"Penetrate the words of the soul
And the lies of the mind
And the fears of the heart
And the tears of the blood
And the coldness of the flesh
She is not herself when she speaks,
She is not herself when she's gone."
"Welcome home, my lady. Shhh… do not rise yet. All is well, lie back."
Soft covers, soft pillow, soft mattress, sweet flower scent. This is not Erebor; was all her sluggish mind managed to provide her with. In Erebor, the mattress was hard, the air and the covers choked with dust; her pillow was harder than the mattress, and had the habit of rhythmically moving.
Not Erebor.
She opened her eyes.
The man who sat by her bed wore a gray expression and had soft, indecipherable eyes. He had long, brown hair, streaked with silver, thin eyebrows, and sharp features. His elegant, thin frame and bone-like fingers moved gracefully as he cleaned her forehead with a damp cloth. Her throat tightened at the touch.
"Would you like a sip of water, my lady?"
His voice, too, was smooth and sleek. Familiar. Why? She opened her mouth to respond, but all she managed was a raspy sigh, so the man lifted her head carefully and poured a few sips of the precious liquid down her dry throat. The coldness felt invigorating against her chapped lips and the water revived her body, though its sudden passing awakened a dull ache in the middle of her chest.
"Thank you," she croaked when the man lowered her head with the same careful movements to the pillow. He wore a healer garb, she suddenly noted. The cloak was usually almost blindingly white, tailored to fit the body tightly so as not to interfere with the healer's work. The white was a symbol of health; during darker times of war and pain, the garb was stained red with the patients' blood, and thus marked the price of adversary.
This healer's clothes were earthly brown and dry red; there was little white to be seen.
"You were at the battle," she observed. Whispered, rather. Her voice was barely heard and unrefined from lack of exercise.
The healer leaned back, a shadow passing over his eyes. "I was," he admitted. Soft, mellow tones. Sadness. "Her ladyship should rest," he added. "I shall give you the blood of the Fumella, to ease –"
She had no time for that, surely. As sluggish and slow as she felt, she could not endure oblivion again without first satisfying her desperate need to know – "Did they survive?" she asked hurriedly, urgently, and attempted to sit again despite that stubborn beating pain – "The Durins –"
His hands were thin, thinner than hers, but restricted her to the bed with a strength she did not expect. His eyes were harsh, suddenly. The chill in the bright green seeped the strength from her limbs.
"You demand too much, my lady," he said smoothly, cryptically. "You are wounded. You should rest."
"I cannot. Not before –"
"Her ladyship has suffered much. She is confused. She does not remember that worry for her people's welfare should come before the one for foreigners'." Calm voice, cold with anger. He rose to tend to something she could not see, but the sudden thick, sweet smell made her eyes close on their own.
"You… lost. Someone." She fought against the overwhelming odor and tried to force her eyes open. Her limbs were too weak to obey her commands.
"As tactful as your father." A healer's mask covered his smooth, thin lips. His hands were gentle as he once again lifted her head and poured the red, thick liquid down her throat. "You do not even remember me."
She lost her consciousness before she could grasp the meaning of his words.
The darkness that welcomed her was as red as blood.
He was slow to regain consciousness, his mind throbbing with pain.
His body felt heavy, restrained, rusty. He could barely shake his own head. He could not move anything below his neck. That sensation, at least, was not unfamiliar. Axoloa.
Thorin opened his eyes.
Pain was something every warrior eventually learned to appreciate. Pain meant you were alive and still owned that painful mass of bone and muscle. Pain was a blessing because pain meant you survived.
His body throbbed in agony and discomfort that made him curse the very notion of pain.
"Well, looky here! Good morning, laddie!"
Voices. Footsteps. Light coming from a wide window. Erebor.
Oin was by his side within moments, checking up on him, probing and examining and nodding in approval with every hiss that escaped Thorin's clenched teeth. "In two weeks, I say, you'll be up and running! How do you feel?"
"Shitty," he managed. Longer, more sophisticated words were beyond him. "What happened?"
"Quite a bit, actually. You were asleep for three weeks. Dain has been taking care of the fortress in your stead. Repairs and what not. He will be thrilled to hear of your recovery. The boys would too, I imagine. And maybe Dis will calm down a bit. She has been planning to yell at you ever since she had arrived."
"Dis is here?"
"Aye. Arrived a few days ago." Oin chuckled. "Worry not, I am sure the sight of you covered in bandages will soften her up!"
"You do not know my sister," Thorin rasped.
Oin chuckled again. He made him drink a potion of sorts to reinvigorate his senses and then walked into the hall, yelling something Thorin did not manage to catch.
He returned, beaming. "Gloin's son. Fine lad, that. A fine child…." He sighed, and his eyes focused on Thorin again. Was it pity? Disappointment? The old healer looked older than he remembered. Tired.
"Help me up."
"Not yet, lad." Oin shook his head. "Must do something about that suicidal fightin' style of yours. Surely this was not Fundin's teachings. Even Lord Meneldor commented on it…."
"The Eagles were here?"
"Aye. And Lord Beorn. He is still here, waiting for the winter to pass. He was the one to pull you out." Oin's face was gray. He was leaning on a cane, Thorin suddenly noted. "Even the Elves could not get to you. The Elves saved them; the boys." He added upon noticing the fearsome scowl on Thorin's face, "Don't be a fool, Oakenshield. If not for the Lordling –" He paused, changed his mind. "Beorn pulled you out," he repeated.
The healer turned away, muttering to himself. Something about herbs and medicine. Or perhaps something to distract the mind and stop the memories.
"Oin?" He knew that face. "Who?"
"Dori. Bifur." He paused. "Gloin."
"Oin…."
"You!"
The door opened abruptly – was nearly tore off its hinges, in fact, and in strode a flutter of fabric and fur.
"That serej bund! Where is – that uncommonly idiotic – fool of a Durin!"
"Hello, Dis," he managed when the infuriated woman drew much-needed air, probably so she could continue cursing him, "idmi d'dum."
She paused and sneered, "Quite a nerve you've got there, welcoming me into my father's halls after you almost led my two boys to their deaths," she spat. "You promised me you would keep them safe! Had I known you'd be acting this recklessly, I would have tied you to your bed until the entire foolish notion of claiming this crumbling pile of rubble would have passed." She cocked her brow. "Though I see Oin had already done a fine job of that," she finished sweetly, eyes flashing fire.
Her muscles bulged, barely restrained by the finesse of her dress. Her entire posture was a promise of violence.
"Come now, sweet cousin." Dain slapped her back, smiling uneasily. "Lad just woke up. Have a go at him when he gets out of bed, yeah?" He turned to Thorin. "You look terrible."
"I did not imagine otherwise," he remarked drily. "What is the state of affairs?"
Dain laughed. "Look at you! Barely alive but still talking business."
