Each Other in Love to Greet

Dís arrived with the company from Ered Luin on an afternoon in early June.

Thorin had stood back and let his nephews give her the first welcome. Indeed, the two lads had sprinted ahead of the rest of the welcoming party, meeting their mother where she rode at the head of the company. Kíli had held her pony's bridle, while Fíli had swept her down from the saddle, and then the two of them had smothered her in their combined embrace. But when he finally saw her emerge from the tangle of arms, Thorin noted that her face wore a contented smile he had not seen for a long time.

He approached her then, and Dís slipped one arm free from Kíli to draw her brother close.

"You did it," she breathed and kissed his forehead.

"I promised I would," he reminded her fondly.

"And what I would have done if you hadn't kept your word—" She tugged gently on the braid at his ear, just as she often had done as a girl when trying to convince him to let her have her way in something.

Thorin smiled readily at the memory. "Welcome home."

A few nights later, after everyone had been settled into their new accommodations, Dís had joined her brother and sons in Thorin's rooms and had the full account of their journey. She had let them do most of the talking, interjecting only now and then with questions. Though they downplayed the more dangerous parts of the tale, Thorin was sure she guessed the truth of the perils they had all faced well enough. But she did not press them for more details; it seemed enough for her that, in the end, they had made it safely through all. Dwelling on what was done would make no difference now.

Dís remained behind after her boys had kissed her and gone to bed. She and Thorin had talked lightly for a few minutes over the small news of Ered Luin and Erebor before lapsing into a comfortable, familiar silence. Thorin realized he had missed her a great deal; it was good simply having someone to share the stillness of the room. He wondered briefly how she had stood the lonely quiet of her home, without Fíli and Kíli there to make things merry or, at least, noisy.

"Tell me, brother," Dís began at last, her gaze very intent on him now. "I've noticed that something stands between my sons, and between them and you. What is it?"

"Has Kíli not told you?"

"Not told me what?" He heard the light note of challenge in her voice; she expected him to answer her.

"He's attached himself to an elf." Best not dance around the fact; she would find out soon enough, from others if not from him or Kíli.

"The woman who saved his life," she reasoned. She was taking the news remarkably well.

Thorin nodded.

"Is there any chance she returns his affection?" she asked. The direction of her question surprised Thorin. But of course, she was a mother.

"I'm fairly certain she does," Thorin told her.

Dís raised a brow.

"Well, she'd hardly have been kissing him if she didn't, would she?" he grumbled after a moment, flustered.

Dís, to his astonishment, did not bat an eye. "And so you told him," she guessed, "that he must not love her."

"What else was there to say?" His reasoning sounded suddenly inadequate before her.

"Thorin..." Dís sighed, as if there was too much she could say.

"He can't place an elf before his duty and kin," Thorin clarified.

"Did he?" She sounded almost as if she were daring him to affirm it.

"Dís, Kíli nearly renounced us all for her."

"What?" For the first time, her face did go blank.

"I asked him to remember his loyalty to his kin, and he said he would rather lose his heritage than give her up," he continued reluctantly.

"My son risked his life and body for you, and yet you doubt his loyalty?" she demanded, all her outrage focused on Thorin now.

"I know what he has given and I value him all the more for it!" He took a slow breath, and when he went on, his voice was calmer. "But don't you see? He cannot choose an elf. It doesn't matter if he loves her..."

"It doesn't matter?" Dís's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare say love doesn't matter. You've never had anyone like that, so how would you know?"

She rose from her seat and stared down at him.

"Thorin, do you understand why my two boys are worth far more to me than any treasure that hands have made or swords have won?" Her voice shook slightly. "They were my gift for loving someone."

Dís gave her brother one last withering glare and then swept out of the room.

Tauriel was beyond beautiful, Kíli thought. He had somehow never properly appreciated how very green her eyes were, like emeralds, or leaves with the sun behind them. As she gazed at him now, her eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words; words that were, at last, about to spill out over her rose-colored lips and reveal, without a doubt, everything that she felt for him. She leaned over him, and her hair fell down, enveloping them both in a curtain of flame.

She said nothing, but she caressed her fingers over his cheek and brushed them through his hair.

"Tauriel," he said and reached out to her. He could find a way to unseal those lips...

The light shifted, and he saw that the ruddy glow around him was the light of his own fire, and that standing over him, where he had dozed in his chair, was his mother.

