her laughter was loud, and rambunctious, and had they any neighbors he might have worried about them. As it was, he only wrapped an arm around her waist and grinned into the curve of her neck, and fell asleep.
…
Fíli awoke, feeling the faint warmth of another in the bed before he'd truly reached consciousness. He shifted sleepily, and felt the chill of metal dig into his wrist. He awoke, sharply.
Sifa had not lied- she did not sleep easy. Even now, she was curled half-away from him, tucked in on herself like an unstrung bow. In sleep, everything about her was softened- the sharp twists of her hair were crimping, and her usually-severe expression was relaxed. Her mouth was open, just a little.
"Sifa," he murmured.
She stirred, and blinked; he could see the exact moment when she remembered the previous night. "Morning," she said, and he saw her eyes widen further when she realized the time.
"We're late," she bit out to him, and swung away.
Fíli sighed. So much for a lie-in the night after their wedding.
It wasn't as if the sun had even risen yet.
But by the time it did, they needed to be in the throne room, and they needed to be ready to prove that what they'd chosen wasn't just a child's desire. And they needed a set of lies ready if anyone asked them questions about the Ishmerafrân'mudtul they'd apparently gone through with.
He wrinkled his nose and got to work.
By the opening of the court, they both were ready. Sifa looked, at least, mostly normal; she wore a gown of light grey, dark hair braided back with pearls of the same shade, and an overcoat of ermine. She looked cold, and regal, and as immovable as the mountains themselves.
Fíli wore Durin blue, and thought that when they stood together they looked like a storm waiting to happen.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," said Fíli, and lifted his chin.
…
They walked into the throne room, side by side.
It was a good thing they'd come this early: there weren't many people. Thorin sat on his throne, and Bilbo beside him- it'd taken some finagling before Bilbo, despite not being Consort yet, had been allowed to sit so close to the King.
Fíli could see Bilbo's surprise, and his Uncle's as well.
It was rare, after all, for any of their family to approach in such a formal manner over something still undiscussed in private.
He managed a blank face until they were ten feet from the throne, though he couldn't help the flash of relief when he knelt and could hide his face. Sifa had stopped five feet behind, perfectly positioned as proper nobility.
"My King," he began, head bowed, words scraping along his throat, "I come here to beg your forgiveness."
"Grovel if necessary," Sifa had told him as they walked. "But do not, ever lie. And let me do most of the talking. After you've said your piece, of course."
"For what?" Thorin asked.
Fíli raised his head. "In the recklessness of youth, I have committed myself to a venture you might not agree with." He swallowed. "But I assure you, it has been the deepest of my wishes, and one of my only regrets, since before leaving Ered Luin. I-" He broke off, and reminded himself that he had been blessed by the Maker himself.
"Uncle- King- the night before- I and Sifa, Daughter of Glifa, were bound before Mahal."
A long, frozen silence. The courtiers who were there were staring at him, and Uncle was slowly growing purple. He glanced behind him to see Sifa's lips twitch.
Before Thorin could burst, however, Bilbo laid a hand on his arm and murmured something. Thorin's rage dissipated, a little, and he nodded; after a moment, Bilbo leaned back.
"Uncle-"
"I would speak to your wife, Fíli," Thorin boomed, and Fíli shut his mouth with a snap.
He turned a little to look at her, but she was already moving.
Steady, gracefully. Her face was very pale, but he did not think anyone would recognize the fear simmering under everything else. The cold, proud mask on her face had so few cracks.
And she did not kneel, when she came level to his side. She reached up, and undid the button of her overcoat, and let it drop; in the early-morning light of the throne room, her right wrist shone with the cool metal. Then, she dropped to her knees.
"Your Majesty," she said into the silence.
Thorin arched an eyebrow. "So you are the one my nephew has pledged himself to."
"We are pledged to each other," she murmured. Her chin rose the tiniest fraction, and he could see the stubborn look in her eye: she would do something stupidly noble, Fíli realized with a distant sort of horror, and there was no way he could stop her now. "Your Majesty- Fíli was being, perhaps, kind when he introduced me. For while I am the daughter of Glifa, and Heir to her line, you might know me by another's deeds."
Oh, no. No, no, no. Fíli wanted to run from this wreckage, as long and hard as he could. Sifa would not stop, and neither would Thorin, and this was going to be very, very ugly.
"I am Sifa," she said softly, "only daughter of Korl."
Fíli saw the exact moment when Thorin realized who she was. The split-second moment of betrayal, and disgust, and then horror- Kíli might love an elf, but at least he did not love a daughter of a banished, branded, honorless thief.
Sifa bore her king's mistrust and revulsion without turning a hair.
"Give me one reason not to throw you out of these halls right now," he snarled at her.
Sifa's hand, bearing the metal that was their marriage vows, clenched. "You will throw your heir out, as well," she said coolly. And lest Thorin make anymore threats: "Or drive him mad."
"What is to say you haven't done that already?"
"Do you think I have that power, Majesty?" Sifa sounded amused. Or, not exactly- but not grave, either. Walking a fine balance.
Thorin glared, as if he knew that. "I know that you are the daughter of thieves and betrayers."
She sobered fast. "Yes," she murmured. "Indeed. What do you remember of that night, Majesty? That night, when you found out what my father did. Or was yet to do, I suppose."
"I remember darkness and rage," Thorin said levelly. "I remember the pain of betrayal, and casting out a man who was not worth the dirt on my feet." His gaze shifted. "Which is why, when his daughter pledges herself to my Heir-"
"Have you never wondered how you found out?" She asked quietly.
Fíli froze. He looked at her, and then at Thorin, who was staring intently at her, and then back at Sifa, who was gazing steadily back.
