Once again, an enormous Thank You goes to my amazing beta's. Wanderingsmith, Krystal_lazul - you girls are so very appreciated.
Chapter Ten
10
Mishaps & Misunderstandings
~ In Which Kíli attempts to understand the complexities of Men, while Tilda wishes she understood dwarves less ~
-o.O.o-
Mist surrounded him—or perhaps the world was actually made of mist; the shapes perfect, but somehow lacking, as if something essential had been removed, leaving nothing but an echo behind. Everything looked normal to Kíli's eye, but inside, he knew that it was all very, very wrong.
That something was still here, a heavy vacuum, a void pulling at him from all around, inescapable and horrible and relentless. Kíli could feel himself, feel his shields, shaking, being drained as opposed to battered as he fought to keep his senses his own, keep his...self, his own, but still the pressure opposed him, tinting the world around him muted and grey while his limbs felt turned to stone, or maybe ash—weightless and ineffective.
And all the while, that Voice spoke to him. Without sound or words, but still Kíli knew it, knew it would sound sweet beyond words, if he could only hear it, and part of him yearned for it even as he knew to fear it. And still, it spoke, leaving the memory of its words within him, without speaking at all.
Persuading.
Reasonable.
Relentless.
And Kíli had the distinct impression that the only reason he'd been able to resist was that the Voice that was not a Voice, did not yet know him; his shields still held, and some corners of his soul were still his own, and the Voice did not yet have the right combination of levers; of enticements or fears or promises, to make Kíli bend to its will.
But it would.
The feeling was pervasive, like the air around him: not an enemy he could get his hands around, not a single thing, but simply emptiness; a void that could not be filled, that would suck everything dry without being satisfied.
And it was creeping past his shields; cold little tendrils that deadened things inside of him that he thought immutable. The feeling of being perfectly in alignment, when he was fully immersed in his Craft and in the voice of Mahal? Gone. The absolute knowledge that Uncle Thorin would move the very earth itself if he had to, for the love he bore his nephews? Meaningless and cold. The absolutely amazing ability Uncle Bilbo had to banish darkness and fear with simple logic and a few taps of an impatient foot? Now the actions of a stranger.
He fought. His soul screamed at the invasion, though Kíli could no longer feel it as the dead feeling crept deeper...reaching.
The feel of Tilda's skin when he gripped her hand? A memory beyond recall; completely lost to him; unremembered and unimportant.
The perfection of her absolute acceptance—
No!
He woke up, violently throwing himself into consciousness, feeling sweaty and clammy, and with the urge to vomit so strong he had to bite the inside of his cheek to lock his jaw against it as he shook and shook and waited for the tremors to pass. Beside him, Tilda stirred, and the profound relief he felt at seeing her there, untainted by any mist or darkness, was enough to get his stomach under control, though there was still nothing he could do about the shaking.
He felt as though he'd fought a battle. The dreams, infrequent as they usually were, had never been this strong.
"Mmmm?" Tilda murmured sleepily as she shifted towards him, not actually awake, but responding nonetheless to Kíli's disquiet, and his lips curled faintly as he slowly began to feel unfrozen, the memory of the horrible, deadening cold receding in the face of his wife's simple, genuine concern.
There is still warmth in his world.
Hands still trembling faintly, he reached out to gently stroke his fingers over her hair, once, twice, in a slow, soothing motion until Tilda slid back into sleep once more. For a long moment, Kíli sat there, hand still resting lightly in her hair—an action he would normally never allow himself—as he watched her gentle breathing and allowed it to quiet the remnants of fear in him.
He didn't want it to be starting again; this horrible feeling of something rooting around inside his head—or at least trying to; not even with a purpose, simply nosing around, as if Kíli's deepest truths were a shop it was browsing. Much as he would find it easier to rationalize away in the light of day, right now, he was wearily certain he knew exactly the source.
Restless and unsettled, Kíli had to move—had to check, because he knew from experience he wouldn't sleep again tonight.
The rug was soft beneath his feet as he carefully slid out of bed, being sure to pull the counterpane up around Tilda's shoulders in the space he'd left. Quietly, he fumbled into the tunic and trousers that he'd left haphazardly on the chair, slipping his feet into a pair of soft leather boots more suitable for wearing around their chambers than anything else. The summer twilight was in full effect by now, bathing the room in slightly brighter darkness that had none of the moon's silvery, calming light, but instead made everything look tinged with fire and soot.
The dwarves believed that this strange glow was Mahal's forge; this time of year being reserved for the greatest of creative endeavours and magics, and considered full of omens and auspices.
Kíli felt he could really use some of that right now, and allowed himself to cast up a tiny prayer to the Father, like he hadn't done since he was little more than a badger, but right now, he was feeling shaken enough to be willing to cling to the reassurances of his youth to banish the darkness.
There were guards in the Royal Halls of Erebor, of course; a few sentries and patrols that watched over the royal family, though Kíli and Fíli had long ago learned how to avoid them, and with the practice of decades, Kíli was quickly free of them and scuttling his way down to the Deeps.
He felt furtive.
Well, honestly, he was being furtive; slipping out of bed in the middle of the night and creeping down the darkest, most un-used corridors he could find, it was fair to say the Crown Prince of Erebor did not wish to be seen.
Really, really didn't want to be seen.
He hadn't encountered anyone in a few levels, but he still stayed vigilant and alert. Though he couldn't explain exactly what he feared in being discovered, he couldn't deny his instincts were screaming at him to remain anonymous, and so he crept, and kept to the shadows as much as possible, and cursed and wished he had Nori's talents the few times he kicked a piece of loose stone to clatter down the hall, or felt the urge to cough or sneeze or just simply give it all up and go back to bed, like a normal person after a nightmare.
He wasn't normal, though, was he?
For once, Kíli thought, it would be nice to actually know the whys of what he was doing, instead of always operating on impulse and instinct. Even as the thought occurred to him, his lips twisted, sardonic and amused.
Why change now, after all?
He'd left the grand corridors and open spaces of the upper levels almost a quarter hour ago, the hallways down here giving way to utilitarian design and plain architecture, being as he was far down in the Deep levels; almost at the very bottom of the mountain. Here were housed all the Halls that kept the mountain running: pipework to run fresh water hundreds of feet up and then into every corner of the kingdom, geothermal ducts, to redirect heat as the seasons changed, sanitation aqueducts, and even gas works to keep thousands upon thousands of lamps lit in the levels above. The background noise here had nothing to do with Kíli's senses, and everything to do with the contented purr of well-maintained gears and cog-works. The whole collection of interconnected systems was so precise, so harmonious, that engineers tasked with keeping the mighty kingdom running could tell much just from the slight variances in that hum, able to head off problems before the rest of the mountain was even aware.