"Tauriel?" she questioned gently, sweeping his hair back from his face once more. "That's no name for a dwarf."

Kíli drew himself back up in the chair. There was not point in lying to her; she would know the truth soon enough, and better it came from him.

"She's an elf," he said slowly, half from reluctance and half because he was not yet fully awake.

"My dear boy, what am I to do with you?" Dís caught him in her arms, and then, to his surprise, she began to cry. Kíli closed his arms round her, suddenly feeling embarrassed and a little guilty. She hadn't cried when she'd arrived and found them all well. Was this news so much worse than hearing of the death they had all so recently faced? He would almost have preferred if she'd been angry with him. He hated knowing he'd made her cry.

"Mum..." he began, not really sure how to explain himself to her. All of the reasons he had rehearsed suddenly did not sound right. "She's not— We— Um."

"My dear heart, I nearly lost you." She said nothing else for a long while, but simply held him, her hands making soothing motions over his back, as if he were the one in need of comforting, not she.

At last she let go of him and sat back at his feet, her hands resting at his knees. Kíli brushed at her wet cheeks with his cuffs, though the gesture seemed helpless and awkward. But Dís smiled up at him.

"Innikh dê," she said.

"I did."

"You did," Dís affirmed.

Kíli knew he should return his token, the runestone she had given him to mark his promise. For the first time, he wondered if what he'd done would seem a betrayal.

"Mum, I gave my promise away." He hoped she would not cry again.

"To Tauriel?"

He nodded. "Forgive me. I should've—something else—but I had nothing—"

She stopped him with a gentle shake of her head.

"Kíli, it didn't matter who you came back for. I just needed you to remember that someone would always need you."

"Oh."

"Does she?"

Did elves, who would live forever, who could have everything, need people like him, who had maybe two hundred years to give? But Tauriel didn't have everything. He had known that when she had listened to him eagerly through prison bars, as if his stories of trade caravans and backwoods wonders could mean as much as anything she had known in her long life.

"She does," Kíli answered.

Dís nodded.

"Oh, Kíli, I am sorry," she said tenderly, laying her hand against his cheek. "I am sorry you should want something so impossible."

"Does it have to be?"

His mother shook her head, but Kíli couldn't guess if she were answering him or asking him to forget such pointless questions.

Kíli stood when she did, and she pulled him into one last hug.

"I love you," she told him.

"I love you, too, Mum," Kíli said and he kissed her cheek, all the while wondering how it was possible that loves could keep people apart as much as hate did.

Tauriel held her breath as her last arrow flew to join the others clustered at the center of the target.

"Does it perform to your liking?"

She turned and smiled at Feron, who stood watching her.
"Yes, thank you," she said, running her hands over the polished wood of the new bow. "Being without mine was like missing a limb."

Feron chuckled. "I shall add that to my list of accomplishments: fashioner of limbs for fair ladies. With you as my model, I should be up to my ears in commissions in no time."

Tauriel laughed. "Given your flattery, it's a wonder no lady has silenced you for good."

Feron gave her a familiar smile. "Perhaps, but I fear nothing from you, so long as you go on destroying my bows."

Tauriel grinned; as a young girl, she had broken several of Feron's bows before he had impressed upon her the need to care for her equipment as if it were an extension of herself. In return for her promise of caution, he had helped her improve her bowmanship, and she still saw him as a respected mentor, as well as a friend.

"I understand you are returning to Dale soon," Feron commented as she retrieved the arrows from the target. "I do not speak only for myself when I say you have been—and will be—missed."

"Thank you, Feron." His words warmed her. She had felt somewhat out of place this last month; no one seemed to know what to make of her, a friend of dwarf kings who chose to leave her forest. Certainly Thranduil's pardon helped exonerate her deeds, but she knew that most people still considered her peculiar. "The King has given me authority to represent the Greenwood to Dale and Erebor. Bard, the leader of the men from the lake, has already accepted my offer of service; they have no ranged patrol and I can help them establish one."

"Dear Tauriel, ever dutiful and practical," Feron observed drily. "I heard there was a personal reason, as well."

Tauriel colored. She had had plenty of time in the last month to catch up on the forest gossip regarding her flight, banishment, and then the winter spent with her former prisoners. If it weren't for the King's favor, there were those who would even have suspected her of colluding with the prisoners and aiding their escape.