"I have," he said. "But there was never any proof of anyone's presence in my rooms. The news- just appeared."
"It is interesting," mused Sifa, "how easily a female-stripling can go where she wishes, and nobody ever remembers her."
No, thought Fíli. No, you didn't. He was your father!
"Are you saying-" began Thorin.
Sifa's face went cold, and still. "Yes. He was my father, and I loved him, and I knew that he stole." She breathed in, once, deliberately. "But he always took gold, and rarely steel; it was a game, for him to take what ought to be missed but not mourned. Until he saw the Pearls of Kartul and desired them from the depths of his soul, and would not be swayed from it." Her sharp, lovely eyes swept over him, met Bilbo's, dipped away. "He was not himself at the end of that. And so, when he attempted to take what he wished from Ered Luin's treasury, I told him to stop. And when he did not, I went to one who would."
Thorin was surprised- Fíli could read it in his face, though he thought Sifa could not.
"You turned aside your own father?" He asked, dangerously mild.
Sifa spread her hands. "The dwarf you banished," she said steadily, "was not my father."
Oh, thought Fíli, inches away from reaching for her and yanking her out of the room. Sifa-
"His blood flows through your veins," said Thorin. "And if you were the one who turned him in to me, there are those who would name you Kinslayer for that: for surely he is dead, with none to stand by him."
Sifa looked up at him, and her face was so empty Fíli almost did not recognize her.
"He is dead to me," she said quietly, so quiet that Thorin likely did not hear her. Louder, she said, "For four decades I have kept my silence on this, for it was my own business, and none other's. But it might be time for me to say more, now that it is known what I have done." Sifa inhaled, hands steady on the ground, and when she looked up there was such a proud dignity in her face that Fíli felt chills down his spine.
"Thrice before he left for the Pearls I begged him to stay," she said, eyes glittering. "Thrice, and when he did not heed my warnings I went to one who would listen. And is there anything more of an anaburhel than a plea, than someone begging?"
"Thrice you warned him?" Thorin asked slowly.
Sifa said, levelly, "Four times. And after he ran from you, and came to our home, I pleaded with him to leave. So: five times, Your Majesty. I warned my father five times and he heeded none of them, and he was caught and you banished him." She swallowed, hard. "I still have my honor. As my father is disgraced, I have been; but I have not accepted his honor as my own, and I never will." She bowed her head. "I hope you shall give Prince Fíli what he wishes for, Majesty. He loves you, and you are well-deserving of that. And this is perhaps the least of what is owed him."
She stood, and pressed a cool hand to his shoulder, and left.
Fíli closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he saw the expression on Thorin's face: sharp, and raw, like the bloody edge of a blade.
"I know something of such desire," he said, lips pursing. He looked over at Bilbo, who couldn't have looked more pitying if he tried. "This was what Dís wished to speak to me of, was it not?"
"Most likely," Fíli agreed wearily. "Though she didn't know of the marriage."
"She knew about the Kinslaying," Bilbo broke in. When they turned to him, he frowned. "She mentioned it, yesterday. Though I don't think she knew that Sifa was- innocent."
"Of course not," Fíli said flatly. "That would make my life too easy."
Thorin sighed. "You didn't talk to me, or to your mother, or to anyone else about this. Marriage is- it is not something you can just decide one morning and go through with." He looked so disappointed- Fíli felt his heart shrivel in his chest. "It is the work of forty year-olds, not someone of your age!"
"It would not have mattered, what you said," Fíli replied, after a long pause. "Our minds were made up. And… Uncle. Our love: it is not one for the ages. I know this. Sifa knows this. We are not battle-wed, as you and Bilbo, or eternal romantics, as Kíli and Tauriel- we are ourselves. We built our love, did you know? For decades. It's not something we decided just because we felt like it last night, it's been building for almost forty years. So maybe we won't have lays written about our courting; maybe our love is not worthy of it. But- but. It is still love."
Thorin waited, and then his face creased in lines that were either of laughter or anger: even Fíli wasn't sure.
"I've heard it told that Kíli is similar to Dís," he said. "But never have I seen her so clearly in either of you."
Fíli waited, still kneeling, and Bilbo said, irritably, "Oh, get up, Fíli, you look ridiculous. And your knees must be aching something fierce for how long you've been there."
"Thank you," Fíli said, getting to his feet and bowing gallantly, "Uncle."
"Don't push it," Bilbo warned, and Fíli laughed; he gestured to the door, and Thorin waved him away.
"Go," he said, and it was a gentler tone than Fíli'd ever heard from him.
…
Kíli sighed. "They're so weird."
Because Fíli and Sifa were. They were as coldly formal as they had been before, flittering about each other's spaces and never providing any sort of physical contact- he'd seen Sifa touch Fíli's wrist, once, and hold his hand another time, and that was all.
Tauriel arched an amused eyebrow. "Says the dwarf who chose an elf."
"They just married," he said disbelievingly. "They're not supposed to be able to keep their hands off each other. And they aren't touching. What the hell's their problem, really?"
"Maybe they're really private," she replied.
They were sitting together in Kíli's room- the one that, until a week ago, had housed both him and his brother. But Fíli had all but moved into Sifa's rooms in the Outer Wing, and so Kíli had the room- ostensibly- to himself.
"Maybe," Kíli said dubiously.
He'd taken a big tray from the kitchens, loaded with all the vegetables he could find. Bombur's face when Kíli'd told him what he wanted had been a cross between disgusted and romantically sappy: he clearly admired Kíli's dedication to wooing Tauriel, even if he felt sorry for the fact that he had to do so in such a manner.
"Why does it matter to you?" Tauriel asked finally, picking through the plate. "I can't imagine you'd enjoy seeing them kiss each other all the time."