Even now, nervous sweat slicking his palms, Kíli's thoughts couldn't help but stray to Tilda, and he wondered if his inquisitive Lady might not like to visit, sometime.
It wasn't that what he was doing was bad, per se, but it certainly wasn't a good way to ensure Uncle Bilbo's lost ring stayed, well, lost.
He wasn't even sure what had pulled him out of his bed tonight, rather than just forcing himself to set the dream aside and go back to sleep, other than a looming, and increasing sense of...expectation. Like a heavy cloud permeating the air and just waiting for the right sort of spark to ignite. It felt entirely too familiar, and Kíli's mind shuddered back from thinking too closely on that moment, seven years ago, when he'd reached out and actually touched the ring—and felt it reach back to him.
That moment—when he'd felt like his mind was being shorn in two, while still feeling enticed and cajoled by a presence not his own, a compelling voice, to just...give in, because it could give him everything he ever wanted, and many things he had yet to dream of—was a moment he'd tried to bury deep, and never repeat, even in the safety of memory.
He had a paranoid feeling that there was nothing safe about Bilbo's ring.
And an even stronger feeling that he wasn't being paranoid enough.
Most of the time, thoughts of the ring were far from his mind; though in those initial months after Jústi's death, and the ring's subsequent immuration, he'd been plagued with nightmares, and found himself compelled from his bed near nightly, needing to make sure the damned thing stayed safely encased in its rocky prison. Slowly, that compulsion had lessened, gradually diminishing for months, and finally years, before rising again—the feeling of...looming potential would grow; like electricity heavy in the air, right before the lightning struck.
In Kíli's nightmares, he fancied that the sleeping ring still stirred; a restless interloper in their mountain.
In those confused moments after rousing, he feared that perhaps the ring really was waking, the subtle discord it caused in the Mountain's song invading his senses, until he was compelled once more to check on it so that he could reassure himself that he was imagining things, and go back to ignoring it again.
The ring is not alive, idiot.
But yet, something had reached back for him that day, had followed the thread of his thoughts back into a mind he hadn't known how to shield back then, and that flash, that biting, enticing moment could not be forgotten, no matter how much Kíli tried to tell himself that he was imagining things.
And so, the nightmares would eventually stir again, and, sleepless, he would check.
Again.
Finally, he'd reached the trapdoor that lead to the very root of the mountain; to where the underground River Running flowed through their basement. The tunnel from here was more or less natural, not actually a part of Erebor's design but preexisting their settlement. The oldest part of the kingdom, as the first thing those first miners would have needed was water, and lots of it, to power a large-scale mining operation—everything from drinking water to water wheels and steam power. Jústi had blown a hole through the foundation to reach it, and Thorin had set this trapdoor in place after those events, convinced of the need by Kíli's ashamed admission that he would need to learn more about his Craft to do a better job at actually locking the ring away...and to do that, he would need access.
It had been the highest priority of his training, that first year. Master Bifur told him it was a measure of how much the rock responded to him that it had been convinced to hold the ring for him at all, and though Kíli knew he had done the absolute best an un-trained Cantor could have, he still felt disappointed with himself that he hadn't done better. If he had allowed himself to admit what he was earlier; if he had sought training earlier, then he would have been a proper cantor in the moment when it counted and it would have been sealed away, under his own power, not at the uncertain will of the bedrock.
If he had been properly trained, then, maybe, he would have had proper shields in place when he had first touched it, and the damned thing wouldn't be tormenting him now.
Or maybe it was simply all in his mind.
Of course it was all in his mind.
The ring was just a thing, after all.
Right?
Somehow, try as he might, he couldn't quite convince himself of that, and it made the nightmare of the ring calling to him much harder to dismiss.
The tunnel air felt damp here, as he got within the final dozen yards or so of the river's underground shore. Certain veins of mineral gave off faint phosphorescence that was plenty of light to see by, and reflected blue-green in the mica and Northern spar exposed in the rock walls, causing the whole tunnel-mouth to shine like fabled the gates of Moria in the semi-darkness.
The shore itself was smooth granite, a gently rolling hill before falling away to the water's edge, and it was because of this slight rise that Kíli didn't at first notice that he wasn't alone.
Standing ankle-deep in the dark water of the river, was Bilbo, and for a moment Kíli was so startled that he stopped, dead in his tracks, not at all sure of his Uncle's mindset in that moment, and wanting to be cautious, in case Bilbo was having one of those days.
Because what other reason could he have for being down here? In the dead of night, on the same night that Kíli himself felt compelled to be down here?
Suddenly, Kíli was sure that, no matter the call of the blasted ring, this is what had driven him down here; his uncle's distress enough to call to him, even from a deep sleep. The very mountain, disturbed by their unwanted prize here in their bottom-most basement, had summoned him to deal with Bilbo's distress, because the Mountain and Uncle Thorin, its King, were connected profoundly, and Bilbo, as Uncle's bond-mate, was a part of that, whether he understood it or not.
"Uncle?" Kíli called softly, not wanting to startle the hobbit, least he step out deeper and lose his footing in the swift current.
"Uncle Bilbo?" Kíli spoke again, edging closer when Bilbo didn't respond at first. This time, though, he was sure he was heard, so he didn't hesitate to close the remaining distance to the water's edge, a handful of feet from where his Uncle wadded in his bare feet and familiarly hobbitish trousers.
"You should be sleeping, you know," Kíli chided gently, knowing from experience that Bilbo heard him right now, and would eventually follow the sound of his nephew's voice back to himself, if only Kíli would keep talking to him so he could find his way. "And just imagine Uncle Thorin's hen-pecking if you go and give yourself another cold, from this icy water." Kíli paused, then added with a light chuckle, "You do remember Laketown, don't you? Even once Óin promised that you were going to be okay, Uncle still fussed and bothered him so many times I think he deliberately lost his ear-trumpet, just so he had an excuse to not listen to Uncle badger him any more."
A short burst of air, an involuntary huff of indignant amusement, told Kíli that Bilbo was more aware, now. He stood there, a solitary figure calf-deep in cool water, and Kíli watched quietly, not wanting to crowd his Uncle when he was like this, and hoping for an indication that Bilbo had truly found his way free of his own mind and shadowy anxieties; the all-encompassing mist of his own earlier dream, perhaps. The tiny moment of mirth seemed to have released something in him, and Kíli could see when the tightly-coiled tension released from Bilbo's frame. His shoulders sagged from his previous, painfully rigid, pose, his hands shook before he clenched them tightly into fists at his sides, and he finally, finally, turned to his favourite nephew.
The look on Bilbo's face, when he turned, was heartbreaking.