"You could have at least inquired about your nephews," Dis interrupted sharply, still glaring daggers at him, heaving rage and thunder. Thorin supposed he was lucky she wasn't actually aiming daggers at his head. Dis had an exceptionally good aim.
"I understood them to be well," he hedged.
"They are. No thanks to you," she hissed and ignored Dain's not so discreet eye roll. Dain himself was a reckless, one-against-twenty kind of warrior. No doubt he thought Kili's and Fili's actions to be laudable. "They followed you into the heart of battle – attempted to protect you from your own folly – nearly gave their lives to save yours! What kind of a leader are you, charging by yourself? No strategy, no thinking, no – you tried to take out at least four hundred clansmen alone, if reports be true!" she accused. "The only reason they did not tear you limb from limb sits in the front yard and attempts to reconstruct the front wall by himself, I believe. My sons are also alive, also not thanks to you – they were saved by a force of Elves, led by Thranduil's son! And even they could not save you from your own foolishness! I can hardly believe –"
"Give the lad some credit, will you? He and your sons nearly took half the horde out," Dain tried to appease her. He could see a glint of approval in his cousin's nod. Perhaps his sister was not so far from the truth. This was not exactly reassuring.
"I instructed you, specifically, to keep them safe!" Dis ignored Dain, her voice just as commanding and infuriated as before. "Do you know what that felt like, riding to Erebor in the middle of winter and meeting on the way a raven who told me that if I didn't hurry, I might arrive just in time to bury you? Bury my sons? Have I not buried enough, Thorin, that you would have me bury them as well? My sons, Thorin!"
She turned away from him. His sister, intense and fierce and unyielding. Fiery and proud, she held them together. As strong willed as the rest of the Durin line, she was a force to be reckoned with. No other woman could ever compare to her in her power of will or fierceness of nature.
Blue eyes looking up as tears, as pure as diamonds, rolled down a pale cheek…
"Dis…" he tried, but he was not sure what to say. What could he say? He acted recklessly. He was in such a feat of rage, he could not even remember the battle.
"They said you fought in a frenzy. Cutting right and left, not even bothering to defend yourself," Dis accused, "and all of that because –"
"Now, now!" Dain interrupted, voice needlessly loud, "We are here to discuss matters of state and alliance! Balin and Dwalin will soon join us, and Beorn too, I think, but if you can't rejoice at your brother's recovery, I must ask you to leave."
Dis now focused her infuriated glare on Dain. Thorin was impressed with the way his cousin did not budge an inch. "You may not order me around, Iron-foot!"
"Can't have you killing our Duke 'ere, either." Dain was not too impressed with Dis' willfulness. He was a duke himself, used to ruling and to Dwarven women. And while Dis was the sister of the leader of the Dwarven Bond and belonged to a superior house, she was not a duchess. But she was a Durin.
Dis' fierce gaze challenged Dain's aggravated one, and Thorin considered interrupting the staring contest when the door opened again and in strode Balin, Dwalin, and Beorn.
The latter had to duck, but he did not seem to mind the fact as he smiled ruefully at Thorin. "Sun's shining bright!" he declared with a touch of merriment.
"That means good morning," Balin translated, relief and kindness beaming from his old, wise eyes. Balin too looked like he had aged a decade. Dwalin nodded at him, offering a short-lived smile, and then took his place next to the door. Thorin frowned. Too many things happened. Too many things that he must catch up on. Too many things –
"So, now that we are gathered," Dain said, smiling broadly and clapping his hands, "let's review everything, eh? To be honest, I cannot wait to get out of this dump – no offense –"
"Does not look like much of a ruin anymore, if I dare say so myself." Balin smiled. "Heating and lighting systems all work in the west and the south wings. Nearly all the paths, including the main mining routes, are clear of rubble, and most of the sleeping quarters and usable again, even if nothing is in the best of shapes…."
"Aye, my men have been working day and night to fix Erebor. They are warriors, not builders, architects, or artisans." Dain sounded sour. "Those will come soon enough, worry not."
"We survived the worst days of our first winter rather well." Balin refused to be anything but optimistic. "Our alliance with Bard and even Thranduil strengthens in hold every day –"
"Thranduil?!" Thorin roared. He attempted to sit and was pushed down yet again.
"Easy, cousin." Dain forced him to lie down and withstood with ease Thorin's rather pathetic attempts to free himself. "Don't go back into limbo just yet, eh? I also want to go home, Thorin."
Realizing that any chance to throw off Dain was futile at best, particularly in his current condition, Thorin gave up. He swallowed his wounded pride and his anger and demanded, "How weak have we become, that we must align with that oath breaker?" he spat.
Dis glowered. "His boy saved my sons, remember? We owe that 'oath breaker' nothing but gratitude."
Balin swiftly added before Thorin managed to growl his response, "The Elven Lord was… agreeable, after Gandalf spoke with him. He agreed to deliver quite a bit of food and fabrics and materials to help us endure the first winter. He also lent us many of his healers and opened his borders for trade. He extended the same assistance to Bard, of course. The Duke of Dale has been spending most of his time building Dale, but he also agreed to start trading and already began paying handsomely for our services as builders out of the payment of the settlement."
Thorin glowered. "How much did you pay him?"
"Ten chests per family of Dale was the agreed amount," Dain answered, "and the Gems of Lasgalen to Thranduil. Took us a month to find them, granted, but he was pleased all the same."
"Those gems were spoken for," Thorin hissed.
Balin and Dwalin exchanged a glance, Dis narrowed her eyes, and Beorn's face remained expressionless.
Dain shrugged. "Weren't claimed. And the tree-shagger was pretty adamant, so who cares? Give him the stupid gems and be done with it." His eyes were calculative, but he did not push the subject. The name that everyone was thinking of, but none would dare speak, did not cross his lips.
"The war took a heavy toll," Dain continued, changing the subject, "from all alliances alike. At the first day of spring, we were planning to celebrate the rebirth of the free land and commemorate the fallen. You don't have an issue with that, do you?"
"No, cousin," he answered. "Tell me more."
So thus they sat, with servants bringing food and ale, debating policies and the like. Balin was the voice of reason, Dain of practicality, Dis of pride. From taxing to housing to maintenance to mining to trading, no subject was left untouched. Fili did not join them, but Thorin was assured he was in charge of some building project. Kili was hunting. The odd coldness that bloomed in Dis' eyes when he inquired about their location dissuaded him from inquiring further. They will wait.
Beorn threw in his opinion every once in a while, shaking his head at them and their stubbornness. He was invited to join the council because of his status, but Thorin caught him more than once glancing in his direction, eyes clouded and undecipherable. He did not seem to be fond of their ways.
Dain was the embodiment of fire, Thorin mused. He had blazing red hair, streaked with white, and brown eyes, aflame with passion. The mane was shaggy and adorned with beads of silver and gold and mithril, and the just as wild beard was barely tamed by the intricate braids that symbolized his statue. He was stockier and shorter than Thorin, perhaps, but his frame was broad and muscular, and his axe arm was especially massive. A cunning, dangerous warrior and an able leader. One could see the love he had for his people shining just as bright as the hate he had for his enemies.