"No, but I'd like to know my brother was happy," Kíli shot back and plucked a handful of leaves off the plate.
In the process of putting them in his mouth, he felt a whiff of something that sent him hacking: bittersweet, burning in the back of his throat.
Children in the Blue Mountains were taught a myriad of rhymes, mostly depending on the profession of their parents. Miners had their gem-poetry, cooks their stew-songs, scribes their history-tales.
But all children were taught the healer's rhymes.
And queensfoil was as deadly a poison as kingsfoil was a healer. All children knew it, and knew to avoid it: thin vines spreading across the mountainsides, leaves as round as circles, flowers a pale purple. Eaten raw they led to sore throats and body aches, but once boiled they were- deadly. There was no cure.
Kíli was going lightheaded just from the fumes. Pushing through the dizziness, he forced himself to look at Tauriel-
Adrenaline surged through him.
Because Tauriel had eaten it.
"Are you-" He bit his lip, and the slight pain grounded him. "Are you- okay? Tauriel?"
"I'm fine," she said, looking alarmed. "Are you?"
"Queensfoil," he said sharply, but Tauriel only stared, uncomprehending. "They added queensfoil to the food. It's- it's a poison. We've got to-"
"I'm fine, Kíli," Tauriel said, running a hand over his shoulder soothingly. "Why don't you take a deep breath, and- okay, maybe don't do that-" as Kíli breathed in and promptly broke out in body-racking coughs.
She muscled him away, dragging him to the outer room with less finesse and more brute strength. Kíli choked halfway there, but Tauriel didn't stop; she just kept on it until they were far enough for Kíli to breathe properly.
"Queensfoil's a good seasoning," she said, after he stopped coughing. "Though I suppose it's poisonous to dwarves?"
"When boiled, there's no cure," Kíli rasped.
Tauriel nodded, slowly. "So, this was the second attempt, then. It's a good thing they didn't pay much attention to elvish physiology."
Kíli stared at her for a long minute, a sickening feeling building in the pit of his stomach. His hands clenched, and he knew his eyes had widened: fury, he recognized in his veins, and a fear so deep he felt as if he was breathing queensfoil fumes once more.
"We're leaving," he said.
Tauriel arched an eyebrow. "We've spoken of this before, have we not? I'm not going anywhere."
"We can't stay," Kíli snarled. "They tried to kill you. And almost succeeded in doing that to me. I'm not putting you in danger just because I've got some people here who're murderous idiots and-"
"And," she said, tone slowly getting colder, "I've told you that I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are."
"Then you'll have to drag my dead body from these stones," Tauriel said, eyes hard.
Kíli breathed in sharply, and let the cold air ground him. "Fíli can get you justice. You don't have to actually, physically, be present for that to happen."
"No," Tauriel said, and it was with the same tone Thorin got, the same hard-headed, foolish one-
Infuriated beyond words, fear pulsing in his lungs like a living creature, Kíli shouted, "Did you think your mother wanted this?"
…
Tauriel felt the words like a slap across her face.
Kíli knew what had happened to her mother. He knew, because Tauriel had told him, because she'd trusted him with the oldest secret she held, because she'd gifted that to him.
There was something obscene about using that against her.
And Kíli did not stop.
"Her only daughter, dead under the mountain, just because she's too prideful to do anything else about it- don't you want to see the stars? We can do-"
"My mother has been dead for six centuries," she said glacially. Kíli's face shifted into something approaching regret, but Tauriel was too far gone to stop. "I've stopped living for her approval sometime around reaching hundred. So: the next time you want me to do something for you, dwarf, make sure you talk to me about it and not my dead mother!"
"Dwarf?" Kíli asked. "So the fact that I've given you my family-protection means nothing to you?"
"Not when you use my history against me!"
"I won't let you die!" He shouted.
Tauriel clenched her fists. "That is not your choice," she said lowly. "That has never been your choice, Kíli, and I am sorry that you ever thought it. But there is nothing you can do. This is my wish, my desire, and if I die I will die with head held high because I died for justice."
Kíli went white.
"Do you think I could bear seeing that?" He asked desperately.
"You will have to," Tauriel said implacably.
He surged to his feet, eyes red and raw. There was something so wild in his face- for the first time, Tauriel felt a flicker of fear at the sight of him.
"You know how it feels to see a loved one die for you," he whispered. "You know, Tauriel, you told me: eyes cold as coins. You saw your mother, your father. How can you do this to me?"
Something broke inside of Tauriel's chest. She felt it like a punch, like broken ribs puncturing lungs: it hurt to breathe.
She shoved him away, hard enough that he stumbled.
"I am not the one betraying trust," she said, and it was as close as a warning as she could get.
Kíli did not heed it.
"Your mother would have-"
"She would have wanted me to do what was needed to find justice," Tauriel forced out, at the end of her patience. "She would have wanted me to survive, yes, but not at the price of my honor. And if you don't understand that, Kíli, then there is no reason for us to stand together."
A throat cleared from the door, and both of them turned as one to see Fíli, face shadowed and grim.
"Am I interrupting something?" He asked.
Tauriel paused, looking at Kíli- but he only stared at her with raw eyes.
"Okay," said Fíli stepping into the room. "Alright. I'll say this, then, to you, Tauriel: if you're not going to stand next to Kíli, there's no place in Erebor for you. If you mean what you just said, then go- we won't hold it against you."
No home save the steel in your spine, said a monster, and Tauriel believed him for the first time in centuries.
"Thank you," she said tonelessly, bowing with all the formality she knew from Thranduil. "I will."
And she left.
…
Kíli stood in a room stinking of queensfoil and fear, and he thought, this is the end, and did not know it to be a prophecy or a promise.