Bilbo, normally the rock that Kíli and Fíli—and Uncle Thorin, and probably the whole kingdom, if truth be told—relied on...slipped sometimes. Those closest to him knew it; supported him and shielded him as best they could from situations that seemed to agitate him, and the hobbit always shook it off eventually.
It had started after his uncle's experience with the blood-traitor, Jústi. The old lord had done things to Bilbo—had forced him well beyond the limits of the fledgling Bond he and Uncle Thorin had been trying to forge. The resulting strain of those events had very nearly killed Uncle Bilbo, and would have killed Uncle Thorin, too, but for a certain hobbit's stubborn nature that rivalled that of any Durin in strength, though Bilbo would protest vehemently that it was only his own unawareness of what was really happening in the face of more important things that needed doing—like defending their Kingdom from invaders, and trying to ensure that Uncle Thorin and Fíli had a home to return to.
As Kíli said; stubborn.
But the incident left wounds; scars on the inside where no healer could reach, and no salve could heal, and since then, Bilbo had difficulties sometimes. He would be strong and laughing and present, and suddenly he would...withdraw. His mind would go elsewhere, and his hands would tremble. His gait might falter, and his eyes might get misty, and there wasn't always a clear reason, or trigger, for these behaviors that his family or the Company could see. So they made plans; were carefully aware of Bilbo's limits and how to step in and help him when he had his moments of anxiety. It was second nature, after all, to make accommodations for injured comrades, like Óin and his deafness or Bifur and his...multitude of issues.
The Mountain sheltered its own. It was a motto and creed of aid and accomodation that dwarves everywhere rallied to, though this translation into Westron was...a little more passive than the actual Khûzdul meaning.
And, Kíli knew, the storm of Bilbo's emotions usually passed quickly enough; leaving his one Uncle terribly embarrassed, and his other feeling protective and ineffective that he couldn't slay his bond-mates dragons for him.
It didn't happen often anymore; the last incident had probably been more than two years ago, and the episodes rarely lasted long, but being here, in the place where his tormentor had died, was bound to bring out the worst.
Come to think on it, the last time Kíli had these dreams had been around the same time...
But, right here and now, the eyes looking out of his uncle's familiar face were pale and watery...and frightened, and Kíli pushed further thoughts of rings and curious coincidences from his thoughts.
"It calls to me, sometimes...I can't help it; can't keep it out," he said, and his voice sounded old and frail, and it wounded Kíli to his soul to hear his strong, unflappable uncle like this. "I...have to check; make sure it's still locked away."
"I know," Kíli reassured him, because he did know. Though his uncle didn't have the Cantor's skills that Kíli had, and so never truly touched the ring's black core, his experiences with it during Jústi's attack had marked him, deeply. While both Kíli's uncles lay recovering in the Healing Halls, the quiet hobbit had confided all the details of his experiences with the ring; about how it seemed to deaden things inside of him, and made Thorin's presence within him almost impossible to detect. It had left Kíli increasingly unsettled to hear how it touched Bilbo's mind and soul in ways that only a bond-mate should be able to.
Kíli was convinced that a large part of the damage done to Bilbo hadn't been from the bond being stretched to almost breaking, but from the ring itself; it didn't seem to be able to exist in the same space as something as pure and full of love as a soul bond, like oil and water could not blend, and so the two forces had been in opposition. The fact that the ring was obviously the stronger of the two forces had shaken both Kíli and Uncle Thorin to their core. Thorin immediately ordered Kíli to focus his training on containing the ring, until Gandalf showed himself again, and could be cajoled to take it away somewhere—with luck, far, far away.
"I don't like the way it makes me feel..." Bilbo told him, staring out at the river for along moment. Kíli watched him, not touching him, but close enough to let his presence lend support, and close enough that he could feel the faint disturbances in the air caused by Bilbo's shudders as they lessened. Slowly, Bilbo straightened, as if casting off his pall, starting to look more like himself, and Kíli breathed a tiny breath of relief. "I don't like the way it makes me feel, and yet, somewhere inside of me, I am still susceptible to its blandishments, and I crave it." Bilbo said, frustration and disgust clear in his tone.
"It makes the Bond dead inside of me," he continued, softly, "as if this were all a summertime dream of madness. But yet, it promises things...horrible, wonderful things—and it frightens me what Jústi could have done with it, had he succeeded." He shook his head, an absent motion as he looked down at his hand, and the new ring that sat there. One made with love and the utmost attention to detail, because Kíli knew Uncle Thorin had made it for him. He'd stayed in the forge for a week, just working the intricate piece until it was perfect, and had presented it to Bilbo on his last name-day, despite Bilbo's protests that he was supposed to give the gifts to them.
Made of polished platinum, with a distinctly rounded design that somehow managed to suggest the rolling hills and rounded lines of the Shire, it had quickly proven to be one of Bilbo's favourite pieces; in truth, one of the only pieces of jewellery he seemed comfortable wearing, and he was rarely seen without it. It was set with verdant-coloured emeralds, and buttery citrons...and it had to be biting into Bilbo's hand with how tightly he'd clenched his fist.
"I don't think the ring can exist with that kind of love," Kíli said slowly. "In the end, that may be the best defence we have against it." That, and making sure no one else ever finds out about it.
Bilbo quirked his lips in a rueful smile, clearly trying to allow Kíli to comfort him. "So, Tilda and Thorin are our shields, then, are they?" he asked, with sardonic humour.
Startled, Kíli couldn't help his snort of amusement at that image, for Thorin would most surely place himself bodily in harm's way to protect his bondmate if given half the chance; shielding him from everything from invading orcs, to hoards of roving elves. And somehow, the image of Tilda, hair coiled back in a warrior's braided crown, bearing a shield almost heavier than herself to guard him didn't seem as ridiculous as it should. As a matter of fact, he privately felt she would look rather glorious, and he smiled at the thought.
"Does this mean that you are considering a Bond of your own?" Bilbo asked slyly, a teasing glint in his hazel eyes as he caught Kíli's little smile.
Kíli just shook his head in exasperation. Really, he never would have believed the match-making tendencies of hobbits all those years ago, when presented with such a fussy little creature. He knew better, now.
"It's sleeping, Uncle," he told him, deflecting. He gently grasped Bilbo's shoulders between his hands, encouraging the hobbit to turn back to the tunnels.
As he turned, he caught the eye of his Uncle Thorin, waiting so quietly but a dozen yards away that Kíli hadn't even been aware of his arrival until now. The deep sadness in his uncle's eyes was plain to see as he stared back at his nephew; grateful for the help Kíli could provide, but also deeply pained at being unable to do more than simply watch over Bilbo as he was driven down here by his torment.