Dis, on the other hand, wore the muted colors of his house – paler skin, blue eyes, and raven black hair, but she too was a force to be reckoned with. She was a warrior, wide of frame and muscular, but graceful and beautiful nonetheless. She rarely smiled or laughed, these days, and a glower settled permanently on her features. She had broad features, strong and prominent – large eyes, sharp nose, thick lips and strong chin, and her wild beauty had few rivals.
She was the embodiment of strength; she was meant to survive. Her blue eyes were sharp and polished, and there was no softness about her. This was a woman who had endured and would endure everything.
"Thorin, please…"
Dwalin, on the other side of the room, remained silent. He did not approach his lord, only looked on or away from afar.
Oin entered suddenly, apparently interrupting a debate between Dis and Dain, whose voices rather quickly became louder and louder. "Come now, you disrupted His Grace's recovery for a good, long while! Out, all of you!"
Dain smiled as he approached him. "Heal quickly, cousin. I don't know how many days will I be able to endure the nagging of this one." He chuckled.
Dis, not half as amused, slapped his shoulder and then smiled sweetly at Thorin. "Yes, recover well, brother, so I could put you back in this chamber myself."
Balin smiled and bowed, following the still arguing cousins. Beorn did not bow but he nodded at him as well as he exited. Dwalin remained. He did not move from his spot against the wall where his eyes glinted out of the dark.
"Dwalin," he said, attempting to invite him over, but it was Oin who appeared, tilting his head with expert hands and pouring white, chalky liquid into his mouth.
He thought he heard someone say, 'I should have protected him better,' but he wasn't sure.
A dull ache and a strange pull, almost a resistance, as if she was rising from underwater.
She only managed to open her eyes with the power of her will, but could not tell what her eyes were seeing. She breathed in deep the sweet scent of honeysuckle and wintersweet, the refreshing bite of fresh snow, the comforting scent of birch burning, her father's favorite firewood. Not Bag End.
As the shades around her began to gain shape and form, the colors redefined themselves into walls, a light green divan, and silver and white curtains, tied with woven ropes of burgundy. Her old room.
"'Quel amrun, Hiril nín."
Ningalor turned her head with difficulty toward the voice, feeling weak and dizzy.
"I must say I expected you to rise yesterday. You wanted to sleep, I see." It was the healer again, still dressed in the blood-stained robe. It either meant that the battle was still taking place, or that there were still patients he had yet to heal. His green eyes scrutinized her, then he nodded. "I understand," he murmured, as if to himself, and there was a shade of compassion, easing the sharpness of the eyes glazed with pain.
Once again, she concluded he was grieving. A healer may not wear his grief while blood still flows fresh. Last time she asked him about his pain, he drugged her, so this time, she decided to say nothing.
"Silent." The healer sat by her side and checked her temperature. She scowled at the impertinence, as he should have asked for her permission, now that she was conscious to give it. The man was not impressed by her facial expression. "How good of you to finally wake. I am sure His Grace will be very pleased to see you conscious."
He was taunting her.
"Are you sure that it isn't you who is the happy one?" she bit. "You drugged me despite my will."
The healer narrowed his eyes at her. "Cheeky child. Versions of events are measured by loyalty."
"Loyalty is measured by blood."
The man tensed. Ningalor looked away, as she was too weak to wave him away. The healer removed his hand and curled it in disdain. With his dark hair and green eyes, one could not mistake his for anything but Silvan lineage. How hard he must have trained and worked to prove himself again and again to her father. But even a Sindar healer should not have allowed himself to –
Then she realized.
"Nestor," she said and returned her eyes to the healer. The young, witty apprentice, sharp-tongued and reserved yet driven, hardworking. He was warmer once.
"Ah, my lady remembers," the man commented. "May I continue with the treatment, my lady?"
She nodded weakly. Her neck, and slowly her chest as well began to awaken from the influence of the Fumella. The sensation made her restless, but she could not move her limbs yet.
"You were struck by something. Blunt, I'd say. Like a pole. A strong blow, but not enough to penetrate the skin." Ah. He had not seen to her clothes, then. It must have been the young, female guard. The oddly terrified guard. Nestor removed her blanket and opened the ties of her robe. Her chest was bound in cloth, as by tradition, but the spot below it was greenish in coloring. The area around it, about four inches in radius, was yellow, while the center was blotchy with green and purple. It was swollen, but not terribly so. She groaned unwillingly.
"Hmm, yes," Nestor agreed. "His Grace wants to know what caused the injury. The scars on your hand and arm as well."
"My encounter with Smaug," she said colorlessly.
Nestor froze. He glanced up sharply and uttered with dismay, "Impossible."
She did not bother gracing it with an answer. Nestor either chose to believe her or decided not to risk insulting her further and remained silent. She did not flatter herself to think that it was her he opted to respect. No, the man simply did not want to anger her father. She wondered what made him so bitter, what churned his mood and turned him vicious. She wondered whom he had lost.
She knew better than to ask.
Nestor applied salves of some sort to the bruised area. He was gentle with her, which she appreciated.
"It will please you to know," he said slowly, eyes calculative, "that your child was unharmed by the injury."
She winced, and not because he tenderly pressed cold cloth dipped in ointment against the bruise.
"It does not please me," she whispered. She gulped, trying to still her shaking heart. Even that relief she was denied. She looked at Nestor, pleading. She hadn't mustered the courage to beg.
The healer looked at her coldly, then sighed. Perhaps he found he had an ounce of pity to share with the silently weeping lady. "I cannot help you; you know I cannot." He rose and looked away, avoiding her eyes. "I will tell His Grace you need your rest," he muttered and left quickly before she could manage to breathe his name.
A small modicum of kindness, she thought hopelessly, was not a matter of small consequence.
"Come, brother, let's spar!"
"Can't, Frerin. I must study."
"You are going to be the worst warrior in the entire line of Durin if you don't practice. I bet I can beat you. Blindfolded, too!"
"Didn't I defeat you last Wednesday?"
"That was ages ago! Besides, Fundin taught me a new trick. Showed me your weaknesses, too."
The images were blurring, shifting.
"I'll be the best fighter, just you watch!"
And he was the best fighter. Frerin's fire was hard to match. His furious onslaught was common knowledge. The golden lord of Erebor.
"Just you watch, brother!"
He was sitting in the garden of Ered Luin, body hunched and sweat gleaming off his brow. Arms folded as he leaned on his knees, gaze glassy and focused inward. His hair and shirt were rumpled. He was crying, but when you lay a hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off angrily and rose abruptly, walking away. Away from you.
"I don't care if you are the duke to be. I don't care! I need to be there! I need to be there, Thorin!"
"Frerin…."
"I too have lost my mother, Thorin. Stop pretending you don't care! Stop trying to be so – Just stop! Get away from me!"
