A/N: Yay, an update!

I'd like to just take a moment and let you all know that I'm going to officially start updating on a bi-weekly basis. I just got a new, full time job that's going to take up alot of my time. Between that, my grandmother's care, and working on my own novel (hurray!), I'll have to carve out the time to work on my fanfictions. Please know that I love working on this particular fic and I really, really want to keep writing it, so have no fear that I'll stop! I promise to see this to the very end!

This is a super special chapter since I know you were all waiting for it eagerly. I hope you enjoy it!

I'd also like to thank everyone for their support, reviews, favorites, and all those lovely things!

I plan to come back and edit this chapter, I'm not quite satisfied with it, but I didn't want to put off posting it any longer. I always welcome suggestions and feedback, so please let me know what you all think!

Chapter 25: For Want of Warmth and Comfort

What was this feeling?

Culurien had little desire to answer the question as Bofur's warm lips gently pressed against her own. He kissed her so very carefully, so very softly, as if he were not entirely certain of his actions. His fingertips rested lightly over her cheeks, cupping them and keeping her still. And still she was, for her heart and her mind were turned so steadfastly against one another that her body could not respond immediately to the unexpected sensations it was experiencing. Her eyes were wide open, caught somewhere between twin expressions of surprise and incomprehension. Her hands hung ineffectually at her sides. The beating inside her chest was akin to the swift fluttering of a bumblebee's wings, her blood buzzing hotly just beneath her chill-swept skin.

What was this feeling?

Emotions, unknown and overwhelming, were skittering between the thumping muscle in her breast and the shock-frozen state of her consciousness. Affection, fear, worry, enjoyment, trepidation, all clamoring for her full attention and holding her body captive in the midst of their shared domination. Caught betwixt and between their warring presences, she simply did not know what to do. Combined with what could only be described as an embarrassing lack of experience when it came to matters such as her current predicament, Culurien was well and truly petrified. Never before had she been so utterly at the mercy of her own form. What should she do? What could she do? What was expected of her? What did she expect? Had they been met? The questions swirled with her myriad of feelings, whirling by too fast for her to make any sense of them.

And then, as if the three parts of her being had quite suddenly reached an accord, the warmth of Bofur's mouth tentatively fixed against hers became her sole focus and she felt each of her muscles relax. Her lashes gently fell to brush against her cheekbones as, hesitantly, she lifted her chin to press back against his lips. With the curiosity of the unversed, Culurien slowly moved her lips beneath his, tasting the garden's perfume where it had dusted their skin, the lingering, silvery tang of the flute she had given him, the sweetness of pipe smoke and the unique spice of nutmeg that could only be Bofur. Her fingers lifted to timidly touch his jaw, the pads of her thumbs skimming the rough shadow of stubble on his chin, a stark contrast to the smooth hollow of his cheeks where her other fingers rested.

A gentle rumbling vibrated against her lips, deep, and warmly tickling her ears, as she felt his fingers slowly burrow themselves in her flowing braids and bring her closer. Culurien allowed it, welcomed it, and mimicked his action, learning the surprisingly supple texture of the thick braids that kept his hair pulled back. An urge to unwind the stiff cords that bound them tugged at her hands, one that she almost couldn't resist. The scent of metal and leather was heavy in her nose, familiar in their way, but unfamiliar in the sensations they invoked.

It was an exploration of every sense, she realized, somewhere in the pleasantly distant recesses of her mind. Every part of her had narrowed its awareness to this moment - this wonderful, all too brief moment.

Gradually, Bofur lifted his head a little away from her, reticent though Culurien was for him to do so, and her eyes drifted open languidly. He didn't retreat very far, she saw, still close enough that she would have merely had to stretch her calves only a little in order to seal their lips once again. The temptation to do so was powerful as silence wrapped itself around them, for they stood so close that naught could have been fitted between them.

Even upon realizing this, she couldn't find the energy at that moment to be bothered by it. Rather, she found herself pleased by their closeness. His chest and shoulders were broad, solid, and warm where the bare skin of her arms rested against him, her fingers occupying themselves with mapping the woven paths that held the dark brown strands just beneath the brim of his hat. With a degree of effort, she had them cease their movements and guided them to sit, lightly idle, on the sleeves of his arms. Her cheeks very nearly blossomed with rosy color as the corded muscles beneath the fabric flexed under her touch.