"Sleeping," Bilbo mused tiredly, already reaching out a hand for Thorin to take as he slipped from under Kíli's arm to his husband's embrace. Thorin buried his nose in the crown of Bilbo's loose curls, as if drawing strength and reassurance from the heat of Bilbo's skin, or the scent his hair, or perhaps just from the familiar shape of him tucked under Thorin's chin, and for a moment Kíli longed for that sort of connection so deeply it ached.
Though he'd be unable to curl Tilda under his chin like that, she would still feel so fragile in his arms. Her height would make it easy for her arms to loop around his shoulders, though she was so slender compared to his stockier build—honestly, the only time he'd really felt stocky in his life—he would practically envelope her in his embrace, a single hand wide enough to span the small of her back, or the whole curve of her hip. The honeyed-gold of her hair would be soft against his skin, and the scent that clung to her would fill his senses until he knew she was safe, and there, trusting him to bear her up in her distress, or being able to offer her the same sort of vulnerability in return.
The longing was so unexpected and fierce, it took him a moment to remember to breathe.
So this is what it feels like, he thought to himself vaguely, not entirely sure what he meant by it but having no other words for the sensation. It was soul-deep, like some sort of primal recognition, and if he hadn't already known she was his One, there would be no mistaking it now. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and caught Thorin's eyes where his uncle had cracked them open just enough to give Kíli a knowing, commiserating look, and Kíli was forced to remember that Thorin knew exactly what it felt like to be in close proximity every day to the other half of your very soul; to long for them, hoping for more, but unsure how to go about achieving it. Kíli smiled back ruefully at the reminder, and Thorin's lips quirked in return.
"Come. We are accomplishing nothing more here," Thorin rumbled, visibly shaking off his previous mood. "I think it is time for all of us to return to our beds."
"A cup of warm milk, first, I think," Bilbo said, firmly, sounding so much like himself that Thorin laughed.
"And a biscuit?" he teased, voice low and fond as they walked away slowly. The soft murmur of their voices was quickly lost in the heavy air.
As Kíli turned to follow them back up the tunnel, he couldn't help but turn back to take one last look at the dark river's surface once more.
It's sleeping, he'd reassured Bilbo.
But somehow, he wasn't entirely sure.
-o.O.o-
The Nursery Hall would prove to be a lot of work, Tilda was quickly discovering, but it was fun and rewarding, too. A small staff of dwarow, both dwarf and dam, worked here amongst badgers ranging in age from about three up to about twenty—and how strange for Tilda to realise that some of her charges were actually older than herself.
Dís brought her on the first day, and stayed part of the morning to help Tilda get her feet under her. Everyone was a little standoffish, and rigidly proper, at first, though it was nice that they were only nodding-ly deferential to her position, as the people of Laketown had been, so it was a comfortable sort of treatment. A Lady, as opposed to a Princess; and it went a long way to making Tilda comfortable; that, and this was something she was used to. Hopefully, others within the mountain would unbend in time.
She'd entertained and herded the youngsters at home when the adults were busy with reconstruction and there no other hands to spare; it was, perhaps, the one thing she did better than Sigrid, who was always far too practical and organized to be comfortable surrounded by tiny embodiments of chaos. Tilda's duties may have changed as the town changed, but she was always the one the children came to find. They didn't seem to care about her being Just Tilda, and a very poor excuse for a lady; at any rate, she still made a fine playmate.
So it didn't take her long to slip in and see what needed to be done, and by the time Dís had left her, Tilda was easily bumping along with both her staff and her charges, the latter of which, at least, got over any kind of guarded behaviour in short order when it became obvious that here was a new source of games and stories.
Such a community approach to family was unique, to say the least. In her own town, children sat lessons with whatever Old Auntie or Uncle in the neighbourhood was too old or infirm to work, until becoming old enough to secure an apprenticeship, or be put to work labouring, whether in the market, on the docks, or in the boats. Those with money could, of course, pay for extra lessons from those who had the skills. It meant that children like her, who honestly had had an aptitude for learning, would never get to exercise it, unless their parents were in funds enough to support it; if it hadn't been for her family's change in fortune, Tilda knew she would likely have ended up working whatever her husband's business was, or caring for his lands should she have been lucky enough to wed well, when she wasn't consigned to the home to raise children of her own.
Here in Erebor, children were considered more valuable than any treasure—and honestly, Tilda found it natural to adopt the same mentality. It really brought it into sharp focus when there were so few tiny voices calling in the corridors, or running in the halls. Laketown had been full of children—they were a commodity of the future; insurance that a given family would have enough hands to take care of all. Erebor had so few little ones, that you noticed every one. In just the two weeks she'd been here, she felt she could identify on site most of the children in her care, and it was humbling to realise that was the entirety of the children in the mountain older than a babe in arms.
Every child was encouraged, and given access to more resources than Tilda could have ever dreamed of having at that age. Parents took whatever time away from their endeavours they needed, until they could leave their younglings to the care of the Nursery Rooms, where they would be cared for, assessed, and encouraged, but above all, and this was the part that surprised Tilda given the dwarven dedication to work, the children were played with.
Dwarven badgers were quick-witted, and less inhibited than the children Tilda had dealt with, and it took all of her considerable creativity to keep them amused. Eventually, she'd taken them outside to the memorial garden, and showed the older ones how to fashion little wooden boats like the children in Laketown had done, using a belt knife and some withies. It wasn't long before they had created boats for the little ones as well, and the whole fleet was racing in the ponds, and Tilda could finally catch her breath.
Eilin, one of the dams concerned primarily with teaching lessons in the early afternoon, she was given to understand, tapped her on the shoulder. Her guarded expression could only be vaguely called a smile, but she handed Tilda a hot cup of tea, so the princess was ready to take it as a sign that maybe not all were unwilling to bend towards her.
"Good job!" Eilin told her briskly, fussing with awkward, though genuinely-meant, familiarity at Tilda's braids, getting the twigs out of it, and trying to shake the wrinkles out of the folds of her dress, before making a shooing motion with her hands. "Now we've got them occupied for a bit, go get a bite to eat before they exhaust the possibilities of the boats."
Lunchtime, then, and she was more than ready to take the opportunity of rank to retreat to her favourite haunt in the Clock Hall for a few minutes out from under scrutiny. Somehow, she wasn't too surprised when Bylgja joined her ten minutes later.
"Are you following me, now?" Tilda asked waspishly.
"Of course I am, your Highness," Bylgja responded with asperity. "You're hardly to be trusted on your own until you lose those silly elf tendencies."
Tilda snorted, and tipped her bowl to offer Bylgja some of the greens therein. The lady miner took a piece daintily and ate it with a sour look. Tilda smirked at her, knowing the dwarvish view on 'green things'.