Your brother was crying. Your brother broke down and cried, and you could do nothing about it. And even if you could, you didn't. Burdened with loss and too much –
Your brother is lying in the snow. He wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be home he was supposed to watch over your sister he was supposed to be alive he was not supposed to be lying here in the snow with blood staining his golden locks and his ribcage broken and hand twisted unnaturally and eyes glassy and frozen his eyes weren't meant to remind you of milky glass made by inexperienced apprentices he was supposed to be alive he was –
You pulled Lily out of the water, her body cold and heavy in your arms, limp, lifeless –
She breathed, "Tho… rin…" and molded her body to fit yours better –
"I'm bored, brother!" Frerin swung his axe right and left. "Let's go hunting!"
"So I could outride you again?"
"Shut it, Dis! You are not invited!" Frerin glowered. "It's gonna be just us boys!" He smiled brightly at Dwalin, who rolled his eyes as he sharpened his blade.
"She's the better rider and ya know it," Dwalin said, smirking at Frerin's exasperated sigh.
Dis wasn't appeased. "'M Coming too!" she declared, "Want to ask Dad see what he says?"
Your knuckles turned white in frustration. "Take it outside, will you? I need to –"
"Study!" they completed the sentence for you.
"Augh. Trade. I hate trade," Dis said, peering over your shoulder.
"I hate numbers." Frerin shook his mane. "Blades make much more sense."
"You just say that because you struggle with your numbers."
"Do not!"
"Do so!"
You were just about to tell them to be silent once and for all when your father stepped into the room, smiling wearily at the three of you. Your mother followed, frowning slightly, yet her face also eased into an exhausted smile. You never asked her why she always looked so tired.
"Dad! Let's go hunting!" Dis smiled sweetly, using her charm. Again. It wasn't fair.
"I am afraid I cannot, nanging," he dismissed her. "How are your studies, son?" His eyes were weary and displeased when you showed him. He nodded, but his expression did not ease in the slightest. "I had hoped you will have finished your reading by now."
Your cheeks reddened and you sent your brother a nasty glare. Frerin scowled. His eyes darted back to his axe in a barely disguised pout –
You took the two steps necessary without even thinking about it. One hand rushed to clash with her shoulder and shove her against the wall as your other drew Orcrist, aimed, and thrust the blade, pushing as deep as you could –
"Come now, surely Thorin deserves a little break?" your mother said, taking a step into the room. Her hand lifted, as if to touch you, and then returned abruptly to rest at her side.
Thrain grumbled, then said, "Frerin, Dis! Why won't you go hunting? Tis a beautiful day. Stop bothering your brother."
Lily's hands pushed at your chest feebly, so feebly you barely felt them, then fell to her sides –
"Thorin, why won't you join them? He has been locked in his room all morning." She aimed the second part of her sentence at Thrain. "Watch over them," she added, eyes flickers to look at you, then away.
Frerin scoffed.
Thrain sighed. "You heard it, Fundinson?" He turned to the young man, who snapped into attention. "Two eyes open at all time."
"Yes, my lord."
"Frerin? Frerin! Wake up! Wake up, damn it! Wake up! Get up! That's – That's – Get up!" He was so cold when you pulled him against your chest. "Get up now. Look at me. Brother – " It wasn't raining. Those drops of water weren't rain. "Wake up! Look at me!"
But he was asleep. He was looking at you and he was asleep.
Don't make me bury another Durin…
"I am Ningalor, daughter of Thranduil, lady of Mirkwood." She was crying. "Thorin –"
"Thorin!"
He was sitting up in his bed with sweat pouring over his forehead and his body a mess of shakes and tremors. Fresh blood trickled from his knuckles and stained on the wall of stone next to him where he must have punched it. His hand quivered in pain. He looked up, chest heaving, to find Dwalin kneeling by his side, worried, hands gripping his shoulders.
"No more Axoloa."
Ningalor glanced out the window. The view of trees laden with snow did not capture her attention. Her eyes followed the fall of the snowflakes as they dusted the evergreen forest. Wounded, the servant said as she snatched the earrings from her palm. Gravely wounded.
Ningalor tensed only slightly at the sound of footsteps.
"…Why Wasn't I informed of this before?"
"My… wounded… three months is the proper…."
"Do you really think that propriety is relevant anymore?" her father roared. Huh. She was quite certain she never heard her father raise his voice before.
Her father burst into her room, which was another unusual occurrence, with Nestor in his wake. The healer seemed bothered, but when his eyes met hers the green was smooth and emotionless. It was his grief that polished his eyes and drained the green of its color. His eyes were vivid once, weren't they?
Not that it mattered, because her father was leaning over her, face pale with rage and blue eyes ablaze.
"Tell me it is a mistake, daughter," he commanded. "Tell me my healer is tired and in need of rest. Tell me there had been a mistake. Tell me!"
There was a note of desperation in his tone. Wasn't this scene familiar? Her hand played with her ring under the folds of her dress. She suddenly remembered how Nori, in a futile attempt to buy her time, asked Thorin for the meaning of his inquiry.
"It is true."
Her father stepped away, as if her confirmation settled around her like a curse. His eyes had a note of pleading, shock, then rage. He looked aside, attempting to control his temper.
"Who did this to you."
It wasn't a question; not really. But it seemed her father had no intention to blame her.
"I will have his name, daughter! Who dared defile you? Who –" He sat by her side on the divan next to the large window and gently touched her cheek. She looked up, eyes wide and lips parted – she did not expect this. Not gentleness. Why was he gentle with her?
"You don't eat; you barely sleep; you rarely speak. I thought… I never thought something like this would ever happen to a child this pure, oh, my daughter…."
Oh.
She looked down, for she knew that this too was kindness she did not deserve. Nor did her father deserve to feel guilty over a crime that never took place. Nor did Thorin – she did not complete the thought. Swallowing the bitterness over the reaction she knew would follow, she uttered, "It… it wasn't forced."
She did not need to look up to feel him tensing. "Surely you do not mean that." His voice was silken, dangerous. "I will have the name of your defiler. I will avenge your honor."
"There is no such name." She looked up, knowing she must, and the pain and shock in her father's eyes made her heart squeeze in equal anguish. He did not deserve to have such a misbehaving daughter. "I am sorry, Adar," she whispered.
Thranduil's hand dropped. He looked away. "A name, Ningalor. I need a name."
"I have none to give."
"Do you not even know the name of the man you – " The air deserted his lunged in a rush of rage. His face twisted balefully. "I thought I raised you to be better than this."
It stung. She swallowed her pain before she answered, "He promised he'd marry me," she whispered, suddenly aware of how foolish she sounded. She regretted the words the moment they crossed her lips.
"Oh. Did he now. I thought you cleverer. At least your worth should have been clear to you." He glared at her stomach as if he could kill the unborn child with his stare. Ningalor would not be surprised if it were true. "Did you try to kill it?"
She exhaled weakly. "Yes," she admitted.