…
Tauriel did not know where she went, only that she wished to run as long and as far as she could. She was not sure if she could bear some stranger seeing the tears in her eyes, or the pain she could not fold away: there were many things she could withstand, but this last indignity was impossible to bear.
At last, she emerged into a hollowed room that was damp and dark. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back in Mirkwood, under forest boughs and treading through forest mulch.
Her shoulders trembled.
And then, there came a touch, like a campfire after rain: so faint she thought she could almost imagine it, but solid in a way no imagination could conjure.
Eyes flicking open, she went for a knife-
"Tauriel," said Sifa.
No fear; just an earthed calmness that steadied something inside of Tauriel. She slumped back, against the rock wall.
"Please go away," she managed to say.
Sifa didn't listen to her and stepped closer- her hands swept over Tauriel's shoulders, and then she sat down, far enough that she didn't feel crowded but close enough to ensure that Tauriel knew of her presence.
"Kíli can be an idiot," she said, eyes so intent on Tauriel she could almost feel the heat. "And so can Fíli. Both of them are so single-minded, they forget that what they want is from people. And you can't bully people into doing what you want just because you want it."
"He's a child," Tauriel said hoarsely. "I thought- I thought we could- I don't even know. But I love him. And I tried to tell him I trusted him, and he threw that in my face. As if I don't know manipulation when I see it."
Sifa hummed. "Occasionally, their familial tendency to insert foot in mouth comes up," she said wryly. "I'm not defending them- Mahal knows they've got little enough to stand on- and I don't think you need me to rephrase their arguments. But you should know that whatever the two of them say in the middle of a fight: don't ever take that seriously."
"I- Fíli banished me. I'm not sure if I can-"
"Fíli," Sifa said witheringly, "suffers from the same disease as Kíli. The second he sees his brother in any pain whatsoever he runs to his rescue, damn all the consequences. It isn't your fault, Tauriel. Not that, at least."
"I cannot breathe," Tauriel whispered, and Sifa fell silent. "I- I didn't tell anyone what happened, what I did, for so long, and then I tell Kíli and he just- I can't breathe, Sifa."
Sifa was quiet for a moment longer, and then she reached out and gripped Tauriel's wrist, unerring even in the darkness. Abruptly, she spoke.
"A week before I was to become of age, my father saw the Pearls of Kartul." Tauriel frowned, and Sifa said, "Listen to me. It might not help you, but it will not hurt."
Tauriel still felt the tickles of panic in the back of her throat. She wanted to run, and run hard, but where could she go? She pushed it back and nodded slowly.
"He was no nobleman- his only claim to it was through my mother, who was some cousin to Blacklock royalty. But he desired those pearls as he'd never desired anything, and he wanted them so badly he decided he'd take them."
Tauriel swallowed over a dry throat. "What did he do? As a profession?"
"Nothing," Sifa said, and laughed lightly. "He was a thief, truly: he caught my mother's eye when she was visiting, and they eloped a few days later. Much like I did with Fíli, in fact." After a pause, she continued, "I begged him not to take the pearls. There are many things that can be forgiven under our laws, but taking such a thing- there would be no mercy."
"Were they of such importance?"
"Not for money were they important," she said. "But they were amongst the only things saved from Smaug, when he came, and so were a promise to the people of Ered Luin. Had anyone taken it, it would be construed as taking the people's hope. That is a grave crime, indeed."
Tauriel felt the sweep of Sifa's thumb over her wrist- it grounded her, in the present. Elves never touched so freely, treating every brush of skin as if it was a great gift; but perhaps that was because they had the time, to do such a thing. Dwarves had no such guarantees.
"Anyhow," Sifa went on, carefree in such a manner that spoke of deliberate fury. "I begged him not to, when he told me what he desired, and he did not listen to me. I begged, and threatened, and did all I could- but then, I was barely forty, and that I did all that is surprising enough. My father did not listen- of course not, he'd not be a Longbeard if he wasn't stubborn- and so I sent a letter to Thorin, telling him what would happen." She snorted, faintly. "Believe it or not, I actually just forgot to sign the damn letter. It wasn't that I wanted to hide- it slipped my mind. And by the time the whole ruckus was going on and I found out what happened, it was a bit too late to just tell everyone what I'd done."
"I know something of that," Tauriel murmured.
Sifa's teeth glittered in the dim light, but when she spoke her voice was grim. "Thorin banished my father, and my mother- my mother just fell apart. She scarcely ate; her hair fell out; there was nothing I could do for her. So about a month after my father was banished, I sent a raven to her family among the Blacklocks, and she left, and I never heard from her again."
"That must have been painful."
"It was," Sifa said.
Tauriel tried to picture that: a proud young dwarf, sharp-edged and helpless under her father's greed, deciding that it was more important to do her duty than to avert her eyes. A young dame, seeing her father's banishment and then losing her mother, as well, and surviving that only to face a mountain's scorn.
There was a grief to that, she thought. A tragedy, like her own.
It spurred her tongue.
"When I was twelve," Tauriel began, soft as summer dawn, "my parents set out to travel, and took me with them. They were the kind of people who were never happy in a single place. We call such elves lasbelingwaew: autumn wind."
"Wanderers," Sifa murmured.
Tauriel inclined her head. "Just so. My father was a warrior in the Mirkwood army, but he was a dancer, before he ever held a sword: his brother always said he danced like a Lothlórien wind."
"His brother?" Sifa asked.
"He was only a few years older than me," Tauriel told her. "Not old enough to take me in, when my parents died, but he remembers them better."
"And your mother?"