Tilda raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, you did take it."
"I could hardly refuse the offer," Bylgja said primly.
"It'll do you some good. Can't have you getting scurvy on me—then who would keep me straight?"
The truth was, Bylgia had become a friend, or at least, the closest thing she had to one under the mountain, and she didn't deserve Tilda's bad mood, especially since it wasn't the dwarrowdam's fault.
Bylgia apparently didn't think so, either. "What bug has crawled up your nose?" she demanded, surreptitiously fishing out another cress green from Tilda's bowl. Tilda just tilted it to give her better access, without acknowledging the theft. When she didn't answer, Bylgia swiped the back of her head with one thick palm.
"Ow!"
"Speak up, then," Bylgia told her, unrepentant. "You don't have all day for lunch, and I'd like to get to the bottom of your foul mood, before it becomes endemic."
Tilda nibbled her lunch, considering. On one hand, it was mortifying to admit; on the other hand, Bylgia was the only one she could talk to who wasn't related to her husband in some way. And Tilda was pretty sure she would keep her confidence—also a huge plus in the close-knit society of the mountain. Making a quick decision, she took a deep breath, and couldn't help looking down at her hands instead of at the competent lady miner. Hunching her shoulders as she shared, "Things since the wedding have been…well, I don't know if Kíli thinks of me as a child, or if he's simply not interested in anything…er. With me. Like that, I mean." By the end, she was sure her cheeks were tomato red, but she looked up at Bylgja as defiantly as she was able.
Bylgia, for her part, simply looked skeptical. "Is all that muttering and stammering supposed to tell me that you don't have the physical relationship with your husband that you would like?"
Did Tilda forget to mention to herself the complete lack of tact possessed by most of her subjects? She wasn't even sure she dared to open her eyes at this point, she was that embarrassed, and her cheeks and neck positively burned with mortification.
Bylgia apparently took her misery as clear indication she was right. "And you know his Highness is not interested because…?"
"I, um, I tried to make arrows for him, to show my interest?" And oh, how her voice wobbled. Tilda would be ashamed later, when she remembered this conversation. Which would be as infrequently as she could possibly mange, to be honest.
Bylgia wrinkled her nose at Tilda's words. "Is this some sort of custom of Men?"
Tilda just stared, gobsmacked, and actually forgetting to be embarrassed. "What do you mean, a custom of Men?" she hissed, looking around to make sure there were no witnesses to this humiliating conversation. "It's a dwarfish custom!"
Bylgia turned her eyes heavenwards, before speaking very, very slowly, which Tilda thought was a bit much. "Did a dwarf tell you this was our custom?"
No; but it had been common enough knowledge in Laketown. Her stomach felt like there was something horrid congealing at the bottom of it, and for a moment, words stuck to her tongue. "But there was a whole ballad about it!" she couldn't help but wail. "Lady Alta and the dwarf smith Björn? It was a classic—and three whole stanzas were devoted to her wooing him with her appreciation and care for his weapons!"
Bylgia sniffed. "I'm sure it wasn't written by dwarves. What utter nonsense. If a dwarf had written it, it would be a much better chronicle of weapon care than just three stanzas."
"So what are the courting customs of your people?" Tilda asked, and her voice was wobbling again, and she hated to feel this way—gauche and provincial and not at all like she was a capable Lady in her own right.
She got another smack to the back of her head. "Stop that!" Bylgia barked. "Don't feel woebegone, like some gutter waif. You are a princess; command like one."
"Tell me how your people court!" Tilda commanded, and gave Bylgia an irritated look and felt supremely silly.
"Except me," Bylgia told her, swiping the last of Tilda's lunch as Tilda glared at her. "I don't respond to commands; not when you believe twaddle like human ballads about dwarves named Björn."
At that point, Tilda felt completely justified in sticking her tongue out at her.
"Save that for the prince. He'd have more use for it anyway," Bylgia told her calmly. "Now, if you're done being a silly elf, you might what to listen."
What followed was a very edifying afternoon; well worth the theft of her lunch.
-o.O.o-
"You're joking." Kíli stared at the Kandish merchant. The Ereborian Market was loud; it was always loud, but Kíli wasn't usually trying to hold such an important conversation in it, so it seemed especially loud today. Everywhere one looked were colourful displays of merchandise ranging from the prosaic to the bizarre. Merchant practically stood upon merchant to hawk their wares at anyone they could convince to listen. Frankly, Kíli knew that Thorin was practically desperate for Dale to open its markets again, to take some of the pressure off housing all of these hecklers in a mountain that was ill-equipped for the sheer number of invaders. Erebor had always had a great market, but the kingdom relied on Dale to take some of the brunt of it; to act as a buffer against the outside world for an insular and secretive society.
There were elves in Erebor, for pity sake. Three of them. Grandfather would roll in his grave if he knew; notwithstanding the fact that each one had one of Nori's 'specials' assigned to keeping an eye on them at all times.
"No lie, young Master," the man hastened to assure him. "And if, after his feat of bravery, his suit is accepted, her noble father would pledge an oliphant to the young couple, in blessing."
"Where would I even get an oliphant?" Kíli asked, bemused. "Or stable it, for that matter?"
"I could arrange for one for you, a very good price for such an impressive beast…." one of the merchant's companions waved him away with a derisive curse.
"I thought the father gave the oliphant, idiot?" This merchant was younger, wearing the traditional leathers of the nomadic horsemen of Rhovanion. His curly beard was sandy coloured, and his padded clothing green and brown. "Of course, what use would you or your fair lady even have for an oliphant?" he asked, giving his peer another disgusted look. "A warrior, when he finds the fair lady of his eternal affection, wishes to woo her with his strength, his ability to lead and to provide! A gift of his foe's head taken in battle is an excellent way to begin. It should be presented while still fresh, and before her parents, so that they may be assured of their daughter's suitor's prowess."
"Sounds…impractical," Kíli hedged, carefully, though at least this had some thoughtful consideration behind it. "At least, at present." Did Men really court this way? Did none of them do anything that made the least bit of sense? And, more plaintively, Why did they have so many different customs to court? Kíli had finally cleared an hour or so to spend down at the markets and tracked down a likely looking group to insert himself in. He'd always been charismatic, and it wasn't long before he'd been invited to join in for a pipe and to 'Talk of Affairs'. It really didn't take much to direct the conversation to courting customs; an affable grin, and slightly-too-young, wide-eyed demeanour….
Aaaand, that's where the mine cart derailed, because none of these buggers seemed to be able to agree how Men courted, which only furthered Kíli's bewilderment at how to proceed. But Tilda was hardly a dwarf, and it was the least he could do to try and respect her traditions, given that she had given up so much to come and live amongst strange people and their equally strange customs.