Thranduil scoffed. He stood up, and she flinched unwillingly when she sensed the fury radiating from the man. Her father.
"Kill it."
The command was directed at the healer. Nestor bowed – his cloak was white again, she noted, and he wore a circlet of black, burned metal to signify his grief. He had no need for that; the man draped his sorrow around him like a cloak of shadows.
"I cannot, Your Grace," he answered colorlessly. "The goddess forbids it. A child is a gift, even one created under unfortunate circumstances. If you wish to kill your own blood," the healer added, a note of spite in his voice, "you must bring the issue before the White Council."
Thranduil snarled. His face was a mask of twisted features as the muscles contorted in indignation, eyes livid and teeth bared, his body tense with the rawness of his rage vibrating around him.
Nestor took an involuntary step back.
He could not go to the White Council without letting everyone know of her disgrace; his disgrace. Nor could he do that without a name of the offending party and proof that the child was created in a way that broke the laws of the Valar. Thranduil could not take that path.
"My daughter will not have a child unmarried. Remove the nuisance."
"I am afraid I cannot, Your Grace. It is a sin," the healer explained, and there was a measure of emotion cracking through the expressionless demeanor. "I am sorry, Your Grace. This cannot be done."
Thranduil turned to look at her and her breath deserted her under the weight of his venomous glare.
"Very well. Let the thing be born. If we cannot kill the bastard, at least we will provide it with a father."
She looked up, horrified, but her father could not be moved. His rage was not to be appeased – the cold eyes were merciless and held no warmth for her; it was as if he did not recognize her.
"Nestor; your lover died in the battle, did he not?"
Nestor did not hurry to answer; he seemed to have realized Thranduil's plan and tried desperately to think of a way out of it. "Yes, Your Grace," he admitted weakly.
Thranduil sneered, "Worry not; even spoiled, my daughter is still superior to you and your lineage. Arodon, however, was a Sindar, was he not?"
It was strange to see emotion twisting the emotionless features of the healer. "Your Grace, please, do not –" His eyes were wide with horror and his face pale with suffering. He looked like a man drowning, a man about to lose all that was dear to him in this world.
"We cannot have her marry someone now," Thranduil ignored the healer's distress. "But Arodon has never married, is of the right lineage and is, conveniently, dead. The paperwork should not be hard to produce."
"Your Grace, I beg of you –"
"Adar!"
The shock made her voice tremble. This was unfair; impossible; unbearable. Nestor's eyes focused on her in pleading. The man did not treat her kindly, but to steal his lover from him, the right for the memory of his lover, to cloak her own mistakes… no. No, she cannot…
"Remove the child." Thranduil turned again to face the healer.
The man, torn, looked from her to her father, mask thoroughly shattered. He was shaking, but his voice, even broken, did not waver. "I am sorry, Your Grace, please, forgive me, I cannot. I cannot," he whispered, "Please, let me have Arodon's memory, at least. We were to marry after the battle, Your Grace, I beg of you –"
"Cease the begging! Remove the thing, and none shall question your tie to Arodon." He leveled his ice-like eyes at the healer, pinning him to the wall with his anger. "My daughter's folly or your lover. Decide which is more important to you."
She could taste the bitterness, the helplessness, the agony. The man bowed his head and said nothing.
"So be it," Thranduil snarled. He walked toward Nestor and ripped the circlet of grief from his head. The violent gesture tore at the man's thin, veiny skin, and a drop pf blood trembled down his forehead. "You have no one to grieve for, healer."
He turned to her but still did not seem to recognize her. "I will order new clothes for you. You must have dresses and jewelry of a widow." He threw the circlet at her feet.
"Adar, please," she begged, "please, there is no need –"
"And after you have… flushed the parasite from your body, on the last day of the Enderi, you will leave Middle Earth and sail to Valinor." He paused and swallowed, and then she saw it, the infinite pools of sadness that underlay her father's cruelty. He had tears shining in his eyes, as bright as gems. "That was what you wanted, wasn't it? To leave this place?"
"I never – Adar, I never meant, I didn't think –"
"Yes. You did not think. Your mother suffered from the same infliction."
Ningalor looked down. She could not bear her father exiting in a flurry of fabrics and fury nor Nestor's infuriated, shattered, teary gaze.
She glanced at the circlet, ashen and black, and buried her face in her hands.
He was dead to her, after all. Perhaps grief was not that out of place.
"…I've heard… she doesn't leave her room, maybe…."
"…His Grace isn't taking this well. I've heard one of the guards mentions he thinks her mind isn't sound anymore."
"What do expect? Traveling with Dwarves –"
"Kidnapped. Her ladyship would never…."
"… sudden marriage… does His Grace take us for fools?... damaged reputation –"
"…impossible… like the Duchess of Rivendell… Grey Heavens…."
Legolas had enough. He rose from the window seat where he lay and read – or tried to – read his book. He closed it with an angry snap. He shall not stand for those gossipy snippets. He stomped out elegantly, making sure to glare ahead and ignore the chattery aristocracy.
He could feel their eyes on him, assessing, calculating, and the final mutter, 'Just like his father.'
Legolas stopped and glared, but the lords of Mirkwood simply bowed their heads and hid their eyes as well as their thoughts.
The path was familiar, even if he did not take that particular turn and climbed those particular stairs for years. Five years, to be exact. Oh, how he wanted to refute those rumors, to prove that there was nothing wrong with his sister, that she was just… tired, perhaps, from the long journey. She needed to adapt, to… yes. All she needed was time. He paused suddenly when as unfamiliar view from one of the windows drew his attention.
Erebor, apparently.
The mountain of ruin was rising again, reassembling into the fortress of glory it once had been. With a few improvements, if his mind supplied him with an adequate memory of the castle. The gates were taller and thicker as well as the watchtowers, which were more numerous than before. They were expanding the front, building deeper into the face of the Lonely Mountain, and appeared to be building a moat, as well. The flag of the house of Durin beat high atop the fortress, large enough to be seen from Mirkwood itself. Mocking them, surely.
Legolas cocked an elegant brow in disdain and continued, steps determined, till he finally reached an elegantly carved door of ebony with a silver handle and, oddly enough, no guards to watch over it. He frowned. Even before his sister left – deserted, he reminded himself doggedly, his father always kept men watching over her. Keeping her safe. Locked, his mind supplied.
He shook his golden head and knocked on the door.
Silence. He knocked again, though he had the distinctive feeling that the action would not trigger a different reaction. Again, Silence.
He opened the door.
The room was, undeniably, empty. A quick scrutiny revealed that several items, such as clothes and jewelry, were missing. The room had the distinct air of not having been disturbed for a while. It was too orderly and too empty.
Legolas' lips thinned as he turned away and marched to his father's study.
The walk from Ningalor's room to his father's was strangely long, now that he thought about it. His room was also very distant. Odd that he did not notice that, until now. He quickened his pace, ignoring lords and ladies and guards and servants as they parted before him. He did not have to wait long before he was admitted into his father's presence.
