Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine!

A/N: This is going to be an exciting chapter! There's a special cameo for you all in here, hope you enjoy it!

All ideas for the mithril magic were inspired heavily by summerald's work in her Erebor, 3022 series. If you haven't read it, you really really should; the writing is fantastic, the characters wonderful, and the lore simply phenomenal. She's given me permission to work off much of her legend, so giant thanks to her for that! And seriously, go read her stories!

Fíli found himself wandering the halls of Erebor yet again that night, rather than sleeping like he ought. He needed his rest and he knew it—he could feel it in his bones—but he was wound so tight and nothing he did could relieve it. He'd tried reading, sparring, exercise…all of it simply exhausted him without allowing him to sleep.

He missed his brother. In Ered Luin, and on the quest (and several times since), he could always go wrap Kee up in his embrace, when things got just too overwhelming, and it would help him sleep. The knowledge that his brother was safe and close and loved him, combined with the sound of a steady heartbeat in his ears, had always soothed away the worst of the stress and helped him sleep.

Now, of course, he had to break himself of that somehow; what with Kee being gone, and then being married.

His lips quirked up in a smile at the mental image of him crawling into Kee's bed with Ryn in it. Kindhearted as she was, he doubted she'd be thrilled about that, plus it would be highly improper. Not to mention awkward, should they be in the middle of something.

No. He needed to find another method of stress relief that did not involve hugging his brother.

So he wandered the halls. It hadn't proven extraordinarily helpful for him yet, as far as sleeping, but he had discovered some fascinating things during his exploration.

Just last night he'd found a room full of rubies. An entire chamber of just rubies. They were of all shapes and sizes, too, fist-sized gems down to tiny delicate ones. The stones had been duly divided between the five massive storage chambers for Erebor's wealth, as dictated by the plan Gandalf and he had developed for staving off the gold sickness; and Fíli would not see them again unless they were to be used as payment, given as a gift, or commissioned for a piece of jewelry or art.

Which was more than fine by him.

Tonight, he was in a completely different side of the mountain—the North Quarter, they called it. Much of this area seemed to have been left relatively alone by Smaug; the walls were still scorched, but there was less rubble and the doors remained. There had also been more bodies here, Fíli remembered being told, though they had been cleared by now and given the proper burial ceremonies deep in the catacombs below his feet.

Sighing, he tried one of the doors at the end of the hallway. It was one marked by the rune for 'locked' that the workers had placed there earlier when they'd gone through, combing the halls and chambers for debris or bodies to clean up. Any locked doors were marked and then a locksmith came through a few days later to address them.

He vaguely wondered why he was bothering.

But when he touched the shiny handle, his fingers tingled and a jolt shot up his arm, causing him to jump nearly out of his skin. He drew his hand back as if burned.

What was that?

Carefully, hesitantly, he reached out again. Perhaps it had just been a static charge….but no, it shocked him again, though the feeling was less painful than before. He looked at the handle under his fingers; round, polished silver gleaming in the…

Wait, no. It wasn't silver. It was too dense, too white to be silver.

Mithril.

He blinked, whispered tales of the mithril rooms of Erebor coming to his mind, tales his Uncle had told him and Kee at bedtimes growing up, entire rooms filled with mithril magic that only the Sons of Durin could access and utilize.

But they were legends.

Slowly, Fíli turned the handle and pushed open the door. He gasped softly when it swung open.

Veins of mithril shot through the walls and floor, natural and jagged and beautiful. There was no furniture in the chamber at all, save a tall rod leaned against the far corner of the chamber. The floor caught his attention when he saw the veins of mithril had converged there, forming a perfect circle with rough Khuzdul runes running along the outside of it.

Those were not carved there, he realized. The tendrils of mithril running through the rock had formed the runes on their own. Or more accurately, they had been sung into the rock thousands of years ago by his ancestors, when they first settled the Lonely Mountain and Durin himself had lived here.

Legend, indeed.

He stepped into the room, gasping when the mithril responded. It vibrated in the air, sang in his bones, drew out goose pimples from his flesh. The room was ready for him, though he had no idea what it did.

"I should get Balin," he found himself whispering to thin air.

The guard left Beorn's the next morning, with fond farewells to both the Bear-Man and his animals, and headed due south. Their course led them to the Old Ford to cross the Anduin, into the Elven Pass that would spit them out of the Misty Mountains practically on Rivendell's doorstep.