"Tirnel," said Tauriel. "She taught me to star-walk. Her hair was the shade of a fox's tail, and her eyes were like fallen stars. I…" She paused, and felt the old grief rise up inside her chest. "I've my father written across my skin- my eyes are from him, and so is my temper- but my mother: there is nobody in all the world who will ever remember her."
"They will remember her name," Sifa pointed out, gently. "Tirnel, of Mirkwood, mother of the only elf to ever live under the Lonely Mountain."
Tauriel laughed, at that, and wondered, wildly, if her mother would have smiled to see her daughter's antics, or if she'd turn her face away in shame.
"We were on a trip to Thranduil's castle," Tauriel said, taking up the thread of the narrative once more. "We'd heard of the spiders, but my mother wished to be inside the city by the star showers in summer, so we left. And on the way, we were attacked."
She'd never told anyone these stories save Kíli. They were the rotten core at the heart of her soul, as Tauriel had always known it to be: something hollow inside of her that would never be fulfilled, something broken inside of her that would never be healed.
"My mother told me to stay quiet," she went on, hands twitching and unable to stop the ingrained flinch. "I- didn't."
Sifa did not move, save for the slow sweep of her hand over Tauriel's. Carefully, deliberately calculated to ensure Tauriel wasn't overwhelmed.
"I screamed," Tauriel whispered, and for a moment she was back under wooden branches, seeing a giant spider for the first time in her life, so frightened she hadn't even heard herself. But then the memory flickered away, and all that was left was a cold stone room, damp and dark, comforting in a way she'd never imagined it could be.
"My mother died immediately. My father didn't escape, but Rarachnor- the king of the spiders- didn't want to kill him: instead, he kept my mother's corpse in front of my father, and… he watched my father die of his grief." She did not try to keep back the hatred rising from her belly, from her spine- the hatred that she had lived on for so long. "I swore, then, to kill Rarachnor. And after my father died, I escaped- took a knife from my mother's body- and ran, and I was found by Thranduil, and I- I trained."
Then Tauriel breathed in, deep enough she felt like she could burst. Her heart jackhammered in her chest, and she had to remind herself, a hundred times: you left that behind. Rarachnor is dead. You killed him, with your own two hands.
Your vengeance is done.
"I went back, when I came of age, to the spider's nest. There, I slew him." Tauriel inhaled, exhaled, and knew the self-flagellation was written across her face. But she could not stop, not now that the last of her truths were being told. "After I killed him- I did not know of what to do."
"And then," Sifa said levelly, "you did."
"...yes," she said, and it was so tired; she was so tired of searching and searching and searching for something to fill the hollowness inside of her, for something to take the place of tired, bitter hate.
"So you became the Captain." Sifa's voice was carefully, curiously inflectionless. "And for six centuries you fought back spiders that took your mother from you. For six centuries, you lived for your hatred."
It was true: it was painfully, heartbreakingly honest.
Before Tauriel could answer, Sifa said, "There are many things you can blame yourself for. But screaming, when seeing the giant spiders of Mirkwood? There is nothing to be faulted in that."
"I was a fool," Tauriel replied wearily.
Sifa said, "You were a child."
Tauriel swallowed, hard. "A foolish child, then. But had I not screamed, the spiders would not have known our position. And my mother would not be dead."
"You do not know that," Sifa said. When Tauriel did not answer, she said sharply, "You cannot know that, Tauriel. Your mother might have died anyhow. Or perhaps your father would have, or perhaps you wouldn't have survived, or something even more terrible. Maybe the world would have been a kinder place, but you've done more than your fair share of lightening it: would Mirkwood be as safe as it was had you not been there?" Sifa leaned forward, fully capturing Tauriel's hands in hers. "The answer is no, if you were questioning it."
"Doing something for repentance isn't enough," she said, and yanked her hands away. Gestured at herself. "Do you think this is what a proper elf looks like? I lived for my hatred, Sifa! I killed, and I drowned, and it is only by the grace of the Valar that I have my sanity today! When I saw Kíli, you know what I thought? If he dies I can survive it. If Kíli, Kíli, died, then I could survive the blow."
Elvish memory did not fade.
Tauriel remembered, as if it had just happened, the give of chitin under her sword, the twang of string across her arm, the cold, cold hiss: No home save the steel in your spine. Little-One, did you think you could escape me?
In her mind's eye, she fired twice, and ducked away from Rarachnor as he lunged.
Black blood smeared across her face, and in his last breath, he cursed her.
If you live, it shall be as you wished you had not.
She drew her mother's dagger, and it did not shine at all in the black of the cave of the King of Mirkwood spiders.
If I die, she promised, it will not be by your hand.
And then the memory faded. Tauriel shook, and knew her lips were trembling, and if the wrong move was made she would break Eru help her-
"It is not by the grace of any Vala," Sifa said quietly. "Your sanity, Tauriel: it was no gift. It was fought for, and won, and it was a difficult battle, was it not?"
"In a lifetime after," Tauriel said, quiet and aching and hanging onto the world by a thread, "I have not faced something so difficult as that."
"Then face it," Sifa said. "Face your angers, and your fears, and your joys. You have seen the darkness of the abyss, and you have walked out. You have walked out alone. There is something powerful in that, Tauriel. There is something beautiful in that."
Tauriel shuddered. It was the faintest ripple of muscles under skin, but enough for Sifa to feel.
Her voice softened.
"You thought you could survive Kíli's death, and for someone who was so alone for so long- I do not think you can be faulted for that." Sifa exhaled loudly. "We are, none of us, faultless. Selfishness- that is a fault of us dwarves; but do you think elves are immune? When Fíli left on this quest, he did not tell me until the night before. And when he told me, I was so angry- I told him I would not mourn him. It was self-protection as much as it was a statement said in rage. I tell you this, Tauriel: I do not know you half as much as Kíli, or even Fíli. But I see a being proud as any dwarf, and just as kind, and honorable. Perhaps you are not faultless, but that does not mean you are unworthy of love."