The Duke took one assessing look at him and dismissed the rest of the men. He turned his back to him as he poured them both a glass of wine, then offered the delicate goblet to his son.
Legolas did not accept the offering. "Where is my sister?"
Thranduil cocked an elegant brow and placed the rejected glass on a nearby table. He swirled his wine, breathed deeply, then took a small sip. "In a cottage in the deeper part of the forest. Nestor and Tauriel are keeping her company."
"Why?" Legolas all but threw his hands in the air. Nothing made any sense anymore – the strange, hastily made marriage papers, the hurried ordering of grieving clothes, Nestor's hollow, glassy glare of hate… "What more do you want from her?"
All Ningalor needed was time and good company. That's all. Friendship and support.
Thranduil took another sip. A man less familiar or less tuned to the fickle Duke's subtle body language might have missed the muscle in the jaw that twitched, the knuckles turning white for less than a second, the glimpse of white teeth, nearly bared in a silent snarl.
"She begins to show," he said finally.
"She what? Show what?"
"Your sister –" Another sure sign of anger. 'Your' was always used to signify dissatisfaction. " – is with child."
"Impossible," Legolas blurred. "How – When – Arodon –"
"Arodon was a mere cover story, boy!" Thranduil snapped. He took another sip, longer still, and visibly tried to calm his flaring temper. "The… criminal must have aided your sister in completely besmearing her name and lineage during her journey here."
That, at least made sense. That explained the silence, the isolation, the staring… maybe even the ring. Maybe the ring she kept playing with and hid (unsuccessfully) when someone walked into the room. From him.
Legolas blinked, then gritted his teeth, rage boiling through him. To think that anyone, anyone would dare! "I will kill him myself," he vowed. "The defiler shall be punished for my sister's suffering."
Thranduil sent a grim, mockery glare his way and sneered, "There was no defiler, according to her. There was a promise of marriage."
"Then we shall claim it! No one can escape the consequences –"
"Who?" hissed his father, voice low and dangerous.
Legolas stopped in his tracks, confused. "What?"
Thranduil focused his thunderous glower on him. It was strange, to see the animalistic fury frozen inside the blue pools in the middle of the impassive perfection that was his father's face.
"Have you a name?" he inquired silkily. "A notion? A hint?" He stepped closer to him. "Any drop of evidence would suffice. "
"Please, I'll do anything – but don't let them die, don't let him die, please, brother, please!"
Legolas froze. Saying anything will betray his sister, but saying nothing…
"You know something."
Legolas locked his fists behind his back. "I have no idea what you mean," he muttered through tight lips.
Thranduil snarled, "Do not lie to me! She told you something!"
Legolas did not answer. Whatever his sister said could not be repeated; not to his father. They were not ready to face yet another war so soon after the end of the last one.
Thranduil glowered, but Legolas did not change his reply, nor did he look away.
"Very well," Thranduil sneered. "Go and see her. Speak with her. See if you can make her say anything. I can wait. I will wait, as much as necessary, but I will avenge my daughter's honor. I will avenge her."
Yes, if his father was an expert at anything, it was waiting. Waiting and remembering.
"Ningalor is still alive," he whispered.
Thranduil lifted his glass. Spun it. Sipped. His eyes were dark and fallen. Grieving. "Not to me."
Swallowing his turmoil, he neither bowed nor waited to be properly dismissed. Legolas turned his back on his father and his schemes and left.
Dis had, to be quite honest, enough.
Enough of Thorin's dark brooding, and Kili's reckless behavior, and Fili's endless silence. Oh and the Fundinson brothers; those two deserved what was coming to them. She specifically instructed them to take care of the three idiots that were the remains of her family. This would not do.
And all of it, apparently, lay at the feet of a woman no one would dare name and a missing Istar.
Who was not technically missing, of course, but merely left after the Battle of the Five Armies, as It was named. He was officially banished from Erebor and then disappeared entirely after he struck an undisclosed deal with Thranduil, the one that guaranteed the oath breaker's help. She made a mental note to herself to somehow, in some way, make Thorin mend his connections with the Istar. Maybe in a year. Or two. Idiot.
But that, of course, did not explain what in Mahal's name was eating Kili. For some reason, she doubted the woman toyed with both uncle and nephew. Two faced tree shagger.
But Kili avoided everyone like the plague, hunting for game farther and farther away, almost close enough to Mirkwood to start yet another conflict with Thranduil. And Fili… if Fili knew something, the boy did not think it necessary to share with her. And if she knew anything about her eldest's stubbornness, it was that only Thorin could match it, down to those silly staring contests. Whatever was burdening Kili, he was running away from it; and whatever was burdening Fili, he was silent about it. Could the two be one and the same? Fili was, after all, the sensitive one.
And perhaps it was all Thorin?
Ah. And there, of course, were the Fundinsons.
"There is no meeting," she declared as she entered the room, closing the door behind her. She had to be quite clever to catch the both of them, as the two became experts at avoiding her; however, she did not allow herself to feel too clever too soon. "Well, not with the Duke. And I can assure you," she added with a voice like a whiplash when she saw Dwalin rising from his chair, muttering under his beard, "that this is just as important. Sit!" she barked.
Dwalin sat; Balin, on the other hand, rose. "Dis, we both have quite aplenty to –"
"What is wrong with my brother?" Silence. Ah, nice. How enlightening. Refreshing, too. "What are you keeping secret?" That was not desperation in her voice. She was Dis Durin, born to stone and fire. The fact that her only family was slipping away, falling apart, breaking – was not a thing that could move her. She was fire and her will was iron. She lost too many already to allow what she had left to fade away.
And oh, Thorin was fading.
The brothers looked away from each other, each buried in his own musings and guilt. Dwalin rose, again, and very unceremoniously walked toward the door.
"For my brother's sake. For… for our friendship's sake. Please."
Dwalin stopped, uncertain. At least his reaction to pleading did not change. Balin, of course, was a harder fish to catch. However, a careful glance revealed that the man was eyeing his brother with a barely contained harshness. Huh. Was he also kept in the dark?
"Dis… Just… let it die, yeah? Let it – just forget about the whole thing. Erase her. Thorin has been through enough." Dwalin sighed his frustration. "There was nothing – it wasn't done right, all right? It wasn't – just a mess. Them and the – and the parting, it was wrong. A big ol' mess. Better forgotten."
"But Thorin does not forget! He's still… he isolates himself, broods, never smiles… and Kili…."
"What's Kili got to do with all this?" asked Balin, interest and confusion clashing.
"I thought you'd tell me what my son is running away from," she barked. The brothers exchanged confused glances and said nothing. Perhaps she should ask Fili about this instead. If only she could get the boy to talk to her about matters that weren't Erebor related. What caused his silence? The muted anguish? The servants said he was walking the fortress from the hour of the wolf to the hour of the owl, that trays of food were returned full even after hours spent brooding over old books. That the Duke's heir, much like the Duke himself, rarely smiled.