Perhaps if they'd known, Kíli thought, what awaited them over the High Pass on their way to Erebor, they may have taken the Elven Pass and avoided Goblin Town altogether.

The journey from Beorn's to Rivendell took seven full days, during which time their small company fell into a bit of a routine. Ryn had gifted Raela with a dagger and spent a few hours each day teaching her to use it. The proper and strict lassie objected at first, but after their first run-in with a small orc pack just the western side of the Anduin, she was more than happy to learn.

Telchar and Farin had relaxed considerably since they left Erebor, realizing that Kíli was a very different kind of noble than they were used to; and his initial assessment they would be excellent companions was bearing more true every day. Gloin grew happier each mile they covered, each league that brought him closer to his wife and son; a sentiment that Bilbo shared heartily, speaking often and fondly of his books and his home at Bag-End.

Ibón was a harder nut to crack, but even he was beginning to relax. That is, until one night, Farin asked Ryn why no hair graced her jawline—the only outward sign that she wasn't full dwarf. Kíli intervened, trying to change the subject, but Ibón sharply asked the same thing.

She placed a hand on his forearm quietly; signaling that it was all right with her if this was discussed.

"I'll have to face it eventually," she murmured quietly to him. Turning to the waiting Ibón, she looked him straight in eye and answered, "There is no hair on my jaw because human women don't have beards, and it's a trait I evidently inherited from my father's blood."

Ibón blinked, but Farin blurted, "Your father was human?"

"That's right."

"And…your mother dwarf?"

She smiled. "Correct again."

Telchar rose slowly. "I'd heard the rumors, but…" he trailed off, obviously unsure what to say. Ryn laughed at his discomfort. "Yes, they are true. It's okay to be surprised."

Ibón looked livid. "What makes you think you….you have any right…?"

"To what, Master Dwarf?" she asked coolly, Kíli tensing beside her. "What makes me think I have any right to…exist? To be here? To be with a Prince of Durin?"

The older dwarf blinked, seeming to realize Kíli was there. He backed down immediately. "No, my Lady, I apologize."

Everyone sat uncomfortably for a moment, until Farin broke the silence. "Well, I think it hardly matters. You've long since proven your own courage and worth, so what does it matter who your father was?"

Ryn smiled, and Kíli spoke up at last. "That's what I always thought."

Everyone chuckled but Ibón.

"Indeed," he muttered darkly.

"Mama!" Anora called as she pranced into the family chambers. "Mama, Sêla and I were just with Lady Dis, and she says…"

She stopped at the sight of a visitor sitting in the common room—a pest, more like. She tried not to scowl—Sêla was the one who was good at propriety, not her—at the sight of Karfac's thin, sallow face looking her over.

"Are you certain you won't reconsider, Tefur?" he asked in his oily voice. Anora's father shook his head firmly.

"I'm sorry, Karfac, we are going with the caravan to Erebor. I'm not willing to have my daughter so far away, and it is my right to terminate the courtship before any promises have been made. We will, of course, return all of your courting beads and gifts. Anora?"

She nodded once and headed to her room to gather the proffered items. She removed Karfac's courting beads from her hair first, glad beyond reckoning to be rid of them.

As the eldest daughter of a wealthy merchant originally from the Iron Hills, Anora was of course expected to marry whomever her father dictated; though both Anora and Sêla had hoped, as children, they might be blessed by Mahal with a match that was both beneficial in their father's eyes and full of love in theirs. Unfortunately, as they became older, Anora became aware of how unlikely that was; even if Sêla still held tightly to the belief that eventually they would both end up with their Ones.

However, faith or no faith, Anora was not one to lie down and just accept reality without challenging it.

So when her father had presented her to Karfac as a potential match, her protestations had been many and passionate. The older dwarf was the son of a lesser Lord in the Iron Hills—sniveling, manipulative, and used to complete obedience in lassies. He was a merchant in name, but lived mostly out of his inheritance. Anora found him repulsive for all these reasons and more—she'd caught him leering at Sêla more than once, not to mention the looks he gave her. In the end, it had not mattered—her father had final say, of course—but she had fought, at least.

She had also made damn sure Karfac saw her fiery spirit—'stubbornness', he called it—in hopes to push him away; though she had recently begun to suspect he just intended to wear her down once they were married.