Tauriel did not let the tears fall. Her heart ached, though, and she felt some wound spanning her heart knit together, slowly: not healed, not completely, but a beginning at last.
"I will have to remember that," she told Sifa. "'Perhaps you are not faultless, but that does not mean you are unworthy of love.'" Closed her eyes, and felt the prickles across her nose of unshed tears, and did not let them fall. "When Kíli goes into another strop, I mean. It will at least silence him."
"Tell him you love him," Sifa said dryly, "and you'll have a persistent shadow for the rest of your days in Erebor. The Durins get rather… attached to majestic declarations."
"I've noticed," said Tauriel, and that seemed to break the last of the tension still hanging between them.
She rose to her feet and shook out her legs- they'd fallen asleep, and the pins and tingles were uncomfortable but not unbearable. Sifa clambered up as well, and as they moved into the corridor, Tauriel felt a hand on her elbow.
Sifa looked both earnest and solemn in the half-light.
"If you wish to leave, there is not a single dwarf in Erebor who will stop you," she said. "Remember that, yes? I am glad this was not enough to chase you away, but Mahal knows the princes are a handful. If it ever gets too much, do what you need to do."
"I'm sure the entire mountain will cheer my absence," Tauriel murmured.
Sifa frowned. "There are many who will be glad to see you gone," she acknowledged. "But not the entire mountain, I think." She knocked her shoulder against Tauriel's side. "You've friends, you know."
"I-" did not. Tauriel dredged up a smile, however, and felt the ache in her chest fade a little bit more. "I do not know if I can forgive him his words," she said instead.
"There is nobody asking that of you," Sifa replied.
Tauriel paused, and searched for the words in Westron to make her gratitude known, for certainly Sifa had not been forced to follow her. It had been kindness, nothing more, and it was not the quiet kind of elves but the steady, unbending sort of dwarves.
It still warmed her.
All she could do was encompass her emotion behind the syllables: "Thank you."
Sifa seemed to understand. "Do not stop your hand for pity, or mercy," she said in the rhythmic tone of a quote. "It is what we say in our marriage vows. There is nothing soft inside of us, Tauriel; our Maker hewed us from stone. But that does not mean we cannot love. So: go, if you stay out of pity. But stay, if there is another reason."
Tauriel breathed deep. "I think- I need to see the stars. 'Tis a foolish thing, I know-"
"When I am frightened, I require light," Sifa interrupted. "Fire enough to burn the whole of my rooms down. If stars are to you what fire is to me, there is nothing foolish in it at all. Follow me."
And she spun on her heel and stalked away.
Tauriel let the cold, chill air of Erebor seep into her lungs and held it there for a long moment. She should run, she thought. Run hard, run fast, run until there were leagues between Kíli and herself, leagues between his firemoon-tongue and her own starlit fear.
When have you allowed fear to lead you?
Never, thought Tauriel, and followed Sifa's impatient stride.
…
Sifa scrubbed a hand across her eyes as she slipped into her rooms, only to be met with Fíli's turned back.
She grimaced.
It took some getting used to, having another person in rooms that had once been private. Not truly unpleasant, just- different.
"You're back," she said.
Fíli turned. "Yes," he said, and there was something in his tone that made her back stiffen. "And where were you?"
"Doing damage control," Sifa replied.
"For what?"
"You," she said flatly. "And your brother."
He paused. "You sound… are you angry?"
The disbelieving tone was what truly got her hackles up.
"Let's see, Fíli," she said, shedding her cloak and stepping closer to him. "We decided to go to your rooms to pick up some papers that you claimed were necessary, and instead of actually getting any work done you decided to step between an argument that your brother and his- whatever she is- were going through."
"How is that my fault?" He asked injuredly.
Sifa rolled her eyes. "Fine. Ignoring the fact that your brother can, actually, handle himself- it was a private conversation, it was something you had no right to barge in on, and Kíli was wrong."
"Kíli was wrong?" Fíli said incredulously. "Kíli? I warned Tauriel, Sifa! Before everything: as long as you make Kíli smile, I'll stand by you."
"And for that, she should accept everything he tells her?" Sifa retorted. "Rather make Tauriel a servant for all that they can love each other! If you interfere every time Tauriel refuses Kíli something, you're ensuring they'll never truly choose each other. So step back, and let Kíli make his own mistakes, and be there to catch the pieces if necessary. But no more than that, yes?"
"He is my brother," Fíli said lowly.
Sifa heroically resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall.
"He is his own person," she snapped. "He is an adult. When he chose the bow, did you spend hours coddling him? You let him walk where he wants, Fíli, or there'll be a day when he doesn't let you walk beside him at all."
There was a long silence, and Sifa turned away; sat down and took the time to undo her braids and her outer coat. The repetitive clink of beads against the wood table, and rasp of hair against her skin felt both mind-numbing and calming.
When she finished, she turned to Fíli and arched an eyebrow. "Well?"
He did not smile, but neither did he look so tense as before. "I should step back," he said, and Sifa let her lips quirk upwards. "Kíli's- I did let him be his own, you know, on the quest. But after the Battle, seeing him on those beds, not knowing if he'd survive… I guess I got worse."
"Understandable," Sifa told him, reaching forward and clasping his hands in hers.
"Yes. Well." Fíli's eyes lit with that familiar Durin determination, and Sifa felt her own instinctive surge of fond exasperation at that. "I'll have to apologize to her."