She waved her hand in frustration, going back to the original topic. Her sons will wait. "What wasn't done right?" She narrowed her eyes when Dwalin tensed. "Their relationship? The courting?"
Dwalin looked away, torn between his duty to the Durin family and his duty to his Duke.
"The shirt?" added Balin, "What was it originally given as?" When he saw Dis opening her mouth in confusion, he explained, "The shirt of mithril."
No, he could not mean – the proper marriage gift was beads. Balin was just – no, this could not be.
"He said it was payment," Dwalin grumbled.
"No, he said 'keep it as payment,'" Balin pressed on. Something told her they had this argument many times before. "You cannot change the meaning of a gift already given! And unless it is returned –"
A door opened abruptly, bringing all conversation to a halt.
"Balin!" Nori burst in, then paused. The thief scanned them, the situation, then focused on Balin again. "It's Ori," he said.
The audacity of the man! Dis gritted her teeth in irritation at the implication. Cleary, he thought, erroneously, that this meeting was unimportant enough for him to interrupt –
Balin rose, shook his head, and muttered a short, 'I am sorry,' to Dis before leveling another glare at his brother and exiting the room with Nori. The barely hidden urgency in the thief's eyes did not appease her. Thorin should have picked better men for his quest, even if he had so few to choose from.
She focused her glare on Dwalin, again, but the warrior looked away, hands in fists. Why would the mentioning of Ori's name cause such a reaction? Sure, the boy had a few nightmares (yet another support Thorin should have dismissed) and he still mourned his brother, but he was a Dwarf, born and bred to become iron and stone. He shall recover.
Dwalin turned to face her, and the harsh glint in his eyes told her he could guess her thoughts. Her old friend and playmate suddenly looked unrecognizable.
"You judge us," he said, "for not being as strong as you. For not standing on our feet as quickly, spitting in the face of grief and weakness. No one except your brother, and maybe your sons, thought we'd actually make it, but we did. Not all of us, but some. And we all showed loyalty, and honor, and commitment. We faced all our trials together!" And you weren't one of them, is that what he was trying to say? Perhaps he is right. I should not judge a man based on his past after he embarked on such a feat of loyalty. Was it, however, loyalty? She instinctively knew that these accusations had no place among these men. She was a warrior herself, after all. She knew the price of life.
She shook her head, muttering, "I should have come. Even if it were the end of the Durins, I –"
"Balin, Tharkûn, me… even Gloin, we all failed to stop Thorin from doing what he did. Your presence would not have saved him. Just… let it go."
Another day, another council meeting.
The men of the council rose and bowed when he entered – his sister did not, but nor did he expect that from her. Fili was seated by her side, determined but tired; his brother was nowhere to be seen, but that, too, was to be expected. After falling asleep rather soundly twice in a row, Dis finally relented and allowed the youth to enjoy his age and perform some of the more physical duties.
"I'll be the best warrior, just you watch!"
He sat in his grandfather's chair – his chair – and the council began.
First, there was the issue of security – with Beorn and Dain gone, the numbers of soldiers dwindled greatly. They did expect many of their alliance to arrive, now that the roads were safe again for travel, but most were artisans, builders, miners, architects. Not soldiers.
Dwalin, of course, argued that each Dwarf was born a fighter and each must serve his duty as one. A rotation of sort, but first all men and women must be trained until they met Dwalin's standards.
Balin argued that only a group of the workers should be used, and more intensely. There was no need for a large army, only for a well-trained one. There was no need to waste that many resources on all, instead of just on a specialized fraction.
Dis argued that in times of peace and alliances, soldiers only bring war. It was time to build, and all resources should be invested in the restoration of Erebor. Besides, she was tired of the endless dust dying her hair gray before her time.
Oh, how they loved to argue.
Next came the issue of food supplies. Currently, they had to rely on Mirkwood trade and Kili's hunting team. They had to invest in rebuilding the gardens, restocking the game and maintaining a steadier flow of supplies. There was a limit as to how many fish they could purchase from the Bowman and how much gold they were willing to put in Thranduil's coffers.
Dwalin suggested opening trade routes with the Iron Hills, but they, too, found that diversity of food was something hard to come by. Balin suggested making a deal with Bard – he will devote some of his resources to ensure a steady supply of food (other than fish) into the Mountain, and in return, he will have a monopoly on the trade with Erebor. Dis objected, saying that there was no need to kill all relations with Mirkwood, particularly trade, since those ties were the most valuable tools in maintaining an alliance. She did, as usual, push the idea of restoration. Maybe send a letter to Ered Luin and call for gardeners as well.
Now they were debating whether working the earth was a job fitting for a Dwarf.
Thorin listened, knowing that at the end of the day, he will have to be the one to make a decision. Fili also listened attentively, but Thorin saw that the boy's eyes lit with fire whenever his mother spoke. He will have to learn to judge based on opinion, not the passion or speaker.
Both Dwalin and Dis had views that emphasized the seclusion of the Erebor – Dwalin by militant aggression, Dis by the resurrection of the arts. Balin, however, had the most open approach to the outside world. War or art, family or alliances. Decisions that would shape the Future of his Dukedom, rebirthed from the ashes of itself.
Something, however, was not right.
Usually, the advisers debated, and then presented the argument before their Duke. This was not always practiced, but often. Balin, for example, emphasized this tradition. Dis did as she wished, which was the usual, but Dwalin did not look at him. It was rather unsettling.
In fact, Dwalin spent those five months avoiding him. Was it guilt, still? Or something else? And Balin too, while still kind and supportive, sent sometimes concerned, disappointed, or tight-lipped glances his way.
Maybe it was just him, imagining things. Dwalin, after all, nearly worked himself to death these days; perhaps Balin was frowning at him because he was allowing that? Thorin massaged his temple, feeling the oncoming headache. Those also became the usual, these days.
Fili opted for a fully trained army, as Balin suggested, and a full restoration of the gardens as a second priority. He weathered his mother's assessing glare quite nicely, but he should not go to such lengths to explain to her his decision, only to him. His decisions were good, however, and well explained. He will be a good duke, one day.
"All dwarves shall serve in protecting the fortress; all will be trained to some degree. From those, Dwalin will pick his favorites and train them to be soldiers and guards. We will, eventually, have to build a militia. Trade with Mirkwood and Dale shall continue as usual; I want the gardens restored, but not as a first priority. If Thranduil tries to raise prices again, cease buying from him until we create an official trading contract." Thus, he ruled.
The councilors bowed their acceptance (Dis merely remained silent). Another meeting was over.
Thorin gazed at his sister, who remained standing while the rest exited. He saw the rare gentleness with which she dismissed her son but did not answer his confused glance. She was fire, he realized. Fiery and volatile and loud, perhaps, but she had infinite warmth and kindness about her. Life hardened her, made her gentleness rarer, but even harsh – kindness was still kindness.