But an oliphant?
"A head?" The Gondorian factor had been sitting rather stiffly during the whole conversation, aloof and prim in his companions' company. He was a factor for a shipping merchant, in Dol Amroth, and considered himself rather far inland for his tastes. His clothing was refined, with much of the velvet and brocade the Gondorians, like the Stewardling, Denethor, seemed to prefer; and none of the cooler linens usually worn by the people who actually were born and raised in the port city, such as Lord Arahil. Kíli would lay heavy odds that Glaeron was actually from some minor holding outside of the White City, hoping to work his way to importance and employment within. "What a horrid notion," the man pronounced. He turned to Kíli with a disdainful sniff that excluded the others. "A man of quality will be sure to call upon his Lady during her hours of receiving, bearing with him an apple in one hand, and a horse whip in the other."
"What?" Kíli strangled, almost choking on his pipe-smoke.
"For if she should take the apple and throw it over her left shoulder, then it goes poorly for him; signifying that she will not suffer him, nor abide his suite or offer of support and provision. But, if she should take the whip, signifying her willingness to trust her lord to guide her, it goes well for him, and it is up to him to break it, signifying his commitment to her freedom, as long as he is able to protect it."
"And if he does not take the whip back and break it?" Kíli wasn't sure what horrible fascination made him ask, but he was sure it was the same that always had gawkers watching an overturned cart in the road.
Glaeron tutted. "Then he should be prepared for his suit to fail, for instead of throwing the apple over her shoulder, his lady is as likely to throw it at his head."
Kíli smirked. "Spirited," he said, sardonically.
"I do not think love is always so combative," the last of the group spoke. He was a sailor by his clothing, and spoke with the soft, loose accents and long vowels of the scattered seafolk of Enedwaith. "Nor a negotiated contract of fealty and protection. But rather an offer given without restraint or gifts of large beasts."
Arden endured the mocking, huffy catcalls and complaints of his companions with a calm smile, absolutely at ease with their derision.
"What do you think is a suitable gesture of the heart, then?" Kíli asked him, ignoring the others who were still heckling the seaman.
"The Men of Enedwaith are often away from the fair ones of their heart, and will undertake to carve a symbol of their pledge while they wait until they are ready to present it as a token of troth, that their lady may keep it in trust, until they return to them from the sea once more."
"What kind of symbol?" Kíli asked, intrigued, for this at last sounded promising—something he could do with his own hands for Tilda, that wasn't likely to drip unpleasantly on the carpet, or require special stabling.
"A spoon. Usually carved of lime wood, for it is common enough in my homeland, and durable in water. It will be intricately carved, using symbols of meaning to represent a lad's feelings and hopes for the union, as well as of family."
Kíli admitted, at least to himself, that he felt somewhat disappointed. "A wooden spoon?"
"Aye, for it is practical, and in itself a symbol of home and hearth, and all the things a man wishes to offer and build; a shelter of custom and feeling for two people to live and grow together in. It is the veriest token of a man's heart; an offer sweetly given in the upmost of earnestness and honesty."
Kíli blinked slowly, digesting this thought. "Arden, I think you Men are very wise, indeed."
A spoon. It had possibilities.
And nothing would do but Kíli began shaping one that afternoon. Finally, something Tilda would understand.
He really was far more clever than his kin.
-o.O.o-
Most mornings were still full of shy and awkward encounters, despite it having been well over two months since Tilda's arrival in the mountain. Kíli had truthfully hoped for better by now, but if he was being honest with himself, had to acknowledge that his hopes were probably unreasonable. Despite his knowing, bone-deep, that his wife was the Lady of his heart, his Umùrâel, Men didn't work that way. They didn't have Ones, and that thought was enough to frighten the hell out of Kíli. What if Tilda couldn't return his feelings? Tilda hardly knew him beyond the essentials, and their busy schedules did not allow for much more than shared evenings when they would linger shyly together in their small sitting area and work on various projects until it was late enough to retreat to their bedchamber.
Each morning found them waking on opposite sides of their bed, Tilda often wrapped in the counterpane like armour. They might exchange a few soft words—Kíli always strove to make some small conversation as they still lay cocooned away as if the world was on hold, just outside that door, and this space was just for they two. Fanciful notions, but he couldn't help himself from trying to make her smile, all sleep-tousled and languid and utterly vulnerable to his charm, as she was too quick-witted to be when she was fully awake.
Tired though he was, it was his favourite time of the day, and he'd be twice-damned if he was going to miss it for a little thing like lost sleep from another nightmare; this one without a subsequent midnight excursion, thankfully, though dawn had nearly broken before he could get back to sleep. This morning, the pale golden sunlight played nothing but homage to his lady, and her freckles looked particularly fetching to his, admittedly—possibly slightly—biased, eye. He had to stifle the silly urge to pull her in and kiss them all, and see if he couldn't count them with his lips.
"Good morning, my Lady," he told her softly, and she gave him the same shy smile she always did when he greeted her thus in the morning; soft grey eyes peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, and the corners of her lips upturning as the bridge of her nose flushed ever so faintly pink. It never failed to make his heart beat an extra beat, and warmth blossom within him, as if he were flushing under his skin, where no one could see, and the feeling of it settled just a little more into his bones with each passing day. His One, his Umùrâel, taking root within him as their souls met and blended around the edges. Not a true soul-bond, like Thorin and Bilbo had, of course, but there was no mistaking the feeling of her presence within him, and he thrilled to it, even as it frightened him that this was all he would ever have of her.
He pushed the feeling away. There was no room for fear during this part of his day, after all.
"Good morning," she returned, stretching her toes beneath the covers as far as she could point them as her fingers reached for the headboard. What a long, lean line she presented! And Kíli was thankful the coverlet was still mostly wrapped around her, or he might see more than he needed if he were to keep her from his thoughts today while he was in court. She tucked her arms back into her sides, as if suddenly realising how uninhibited she'd been, and blushed scarlet.
"Hey now, none of that," Kíli chided her gently, allowing himself to brush a strand of her hair and tuck it behind her ear. He didn't allow his fingers to linger, though. It was important to know one's limits, after all, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make Tilda feel he was crowding her, especially here in their bed. He closed his eyes to cut off the sight. If anything were to happen here, it would be of her own initiating, he promised himself firmly.
With that stern reminder, he opened his eyes once more, to see her regarding him, chewing her lip. "Do I have something on my face?" he teased, hoping she would share her thoughts with him, and enjoying the fact that she had already allowed herself to linger longer in his company than was usually her wont. He felt he could hoard every moment like a shining jewel.