The news that the caravan to Erebor was leaving, and her father's subsequent assertion that they were all going, had been the happiest news the lass had received in her life, for more than one reason. It meant no more Karfac, it meant living in Erebor, and it meant being near her two best friends. True, the King and Prince would be far too busy for their relationships to be what they used to, before the quest; but at least she would be close to them, know they were safe and happy.

And maybe Thorin's (and subsequently, she hoped, Fíli's) less political views regarding marriage—namely, that politics had no place in the decision of whom to marry—would rub off on her father in Erebor.

Maybe Sêla was right, after all. Maybe they both would someday find their Ones.

The first stages of his plan were nearly complete. He had the Weapon—untraceable—the Time, now all he had to do was get the King into the Place…

"Soon," he murmured to himself.

Soon his family would be avenged, his parents' death no longer meaningless, and his pain assuaged.

Rivendell was as lovely as Ryn remembered.

Lord Elrond had been expecting them, thanks to a courier sent ahead by Kíli before they left Erebor; and there were rooms, baths, and a feast awaiting them when they arrived, sore and exhausted, late on the night of the seventh day since leaving Beorn's.

Ryn barely had the energy to bathe before collapsing on the soft bed and falling asleep instantly.

The next day, however, she made time to visit someone she'd been wanting to see for months, and asking a question that had been eating at her for nearly that long.

"Cirryn!" Ryn shouted happily, running to the elf that had been her primary healer the first time she was here, after having been tortured by Azog's orcs. The elleth's liquid blue eyes found hers, and a smile split her fair face, lighting her up so she seemed to glow from within. Ryn threw her arms around the woman's torso and squeezed tight.

"I am so happy to see you, gornil," Cirryn murmured. "I heard of your many exploits, and your hardships, along the road to Erebor and after. How are you?"

Ryn laughed. "I am very well, thank you. I found my place among them, as you promised I would."

The healer grinned, touching Ryn's courtship braids gently. "I hear you found love, as well." She laughed softly at the dwarf lass's blush. "You deserve it, Miriel. Congratulations."

"Thank you. Cirryn, I have a question."

"Please, ask it."

"You knew, didn't you?" Ryn fixed Cirryn with her gaze, needing to know the answer. "You knew I had Eiri blood."

Cirryn nodded. "I did."

"Why…why did you not tell me?"

"Ah," Cirryn averted her gaze—the first time Ryn had ever seen an elf look anything but self-assured. "I wanted to, but Lord Elrond thought you were not ready to know yet."

"Not…ready?" Anger shot through her veins, hot and fast. "Not ready? Cirryn, do you realize if Beorn hadn't told me, I would never have known…and Fíli and Kíli would both be dead! Thranduil and his people would still suffer from the dragon burns, and I…I would never have known." She blinked furiously.

"I would have told you," Cirryn said quietly. "I would have told you as soon as I could."

Ryn wanted to retort back, but paused. Was it really worth fighting with one of her first friends? "Can I just ask why Lord Elrond thought I wasn't ready?"

Cirryn gave her a tight smile. "He has the gift of Foresight. I think he knew you would find out just when you needed to. But I dropped you some hints—remember, I taught you everything I could in the short time you were here? And my knowledge of your advanced healing was why I was so willing to let you use your weapons again so soon after being—ah, Estel, there you are. Lord Elrond was asking after you a little while ago."

Ryn turned to regard the new party, and was surprised she had to look down to see him. It was a little boy, a human boy, with cheerful gray eyes and a shock of dark hair atop his head. He was holding a little bundle of athelas out to Cirryn and smiling. "I was out with Mister Elrohir and Mister Elladan! We walked all around outside the city, Cirryn, and saw deer and rabbits and fish!" The boy stopped when he realized there was another person listening in. His eyes clouded with confusion.

"Are you a child too?"

Ryn couldn't help it; she threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Do I look like a child to you, little one?"

"No. You look like a chunky lady; except you're too short."

"Estel!" Cirryn gasped in horror, while Ryn doubled over laughing. "I am sorry, Miriel, he is so young he forgets his manners…"

"No!" Ryn laughed. "No offense taken. If he spends any time here at all, he's used to elves—and Eru knows you're all slimmer than I am, so it makes sense." She addressed the lad. "Chunky I may be, young sir, but I assure you I'm in very good shape."

The boy looked slightly abashed. "I didn't mean you were fat or lazy, my lady. I am sorry."