Whether she walked into a room or opened her mouth to speak, none could ignore her. She was a powerful woman, opinionated, strong. He was worried, at first, that he would have to secure her a husband to ensure she maintained her station, but clearly, Dis did not need another to demand the respect she deserved. She was a Durin, and she was fire.
Now his sister walked to him, climbed the few stairs that elevated his chair, and placed her hand on his. He looked up, frowning at the concern he saw reflected back at him.
"You are not yourself, Thorin," she said finally.
This was unlike her. Unlike them, really. Concern was not something shown in words or tone, but rather revealed through deeds. A pause of silence stretched and thinned. Thorin willed his fist to remain relaxed. "Am I lacking in my behavior to any of you?" he inquired in a low grumble.
"Your vigor is missing; your passion. The men are talking."
"Talking?"
"Whispering. When they think no one hears them."
"What men? What whispers?" he demanded, unnerved. Now his hand was a fist.
"Your men. Your company; or what remains of it." Her hold of his hand tightened. "You are not the same, ever since that woma –"
"Do not mention her!" he roared, jumping from his seat in sudden rage.
Dis froze, frowning. She did not expect his reaction.
He should not have been so out of control.
Thorin sighed and distanced himself from her. From the chair of ruling. "I am sorry. For yelling at you. She is not worth mentioning."
"Clearly she is, if that is how you react," Dis objected hotly. She huffed when he stiffened. "I understand she was important to you. Perhaps still is. Doesn't matter. Emotion is fickle. Snap out of it." She was challenging him, wasn't she? Thinking of her own husband? "I… I don't understand, Thorin. You got what you wanted, what you dreamed of for years – you restored Erebor, your name and deeds are already being sung by Dwarves in every dukedom! Why aren't you happy?"
He exhaled raggedly, twisting his fingers. "I did not think an emotion was a duty. What else would you demand of me?" he snapped.
A challenge in return. Dis did not take the bait. Instead, she pressed her point. "The sons of Fundin. They… They are disappointed. In you. Why would they be when you achieved the impossible?"
Thorin froze. If Dwalin – but he wouldn't. He would not betray him so. He would not – "Stop going in circles, Dis. Speak plainly," he commanded. Angry, Defensive. She could see through that too.
"I told you quite plainly, I think. Something went wrong; no one would talk about it, no one would explain me what, but I can feel it. I'm trying to understand what, why, and why can't you snap the hell out of it," she hissed. She wanted to make him confess without revealing all she knew. Mother taught them that. "This girl isn't worth half of the mess she has caused."
He was too used to the sharp scrutiny of another pair of blue eyes, he realized. Dis could only see his anger. She could not see through him. She could not read the nuances and decipher them into worlds of meanings.
She did know, however, how to push all of his buttons. "She betrayed me. She was punished for it. There is nothing more to it." His tone was final. That was the end of it; them.
"Except a shirt of mithril."
"It was her payment," he snarled. "The contract promised her a payment and a payment she received."
"Balin said you told her to keep it 'as payment.'" She paused, trying to keep the accusatory edge from her voice with little success. "What was it originally given as?" The suspicion. She was starting to connect the dots he was trying so hard to eliminate.
"Bad wording. That's all. The coat was a gift, the shirt –"
"I doubt Balin –"
"Enough."
"Did you marry her?"
"I said, enough!" he roared, breathing hard. His entire body was tense with fury, as if ready to pounce.
Dis looked at him – the second of fear dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He hadn't yelled at her like that ever since the death of their brother. She was not someone he could scare, however, with rage and a glimpse of violence.
"You married her."
He did not answer. He found he had no answer. No response to the shock, the soft pity, and then, the rage. "How dare you." He did not answer still. "This is not our way, Thorin! Marriage is bound in honor! Even if the woman is – Mahal, Thorin!"
"What do you care?" he snapped. "No one besides Dwalin knows, and few suspect. It is erased. Never happened."
"What about your word? Your honor?" she challenged
"I made a promise to a liar! I do not –"
"Oh, save your excuses! You are a coward, Thorin!" she accused. She stood close to him, her finger stabbing his chest. "You made a mistake and married an unworthy, manipulative liar who no doubt deserves to rot in her father's forest, but –" she pushed him again " – you must uphold your mistake. Go there, face those tree shaggers and face her."
"Just a moment ago you said emotion was fickle, that this… mess should just be ignored –"
"How dare you! Marriage is different!" She swallowed with difficulty. "Marriage is different," she finished, then visibly channeled her personal pain into rage.
He closed his eyes. The agony of Lily's betrayal flooding him anew – the woman, still clad in his coat, his cursed coat, stood before him, shaking, and confessed, "I am Ningalor, daughter of Thranduil, lady of Mirkwood." She was crying. "Thorin –"
"… fall into such a trap. I should have come with you – came to you, and offered herself! What kind of a high-born does this? I cannot –"
"I will not have you speak ill of her, or at all," he threatened. He grabbed her arms and shook her. "She is dead to me, do you hear? Dead!" he thundered. He was holding her too firmly; he knew that. "Do not mention her again." He pushed her away from him.
And Dis looked up at him, and the confusion was slowly replaced by recognition. Sharp features softened as eyes widened in dismay and lips parted in denial. He flinched, as if stung, and looked away. Upon realizing his mistake, he turned and began marching toward the door. He did not want to see that pity, that understanding, reflected back at him.
"What was she like?"
He paused. This time, he could not stop his knuckles from turning white.
"She was ice."
Notes:
Translations:
-Serej bund – idiot.
-Idmi d'dum - welcome to the Hall.
-'Quel amrun, Hiril nín - good morning, my lady.
-Nanging – flower.
-Adar – father.
Siblings' perspectives! Sorry, a bit too excited. Thorin and Ningalor are a bit depressed right now, so their perspectives are pretty self-centered and… not too perceptive. Won't get any plot development this way. I'm still keeping the format of his side, her side kind of thing, but this also may be tweaked a little bit.
Now, to the burning issue- the characters' attitude toward abortion is NOT my attitude. I am not going all political here, but I was not trying to convey my opinions via Nestor. I do NOT think abortion is a sin. However, (and that's a big factor, I think) Tolkien is catholic, and his works reflect his strong beliefs. My original characters, as well as my interpretation of Tolkien's characters, live in his world, which follows the same belief system and, therefore, would consider abortion to be wrong.
I also believe Tolkien would be entirely against Ningalor's promiscuous behavior, and would have granted her the same fate of Aredhel. That is, at least, my understanding.
So, there's that. If you are either pro-life or pro-choice and are offended by all or any of the things said above, please remember that this is just fanfiction and I am neither advocating my opinions nor have any claim as to Tolkien's true opinions.
Also, Dis. I just love her. I can see her breaking meeting tables.
What'd you think? Please share because I'd love to hear from you! Next chapter, of course, next Saturday =)