"Surely you know better than to think I would believe the idle things said about you," Feron protested gently. "But I thought there was some truth to the tale you care for someone at the mountain."

She nodded.

Feron regarded her fondly. "I know you too well to think that even your private desires could lead you to do anything dishonorable."

Tauriel felt tears prick her eyes; it had been hard not to care what people said about her.

"My little huntress," he told her, reverting to his old nickname for her, "You will do very well in Dale; I am sure of it." He took the practice arrows from her and pressed her hand for a moment.

"Thank you," Tauriel returned somewhat unsteadily. "Perhaps I shall have some more work for you soon," she added, her smile returning. "He is an archer."

Fíli unwrapped the last pottery bowl from the crate and placed it on the table with the rest: dishes, vases, goblets, and mugs. Dís came up behind him as he refolded the cloths that had been used as packing, but instead of taking another dish to arrange on the cabinet, she clasped her arms around him.

"My darling, I'm so proud of you. And so grateful," she said behind his shoulder.

Fíli put down the folded cloths and caught her hands from his waist. As a little boy, he had watched the clay spring into shape at her touch, and he had been sure there was some magic in those strong, graceful fingers which could call anything she wished into being. He knew now, of course, that such power did not extend beyond the circle of her potter's wheel. She had not been able to bring her husband back from that fateful trading expedition, nor could she ensure that her sons survive their quest for reclamation and revenge.

"I'm glad you're here, Mum," he said.

"So am I." She held him tight for a moment and released him.

He took a pitcher from the table and set it in a place of prominence on the top shelf of the cupboard. He had always liked the way the light brought out a bronzy glint on the glaze of that particular piece.

When he turned round, his mother was watching him thoughtfully.

"You look more like your father every day," she said in answer to his curious glance.

Fíli smiled. The knowledge made him feel closer to the man who'd died while Fíli was still in his teens.

"You know," his mother continued, her tone introspective. "The hardest thing I've ever done was watch you two boys march down that road. But I'm glad I didn't stop you." She shook her head. "I know your uncle could not have accomplished this alone."

Fíli shrugged, not quite dismissive. "I'm not sure what I did. I couldn't bring him out of the dragon fever. And Kíli was the one who confronted him to go into battle." Sometimes his brother's impetuosity was good for something. Indeed, Fíli was still somewhat disappointed in himself for not having spoken up as well, either there on the battlement or earlier.

"Nonsense," she scolded him gently. "Your steadiness has always been your strength. Do you think your uncle could have come all this way if he did not know he had good men to follow him? Besides, you gave him someone to reclaim this home for."

Fíli nodded, grateful and humbled at once.

"I'm proud of you for staying with your brother in Laketown," Dís went on.

"There wasn't anything else I could have done." It hadn't really felt like a choice at the time. It was just the one thing to do.

"No? I think everyone, even Kíli, would have understood if you'd gone with Thorin."

"Didn't matter." Fíli shook his head. "Just thank Mahal she was there, or I'd be telling you Kí's last words right now." His tone was light, but he was deeply grateful he'd been spared that painful duty.

"Yes..." Dís mused, thoughtful again.

After a few moments, Fíli ventured, "Tauriel really is perfect for him. I mean," he laughed at himself, "maybe she's a bit tall, but... Kíli slows down around her, and well, she kind of opens up, too. She's not just some snooty elf."

His mother laughed. "I did not think she could be," she said.

"I just wish—" Fíli sighed, his exasperation coming to the fore. "I wish he'd talk to Thorin. The two of them haven't mentioned her since their argument, and that was weeks ago!"

Dís smiled at him gently. "I know, love. But this is your brother's challenge, and he must find the way through himself. If he can't, there's truly no chance for them."

Fíli eyed her curiously. He'd been sure she would take someone's side, and vehemently.

Her smile deepened, showing that same lively spark that Kíli's had from her. "Oh, I've told your uncle what I think, right enough. But perhaps it's best if the rest of us stay out of this now." She said it easily enough, but Fíli could tell from something swift and impatient in her glance that doing so would not be without effort.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed finally, and moved on to unpack the next crate of his mother's things.

Tauriel stood with the mug of tea clasped in her hands, its floral fragrance drifting up around her, and she surveyed the main platform of her treetop home. She would be leaving it tomorrow, for only the second time in her life. She hadn't known, the first time she'd left, that it was even a farewell. She had simply not come back.