"You are quite forgiven, for I knew what you meant." She bowed to him; hand on her heart in a gesture of respect and greeting. "I am Deorynn, though my friends call me Ryn and the elves call me Miriel."

The boy bowed deeply. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, though the elves call me Estel. So can I call you Ryn? I like that name."

She smiled. "You may. What do you prefer I call you?"

He furrowed his brow in thought. "Only the elves call me Estel. I'd like it if you called me Aragorn."

"Very well then. Tell me, Aragorn, how old are you?"

"I am ten winters! But I'm almost eleven; my Name Day is in four weeks and two days!"

"Congratulations! And since I will not be here to celebrate it with you; I wish you a very happy Name Day."

His gray eyes grew solemn. "When are you leaving? Are you on a great quest?"

Ryn bit back another grin. "A very great quest indeed. We are on our way to escort a princess back to her kingdom."

"A princess?" Aragorn's eyes were impossibly round with excitement. Then he looked Ryn over appraisingly. "Is she a dwarf princess?"

"She is."

"Wow," he breathed. "Hey, do you want to see my sword? Master Elrond got it for me when I turned ten last year. He says it's so I can learn to fight like my ancestors and make them proud!" The boy chattered on, pulling Ryn away by the hand, and she allowed it, smiling at Cirryn as she left the room.

Ryn spent the rest of the afternoon with young Aragorn; learning all about his sword, his pony, his classes, and his favorite ways to spend his free time—romping outside the city in the wild parts of the valley that were still safe, and finding new ways to make Master Elrond's face twist up into that expression that, according to Aragorn, "looks so funny because he's frowning but also trying so hard not to smile."

Apparently that expression was the gauge of a prank well-pulled, in Aragorn's ten years of experience.

Ryn thoroughly enjoyed spending time with the youngster, so much so that by the time Kíli found her for dinner, she was quite charmed. She invited him to eat with them, and noted Elrond's grin of amusement when the child sat beside her at supper.

"I must apologize, Lady Miriel, it is not often Estel likes new people; but when he does, he is a fast and loyal friend."

The boy beamed at the praise.

"It is no trouble at all, my Lord, he is wonderful company," Ryn responded, supremely amused at how Aragorn's chest puffed out the tiniest bit.

Across from her, Kíli wasn't having as much luck hiding his amusement as he choked on his wine when he snorted into his cup. Ryn cocked her eyebrow at him as he caught his breath, though Aragorn looked concerned.

"Lady Ryn, is he all right?"

"He's just fine, young one. He simply sucked his wine down the wrong side of his gullet, is all."

Aragorn giggled. "Gullet? Is that even a word?"

Kíli and Bilbo both guffawed at that, not bothering to hide their amusement anymore. Ryn chuckled. "It certainly is a word! It means throat, you know, the pipe that goes down to your tummy?" As she said the words, she tickled down the boy's chest to his belly, her dancing fingers drawing a childish laugh from his lips.

Kíli watched her with the boy, unable to hide the ridiculous smile that came to his face as he suddenly imagined her with children of a slightly different kind: little raven-haired lads and green-eyed lassies, squealing their laughter and calling for their mama as he spun them around or tickled their ribs. The image provoked a powerful feeling he couldn't identify—part thrill, part joy, part possessive warmth. He could do nothing in the face of such emotion, just sat there in awe, grinning like an idiot.

Ryn looked up, and her smile told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Frâr was going over the shift schedule for the King's Guard when his second-in-command, Kerif, approached him. The lad was inexperienced and untested, but had promising talent with a longsword, and thrived in a military environment; Frâr himself had brought him to Erebor after the Battle of Five Armies, hoping to give the lad a good start to his career.

"You sent for me, sir?" Kerif saluted sharply.

"Yes, lad, please sit."

Kerif sat stiffly, smoothing his braided beard in a nervous gesture that made the Captain of the Guard nearly smile. He had known Kerif for a long time, since he was just a young page who had lost his family in the Winter Sickness; he'd unofficially adopted the lad as a brother after that tragic season, taken him under his wing and provided him with both training and opportunity for advancement whenever he could.

"I just wanted to see how you're settling in," he began. "Are you happy here?"

Kerif smiled. "Yes, sir! It's quite different from the Hills, don't you think?"

Frâr chuckled. "That it is, Kerif. That it is."

The candle burned down low as they sat and talked, the way brothers are wont to do, late into the night.