"Not tonight," she said. "I've just managed to get her to go back to her rooms and not run off into the night screaming about the insanity of Erebor's princes. Maybe give her some time to actually fool herself into believing me?"
"What would I do without you?" He asked, grinning, and Sifa shifted over so she was sitting right next to him, side pressed tight against his.
It was warm, and though she was still irritated about waste of an entire evening, she could not regret that particular moment.
...
Thorin arrived in the hall and headed straight to Fíli, who was looking slightly strangled and pale. Bilbo joined him a moment later.
"What's going on?" He asked Fíli, but before an answer could come, Kíli burst into the room.
"They're down there," Kíli said, and slapped a roll of parchment into Fili's hands. When Fili unrolled it and began reading, Kili turned to Thorin and hissed, "What did you do?"
Thorin paused, frowning, and Fili stepped between them, hand tight on his brother's shoulder.
"Kili," he said quietly, and some frenetic tension leaked out of Kili's frame. Fili squared his shoulders and faced Thorin stiffly. "Uncle," he said formally, "did you send this to Sifa?"
Thorin reached out and took the scroll.
Your presence is requested,it read in the impersonal script of a proper scribe. Beneath it was a spiky scrawl, scribbled in: the thirdthikil'abnithmine of the Second Wing.
And under it all was the damning stamp of the King Under the Mountain.
"I didn't send this," Thorin said unsteadily. Looked up, to see the split-second of relief written across both his sister-sons' faces, and felt his heart tighten.
"Thank you," Fili said, bowing his head.
"I will find-" Thorin's hands clenched, tightly, and he fought for control. "I will find who committed this crime, Fili. I promise you."
"I look forward to it," said Fili, eyes so flatly blue
Both of them slipped away, slightly, hands entwining and heads leaning against each other.
Thorin was clearly dismissed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Bilbo stood beside him, hand warm on Thorin's. He reached out and gripped his wrist; just tight enough to feel the pulse underneath it.
"Did you hear?"
"Yes," Bilbo said, looking older than ever before. "I'll speak to the boys- soon."
"I cannot-" Thorin cut himself off, and breathed deeply. "This will break them, Bilbo. If their khidies-"
"Let's not count our chickens before they hatch, alright?" Bilbo asked quietly, pressing his hand over Thorin's.
And then Fili, behind them, suddenly went bone-white. His feet crumpled, and it was only Kili's presence that ensured he did not fall completely. Fili regained control almost immediately, but the fear in his eyes spoke of something deeper than anyone could say.
The fifty or so dwarves in the hall were shooting them all looks, Thorin realized: they were looking for a leader, for someone to step forward into the quagmire of uncertainty and give them something to do.
He straightened, inhaled, on the verge of speech-
- "Cave in!" Came the call, and Thorin surged forward, to the entrance, before he could stop himself.
"Where?" He demanded.
The head-miner looked pale under a tattooed forehead. "Second mine, Majesty," he said. "We're pulling the rest out now. Too dangerous for exploration, and anyone who's out's going to be out."
"How many fatalities?" Dis asked, appearing next to Thorin, hands laden with scrolls- she must have just come from a meeting.
"We've been lucky, Princess," he said. "We were in the first mine, and when it began shaking we got out. But there was a skeleton crew in the second mine- I think we got them all, but the final reports're still coming in."
"Not all," said Bilbo, quietly. Dis shot him a look, and he murmured, "Sifa and Tauriel were there."
"Why?"She barked, loud enough to draw attention.
Thorin caught her hand sharply. "Someone sent a note. With my seal."
Dis went still. "Your seal-" she began, only to be cut off by a number of dwarves trooping through the entrance, coated with dust and dirt.
And, held between them, was Sifa.
Fili launched himself forwards as soon as he saw her, but Sifa didn't look anywhere near as happy as she should have: her shoulders trembled, and her eyes were overlarge, wide with some sort of horror.
She whispered something in his ear, and Fili recoiled.
Then, loud enough that Thorin could hear, she said, "Take Kili to my quarters. Now."
"Yours?" Fili blinked. "But-"
"Closer than yours," she said. "And they're safe enough. Please, Fili. Just- he shouldn't-" she sighed, resting her forehead on his collarbone, and then stepped away. "He shouldn't be here for it. I'll come, I promise, but go. With him, alright?"
Fili paused, and something passed between them, as if an unspoken message.
In a flash, Fili turned away and caught Kili's arm, murmuring low and fast as he guided his brother out the door, half-steering him.
Sifa watched him do so with a slightly haunted edge to her face.
"Lady Sifa," Dis said impatiently, and Thorin wanted to snap at his sister for the first time in decades.
Mahal knew Thorin had no idea what had happened between his sister and his nephew's wife, only that there was a deep, festering anger on Dis' side and- he thought- a deeply wronged anger on Sifa's. But surely, surely,that resentment couldn't stay, not when Sifa still looked on the verge of tears.
It seemed it could.
Sifa knelt, ignoring Dis; her head was hidden for a long moment under a curtain of hair, before she lifted her chin proudly. There was nothing on her face save exhaustion, then: nothing, save a tired bitterness.
"Your Majesty," she said, and the weight across her body lent itself to her voice; the hall fell ominously silent, all the courtiers struggling to hear her. "I- believe you ought to know what happened."
"I would be honored," Thorin said.
Sifa swallowed, hard.
"This morning, we received a missive bearing your seal," she began. "It instructed us to go to the third thikil'abnithmine in the Second Wing. The Lady Tauriel and I were both addressed, and so we both went. But upon arrival the mine was empty. The miners were in the first mine, and there were a few in the second. When we tried to leave, we were attacked." Her hands clawed on the stone floor. "The attackers carried poisoned daggers."