"N-no," she stuttered, not anticipating being caught out, apparently. "Only—"
"What is it?" he asked, curious. He could feel his lips twitching with the effort not to grin at her adorable awkwardness as she struggled to find her words. When she finally did find them, though, she managed to completely steal his own.
"Could I...Could I maybe put your braids in your hair for you this morning?" she asked, and the words came out so quick and soft that Kíli probably wouldn't have caught them at all, if they weren't something he wanted to hear so badly.
For a moment it felt like his heart stopped beating there was so much joy in his thoughts—she wanted to braid his hair—! But it took only a second for him to realise his mistake and his heart fell, for of course Tilda knew nothing of the deep significance of what she was asking; she hadn't been brought up in their ways, after all. He tried to arrange his expression into something bland, something safe, but he worried what he must have looked like to her for those few unguarded seconds—a fear that was only confirmed when she hastened to clarify.
"I used to brush out Sigrid's hair all the time, and, well, I miss it. A bit of homesickness, perhaps." And she looked like she regretted it as soon as she said it, so she must not have meant to share as much. Kíli smiled, trying to look reassuring and easy, as if this wasn't going to be a torturous experience. She blew a frustrated breath, and his smiled wavered. Was this not what she wanted? She'd asked, after all…but a moment later and she was pushing herself from the bed, fetching his comb from his dressing table, and Kíli sat up so that she could crawl in to sit behind him, an action that was a flurry of dressing gown and ankles and tantalizing glimpses of knees and collarbones as her wrap was certainly not up to the task of preserving modesty for a scrambling young lady. It did little to ease the tense knot that had formed in his belly, unfortunately, though he was sure under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed the view immensely.
Kíli found it easier to simply close his eyes, and let her have free rein over his senses, while he fantasized that this actually meant something beyond comfort to a homesick young woman; that this was real, and he held his wife's affections in the way he wanted. Their room was filled with the warm golden glow of early morning, a time of day that Kíli jealously thought of as theirs; a time filled with as much conversation as he could coax from his wife before she left him to prepare for her day with the children.
This morning, though, there was no hushed voices to fill their room; Tilda was unusually quiet as she worked, and Kíli knew if he was foolish enough to open his mouth, something very soppy and adoring would come out of it. Her breath ghosted warm and moist on the back of his neck as she worked, and he could practically feel her fierce concentration as she teased out each tangle with nimble fingers until she could drag the comb through the whole unruly mass from root to ends. The soft scrape of the silver tines against his scalp, and more importantly, the knowledge of who wielded them, was only slightly less pleasurable than the last sexual encounter he'd had—which had been his hand—and when she added her fingers to the mix, it quickly overtook that hurried moment of physical release. How he kept from groaning aloud, he had no idea, but he desperately fought to keep his lip buttoned. Focusing on how she had no idea what this actually meant helped, but that way lay equal danger if dwelled on too long while she still had her hands in his hair and around his heart. He was caught between being glad that he normally wore so few braids, and wishing he wore more, to prolong the experience.
In the end, he was still undecided.
A scent clung to her, faintly floral and yet earthy, like the water lilies that bloomed in Bilbo's garden, and Kíli half hoped the scent would cling to his skin, too. She did a good job—in truth, probably neater than he usually bothered to make his braids; all except the braid of their union he'd put in for the first time in Dale—that one he always took his time with. He'd hoped one day to explain the significance to her, and ask the privilege of placing one in her hair as well—but such thoughts were best left for the cover of darkness; when his wife's breathing had slowed and he was able to slip into the bath as she slept for a few moments of privacy. The rest of the time, he suppressed such thoughts ruthlessly, lest he accidentally influence Tilda's regard in ways she would not want. As much as working with the deep voice of the earth brought him joy, he felt bone-deep weariness for the roles he had to play, and being constantly on his guard around those he loved.
The soft snick of the clasps closing, and she was done, ending what was possibly the most painfully wonderful quarter hour in recent memory. Tilda pulled away, sliding off the bed to put his comb away, no doubt, and Kíli caught her hand. "Thank you, my Lady," he managed, though he couldn't do a thing about how husky his voice sounded. He was going to make a show of clearing his throat to try and pass it off, when the look on Tilda's face stopped him. She looked surprised, but pleased somehow, and her cheeks held that faint flush that enticed him so. Instead of dissembling, he instead tugged her closer. Turning her hand over in his, and, without allowing himself to think too closely on it, he leaned forward, placing a soft, unhurried kiss in the centre of her palm, and he swore he felt her tremble beneath his touch. She watched him with wide, luminous eyes, then promptly turned and all but fled to her dressing room, muttering about being late. Kíli grinned to himself, not entirely sure what had just happened, but feeling good about it all the same.
This morning might not have been an utter disaster, after all.
-o.O.o-
Tilda practically flew out of their chambers that morning, absolutely, positively, totally…unsure about everything and anything that had happened—except maybe to think she might like it to happen again, only this time when she was better prepared for it. She'd had no idea implementing Bylgja's advice would end up like that. When she'd asked him to braid his hair, the look on his face had made her heart constrict in her chest, and she'd lost her courage not knowing what that look meant. When she'd blurted out that bit about her sister, and being homesick, she would have happily bitten her own tongue if she could have just taken those words back, and had some blasted courage. But somehow, he must have understood her intent; if she were honest, it's not like her excuse was really all that convincing…
She arrived at the Nursery Rooms, checks still flushed, and heat still suffusing her chest, and a smile on her face that she couldn't hide even if she wanted to. Working with a gaggle of dwarven badgers quickly got her mind off her butterfly-inducing morning; though, it was a fact that their antics were more likely to be met with a wink and a bit of co-conspiratoring this morning, than a scold.
She found her work with the children fulfilling; she knew she wouldn't be here forever, that eventually she would be moved into a more public role, but in the meantime, Lady Dís couldn't have come up with something that suited Tilda finer. She was never very good at staying clean to begin with, nor was she afraid of getting knocked about in the rough and tumble games the children came up with. She could sit in on lessons throughout the day, filling in the gaps of her own furtive studies back when she was reading Bain's books by candlelight, and she found that her understanding of the intricacies of family groups and dwarven society were becoming clearer, and the children had endless questions about Men, and Laketown and Dale and even Smaug and fishing and farming, that Tilda was suspiciously sure that she was fulfilling some purpose of Dís' by being here, too.
Her mother-in-law was truly formidable.
Whatever Dís' purpose may be, though, Tilda found that the children had warmed to her, and even their parents, when they came to fetch their young, had come to greet their princess with, if not smiles and warmth, at least not the stiff mistrust and guarded looks she had been met with at first, and that was more than enough to let Tilda feel that maybe, someday, there might be a place for her in this mountain after all.