"Taal."

The soft call, spoken like an endearment, drew her gaze up to his and she closely studied the shifting greens dancing in viridian irises. So much lay hidden within them, she was certain, but what exactly, she dared not contemplate. To do so was to invite possiblities that she was not prepared for. Here, in this sunlit garden hidden from the eyes of the world, she had given and recieved a gift beyond the value of anything she had ever crafted. And here it would remain.

Ice crept across her heart, as cold and heavy as the blackened ash that sullied a spent forge. Nothing beyond the memory would be safe outside the wall of thorns.

Knowing that, knowing that this was a moment that could not be repeated, for more reasons than she cared to list, Culurien could no longer meet Bofur's eyes, lowering her gaze and starting to step away from him. His fingers in her hair tightened imperceptably, but it was enough to make her freeze. She felt the harsh pad of his thumb scrape down the line of her jaw, to lift her chin so that she was forced to look up at him.

"Likkan kaun zigil gauml," he murmured, letting his other hand drop from her braids to caress her temples, brushing just beneath her eyes.

Eyes like silver stars.

How long had it been since she had heard that language? She asked herself that question as her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

Not since she had stood at her father's knee, his massive hammer held tight in her small fist as he guided her strikes with loving hands. Not since she had openly forsaken the teachings of her mother in the undying valley beyond the sea. Not since she had last felt the warmth that was even now blooming in her soul, melting the strength that she needed to push his gentle hands away.

And yet she did not want to shatter the tenderness with which he looked at her. She didn't want to move from where she stood. More than anything, she wished to tarry here, where nothing existed except the two of them and the melody that he had spun for her that night in Rivendell. Even now, she could hear its echo, resonating in her ears as clearly as the wind that whispered in the braids of her hair and set its bands to rhythmically clinking.

So, with a regretful expression, she wrapped her fingers around his, the worn wool that covered his palms thick and soft. She held them for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against the backs of his hands.

Then she dropped them and strode up the steps of the veranda into the long house, leaving a bewildered, disappointed dwarf in her wake.

That evening, Gandalf and the company gathered in the dining hall, seating themselves at the long, low table that Beorn's clever ponies had pushed to the center of the room. It was a simple, but filling meal and Culurien gratefully ate two large helpings of bread, cheese, and honey. The sound of Beorn's single bench scrapping against the floor's wooden planks was the signal to the end of supper and all present rose with him to move closer to the crackling fire.

Culurien curled her legs beneath her near the skinchanger's seat as he lowered himself into his great chair, the sleek hounds taking their usual place around the big man's bare feet. Gandalf also sat on a chair, a smaller, roughly hewn one that two snowy ewes brought him from the kitchens. While few guests were entertained within the walls of the great hall, enough were to warrant the carving of a comfortable chair for the more important of those folk. Although, she thought with a ironic twist of her lips, the importance of those who claimed that chair was certainly relative.

But perhaps she was merely biased against meddlesome magicians and their ilk.

Speaking of the balrog, Gandalf chose that moment to pin her with a knowing look, his brows wreathed in grey pipe smoke.

"Culurien, I trust you've recovered somewhat from your illness?"

Ever so careful with his words, she reflected bitterly, always manipulating the meaning and inflection just so. Well-meaning or not, Culurien was beginning to have her fill of wizards in general.

"I am, thank you," she replied after several heartbeats of silence.

His head slanted a little to the side as he regarded her, studying her features as she met his gaze with a careful neutrality. It was necessary, if for no other reason than her significantly shortened temper.

In her mind, he was as much to blame for her defeat as she. While it was her own short-sightedness that most angered her, Gandalf's maneuvering of her away from her responsibilities to the Green Wood did little to cool it. Neither did the derisive snort of one dwarven prince as he watched her with frosted eyes. Gandalf drew her attention again, however.

"Then perhaps you would be so kind as to regale us with your recent adventures since departing from our company."

There was nothing she would have liked to have done less, but as she looked around the room, avoiding one particular set of eyes, and up to meet Beorn's broad face drawn tight in concern, she felt that she could not refuse the request. She couldn't deny that she owed the skinchanger an accounting of his people's deeds...and their sacrifices.

Culurien nodded quietly.