Whispers spread through the hall, though Sifa ignored them with all the skill that she'd ignored Dis.
"Tauriel fought them off, while I attempted to alert the miners of our predicament. Before I could, there was a cave-in in the inner part of the place, and we were cut off. And so we stayed there- the two of us- awaiting the miners' rescue." She inhaled sharply, shallowly. "But Tauriel was injured. She stayed calm enough in the beginning, but it was dark enough that even the best miner could see only blackness. I spoke to her, tried to calm her, but it did not-" she broke off, gritting her teeth.
Bilbo stepped forward and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Do you want to take a break?" He asked kindly, and Thorin half-expected Sifa to nod; but she only straightened further, posture ramrod straight.
"She caused the secondary cave-in," Sifa said softly, voice heavy with tears unshed. "When she did, there was a hole, for a few moments, and I've some stone-sense; I managed to leave."
Bilbo froze, and his hand tightened. "What happened to Tauriel?"
Sifa bowed her head once more, and when she lifted it her eyes were as dry as bone.
"The rocks fell," she whispered, "hard enough to smash a helmeted dwarf's head. For an unarmored elf..."
"Oh," said Bilbo, a little weakly, and Thorin caught his hands tightly, tight enough to bruise.
"Are you saying-" he began.
"Yes," she said quietly, and a tremor marred the perfect line of her shoulders for a brief moment.
"I should tell Kili," Dis began.
Thorin heaved a sigh. It was his duty, his responsibility. The death of the khi'nututredel,even if she hadn't been announced-
"I'll do it," Sifa said. They both looked at her, and she no longer looked anything other than weary, worn down like an old, ragged cloth. "He's in my rooms. I- I was the last to see her. I'll tell him."
There were many times Thorin had said these words. He'd borne the burden of Azanulbizar, and then the Battle; he knew the old, practiced cadence: I'm so sorry for your loss-
But this was Kili. This was Kili,the bright, undaunted flame that Thorin had loved as much as he'd feared its passing. This was Kili, and Thorin could not bring himself to break his heart.
He said, "Dwalin and Gloin will stand guard tonight. Lady Sifa- I am sorry."
Sifa bowed her head once more, and said, "Thank you, Your Majesty," and then she left: limping, slightly, and caked in dust, flanked by two large dwarves who made her seem even smaller than what she was.
It was a sad sight.
Beside him, Dis said, "We cannot declare a mourning-day," and Bilbo went red.
"Why?" He hissed. "Because she is no dwarf? Because she made the mistakeof loving one? Because she-"
"Because she is an elf," Dis said. "And for all that Kili loved her, there is too much hatred. We will find who committed this murder, Master Baggins, make no doubt of that. But do not ask of our people more than we are willing to give."
"She was the best of them," Bilbo said. "The best of the elves: honest, and sharp, and kind.And it is sickening, that you would paint the crimes of her king on an innocent, just because you don't want to look past your hatred. I don't ask more than is necessary, Princess. Only the basic courtesies."
He bowed, looking quietly incensed, and then moved away to talk to Balin.
Thorin sighed. "This isn't the time," he told his sister.
Dis glared at him. "Not the time? When else are you to declare a mourning-day, nadad?I know, better than anyone, the price of this position. But you cannot make every decision you wish with your heart, do you understand?"
"I'm not saying that you shouldn't have said it at all," Thorin replied wearily. "Only that you might have waited an hour. Kili yet does not know. We've a day, to declare it. And while I know you never approved of her, Dis, I wonder this: do you feel nothing, knowing the heartbreak your son faces?"
"I will not mourn her," Dis said fiercely. "I cannot mourn her absence. But I will grieve for my son's broken heart, as you did mine when Vili died. There need not be understanding for sympathy."
"Just be careful. And yes,I won't declare the mourning-day. She wasn't declared the khi'nututredelin formal court, though it's common enough knowledge… it's all shades of grey. But then Kili will never forgive us."
"And when has that ever factored in your decisions?" Dis asked, deliberately cruel.
Thorin looked at her for a long moment, and then he turned away.
This was their love, built between two people too harsh and too sharp for the world around them. He loved Dis, loved her with all his heart and all his mind, and he knew that she'd borne decades of cutting words from him as well. It was knowing when one overstepped, and then not apologizing for it; but regretting it all the same.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said, and Dis' lips twisted as he moved to flank his betrothed- and that, as Bilbo would say, was that.
...
Khuzdul and Sindarin used:
Murdu'shurel: dead-smoke; smoke from cremations
Yusthel: partner of all partners
Mamahdûn: Manwe
Nun'umudtu: twin of my heart
Nadad: brother
Aklum: royalty
Redêl: crown prince
Emel: mother (S)
Bingurthu: without ambition
Khabbûna: forge-lady; colloquial term for asexual woman
Redel: prince
Thikil'abnith: steel-stone (Erebor is famous for a kind of shiny stone that looks like steel. This is also a headcanon of mine.)
Nunur'amrâb: other of my soul
Lalkhûn: fool
Nadadith: little brother
Ishmerafrân'mudtul: ceremony of the heart; common wedding ceremony done by dwarves
Harasul-zagr: Flame-sword
Ishmerafrân'amrâb: ceremony of the soul; wedding ceremony done only by royalty
Thandmesem-mudtul: bracelets of the heart; evidence of Ishmerafrân'mudtul
Amrâb-zagr: soul-sword; evidence of Ishmerafrân'amrâb
Khi: One
Usahu: Ulmo
Khebbêl: forge of all forges
Anaburhel: warnings from the heart
Lasbelingwaew: wanderers; autumn-wind (S)
Sulladad: Eru Ilúvatar
Khi'nututredel: One of the last heir; Kili's One; Tauriel