And now, well, it didn't feel so much like a goodbye since the place was no longer where she belonged. She had lived in this particular maple for the last hundred years, and she knew every knot, branch, and leaf. Sometimes, it had seemed not so much a home as a friend. She still loved it, but she didn't need to remain here to do so.

She glanced over her cushioned sofa, the hanging lanterns, the shelves holding a decanter set and the book of lays she had borrowed from Legolas and never had a chance to return. They would all be here for her to return to, if she needed them. She wasn't sure if she would need them. The open sky, a borrowed bed, shared firelight and the laughter of new friends—these things were enough for her.

Tauriel turned away and went up the short stairway to the upper platform, her bedchamber. Her things were all packed into her traveling chest, though she'd left her nightgown on top. A nightgown, she had discovered, was a small but important luxury that made the difference between feeling lost and unprepared or being welcome and provided for. She laughed as she undressed, remembering the short dwarven robe she had been loaned in Erebor. Someone had known the importance of the gesture, and she had been grateful for the kind thought. Still, she was glad to be back in a garment that reached past her knees.

She finished her tea in bed, sitting against the headboard with her legs drawn up. The warm drink was not quite as calming as she had hoped it would be. She was, she finally admitted, excited to be returning to the world tomorrow. Giddy, even. Certainly that was from the opportunity ahead of her: she had never been given so much authority as she had now in representing the Greenwood's interests to everyone at the Lonely Mountain, both on and under it. But even more, it was from the certainty of seeing him again.

Setting aside the empty mug, she stretched out under the light coverlet.

How was Kíli? Had he made peace with his uncle yet? She prayed he had, for his own sake ahead of hers. And his mother—she was there now, or would be soon. Tauriel smiled to herself, imagining the happiness Kíli's mother surely felt, finding both of her sons safe and well. She wished she could be there to see the reunion; she barely remembered what it was to have mother or father of her own.

Kíli, she knew, had lost his father at an age little younger than she had been when she had lost both parents. Yet grief had certainly not dampened his spirits, nor, indeed, made him seem wary in any other way. It had not made him cautious, either with his life or his heart. She was fascinated by how truly unafraid he was. He had declared himself in love with her, when he had known that any elf surely would have refused such an offer from a dwarf. He had not been afraid to believe she was more than any elf.

Tauriel had believed for a long time that she was fortunate not to have fallen in love. She needn't worry about the risk of loss and heartbreak that came when you cared for someone. But now she wondered, as she lay listening to the whispering of the leaves around her, if she had somehow unknowingly denied herself the possibility of falling in love. She had never been drawn to any man who noticed her, and thought it was because none of them had ever been what she truly wanted. But maybe she had never given any of them a chance to be, since it was safer not to let someone matter to you. It made you vulnerable, and Tauriel had always known she had to be strong so that she—and her people—would remain safe.

Of course, she had never supposed she could want a dwarf. And so Kíli had slipped in under her guard and settled himself in her heart before she could fight him.

And now, she knew she was glad he had. It was ironic, certainly, that she had protected herself just to love someone whose one certainty was death. No. That was not true. She was equally certain he offered her an experience of life beyond any she had known: he loved her and—Valar help her—she loved him.

I love him.

The words, at last, felt right. She had known she was working towards this admission for a long time, perhaps since the moment she had fought not to cry as he had pressed the runestone into her hand and pushed off across the lake. Tauriel wasn't sure if it had taken her so long to understand the truth because love, like any living thing, was at first so fragile and small. Or had she needed to overcome some unknown barrier within herself before she could know?

It didn't matter. She had found him, or he had found her, and if a dragon and an entire orc army hadn't been able to separate them, then what did even the dwarf king think he could do? she asked herself with drowsy satisfaction.

Awareness ebbed away from her like a gentle tide, and Tauriel found sleep at last.

Author's note:

Ha, I think this is the longest chapter yet. I just had so much I wanted to fit in! And good news: you guys were pretty much right about where Dis would come down on the whole thing. Now, is Kili going to figure out what the next step needs to be?

Kili, you need to stop trying to kiss Tauriel; it only leads to awkward family situations.

Also, I solemnly swear ridiculous and flowery (literally!) physical descriptions shall be reserved strictly for dream sequences.