When she finally did escape her charges for a bit of lunch, her thoughts slid back to Kíli without her conscious intervention to prevent them. What was he doing now? He would have tried to get in some time to work with his Master this morning, she knew, and she wished he didn't have to be so furtive with his Heart Craft. Midweek usually meant he was working in the markets, and with Nori, thought what precisely he did with Nori she was unsure. Some kind of security, she thought, but that somehow didn't seem completely right.
Idly, she wondered if he were as pleased with their morning as she was…
"What's got you smiling like a simpleton this morning?" Bylgja plunked herself down beside her, and Tilda didn't even flinch, despite not having been paying attention.
She was in the Memorial Gardens today, wanting to take advantage of the fine weather of late summer, and apparently she wasn't the only one who had thought of it, with the number of dwarves out walking the paths or enjoying a spot of lunch or a pipe. Even Bifur was there, sitting on the grass under a tree.
"Don't you actually have some kind of a job?" Tilda groused at the intrusion. She tilted her head back and let the sun warm her nose and closed eyelids.
Bylgja made a noise that Tilda would like to call a snort, if she didn't know that Bylgja would deny it vehemently. "Of course I do. That doesn't mean I don't have time to be nosy," Bylgja told her primly, then gave Tilda an expectant, sideways glance. "Well?"
"Well what?" Tilda grumbled, not sure why she was prolonging it—Bylgja would get it out of her eventually, anyway.
The dwarrowdam didn't even bother to say anything, just turned to Tilda with an unimpressed glare.
"Fine!" Tilda gave in, because honestly, she kind of wanted to talk and share and other normal things one did with friends who weren't children. "I had an enjoyable morning. With Kíli. And yes," she forestalled the miner's impatient interruption, "there was braiding. And that's all I'm going to share about it."
Bylgja just gave her a smug look. "Was there any mentions of weapons, or smiths named Björn?"
"You are a truly horrible friend, you know that?" Tilda decided that she'd had enough teasing, and cast out for a change of topic. "Bifur is a Master Cantor, is he not?" she asked, delighted to realise that this was a perfect opportunity to get some information about what it was Kíli did, without there being any danger to her husband.
Bylgja followed her gaze to where the Holy dwarrow was sitting, smiling gently as he whittled small toys for a group of children who seemed to be making excited requests. "Yes, he is the only Master Cantor currently under the mountain."
Tilda hummed in thought. "And Cantor's are terribly important, aren't they?" she asked carefully, not after any specific information, simply wanting to know whatever she could.
Bylgja huffed. "Not much happens in the mountain that the Cantors aren't involved in, at least potentially. They could be wanted to sit in with foreign dignitaries, consulted about decisions of alliance or war; to listen to the voice of our Maker and glean from it what they can of the impact of our actions or the feelings our allies or enemies leave upon the earth. Here in Erebor, Master Bifur has the added duty of singing to all the stone; no mine shafts can be reopened until he has assessed them for damage from Smaug, deep damage—the kind that can only be felt and not seen." She sighed, sounding tired, and Tilda realised that if Cantors were involved in so much, and were needed for so many things, Bylgja might have so much free time on her hands because new mineshafts weren't being struck, and old ones not being reopened. And Kíli could help alleviate the problem, only he daren't, in case he was found out.
Poor Kíli!
"If Cantors have so much status, why is Bifur alone? Why isn't he married?" Tilda asked. "I mean, in Laketown, such an important person would have his choice of wives.' She rushed on, as another thought occurred to her. "Is it because of his...of is injury? I mean, I thought it was only his Westron that was affected?"
"Injured or no, Master Bifur wouldn't marry anyway," the Mining Mistress told her, sounding amused. "Many dwarrow never feel the love of another; they choose love of craft instead. Cantors, especially, never bond. They are filled with the voice of Mahal, and have little room in their hearts for aught else."
Never bond.
Curious how hearing the death of all her hopes struck her; Tilda could remember each individual second like it was its own event: The one in which her heart contracted in her chest, and the feeling was so swift it took her breath away; the long stretch of them while she forgot to breathe while she concentrated on this new pain, until it finally dulled enough that she could make her lungs work once more, but all the while she held on furiously to her curious expression, not wanting any hint of the turmoil in her breast to show.
She remembered the second in which her heart broke; and the one in which she stiffened her spine.
"They never fall in love?" she asked, and was distantly proud of how even her voice sounded. "Surely, in all your history, it's happened before, at least once?"
Bylgja shook her head. "It has always been thus. The Voice of Mahal, and its mysteries, are all encompassing. Cantors are devoted to that alone—they just, don't have anything left over to give someone else."
This was…not what she'd hoped, obviously. The really horrible part, was that it changed nothing. She was still Tilda of nothing in particular it turned out, and she still had a role to play.
But that wasn't quite right—she had her people, who were depending on her—her!—to carry on, and she found, deep in her heart, that she couldn't be angry at Kíli for what he was unable to give. She would still support him, be his partner—and oh how she rued not listening closer! That's all he'd ever asked her for, after all. She could be his Lady, his princess and support him as she'd agreed to do. And somehow, she would find a way to put away her hopes and smooth out the edges of her pain. Looking back at the last few months together, things rearranged themselves in her mind, fitting too easily with this new information. Kíli had never had romantic designs on her; all he had been was supportive and affectionate. Even his sweet gesture of this morning was just that—sweet and affectionate, and altogether chaste.
A friend, he'd asked for; a partner.
They could be friends, of that she was sure. In time.
Just…not right now.
Something must have slipped, because her companion was looking at her with concern. "What—"
"If you'll excuse me, Lady Bylgja," Tilda cut her off quickly. "I...I feel a headache coming on. I think I need to see Óin." And with that, Tilda swiftly got to her feet, and hurried from the garden. Fiercely, she focused on walking sedately, and not running to hide while so many eyes were still on her, as her heart wished her to do. For some reason, she couldn't banish the cold creep of hostile eyes watching her as she left, and she scolded herself for her over-active imagination.
It had been weeks, after all, since she'd truly felt like an outsider here.
It was just indigestion...
...or, more likely perhaps, heartbreak.
-o.O.o-
Author's Note:
Annnnd fail :(
I hate writing them in pain, I really, really do. I feel like a bad mother, somehow...
Chapter eleven is almost polished, twelve is on it's way to be beta'd, and we are still on-track to finish this story sometime this lifetime -lol-
Thank you all, so, so much for reading, and reviewing :) As always, your encouragement amazing and greatly appreciated. Send me all your good vibes - thirteen is rearing its ugly head, and is not wanting to be subdued...chapters be fearsome beasts, indeed :p
Where, oh where, is Saint George, when you need him?
-Ny