"As you wish."

And so she recounted her journey to them, from the evening she left Imladis till she awoke before the same fire they now enjoyed. It was a longer tale than she had initially realized, taking a good portion of two hours to tell. While she didn't think of herself as an accomplished storyteller, she kept their rapt attention as she spoke of the spiders, the meeting with Orna, the battle on the bridge of Dol Guldur, and finally, her encounter in the shadow realm. It was with a heavy heart that she spoke of the casualties left in the darkening wood, keenly feeling Beorn's dark eyes on her. Unable to offer an apology that was even remotely adequate, she simply fell silent and looked up at him with a sorrowful gaze.

No one seemed inclined to break the quiet that descended at the close of her tale, many of the company watching her with a variety of expressions, ranging from the sympathetic smile Balin offered to the thick finger Bifur ran over the dulled ax still buried in his skull, his eyes reflecting...recognition, perhaps? Nori, Dori, Gloin, even Dwalin regarded her with varying degrees of that same sentiment. Warriors, all of them, could understand what it felt like to be responsible for the deaths of those who relied on you on the battlefield. Whether commander or common soldier, lives were dependent on every decision one made, the orders one followed.

In that respect, she was no different than many of them, a fact that all seemed at least willing to admit. All except one.

"Only the arrogance of a dragon could've aspired to vanquish the dead."

Culurien turned to stare at Thorin, biting her tongue to keep it still in her head. She hadn't possessed any illusions about the cold-eyed dwarf and his opinion of her, even before the revelation of her heritage. She had, however, hoped that he would keep his appraisal of it and her to himself. Not in fear or distress at how lowly he regarded her.

But because she could only agree with him.

Indeed, arrogance was likely the most apt choice of words to describe her foolishness. And by admitting that, she could only admit that the Witch King of Angmar was also correct. Blinded by her hubris and her desire for vengeance, she had led her forces against insurmountable odds, odds that had her beaten even before she had once again entered the forest.

"No, no one but a dragon could have presumed to challenge the master of death," she agreed quietly.

Thorin's hardened, angular features betrayed nothing of the thoughts he possessed. She didn't spare him any more thought, instead turning her eyes to the wizard who noiselessly puffed on his slender pipe. She could not discern his thoughts from his face alone either, but she knew that he would have much to say, and question her about, on the subject of her defeat.

To her astonishment, he only hummed beneath his breath and rose in a plume of smoke and robes, heading towards the kitchen. Culurien started to follow, but a large hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up into Beorn's uncharacteristically solemn features.

"He will return in his own time, and with more than enough questions to pester you with."

She nodded.

"I don't doubt it, old friend." Without words, she reached up and clasped what she could of his arm, as close to an apology as she knew he would allow her to make. She could see in his face that she held no blame for his kin's deaths in his eyes.

In many ways, it was a relief to know, and in others, it only added to her burden, for she felt that she had to hold herself accountable. She also knew that she would have to pay far more for that mistake than she already had.

Losing herself to her own thoughts, she half listened to the songs the dwarves sang for Beorn, though the rhythmic rise and fall of their chanting served as a counterpoint to her musings. Feeling as despondent as she had that morning, Culurien stared into the flames. It was best if she ceased while she could; there was more than one path she neared wandering that would do her no good.

She sighed, and cupped her chin in her hands as she brought her knees to her chest, letting the fire's heat wash over her face and side. It felt good and, for a while, she was able to focus only on the rough sound of dwarvish singing and the sensation of flame's steady warmth.

It was a better alternative than the icy doubts that clung like cobwebs in the darker recesses of her mind. It was better than contemplating the uncertainty that yawned before her feet. It was better than lingering on the fragrance of sunshine and the taste of nutmeg that still clung to her lips.

And not for the first time, Culurien cursed her draconic ability to go so long without slumber. But then, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, what defense could she muster against dreams? For her hours of slumber would no doubt be filled with all that haunted her waking ones.

No longer able or willing to endure the ceaseless chattering of her mind, Culurien abruptly rose and swiftly moved to the kitchens, her patience at an end. There she found Gandalf near a small doorway that led to a tiny courtyard, where she could barely make out the rotund outlines of grazing sheep. A large square table dominated the room, covered with vegetables, bags of flour and corn meal, jars of honey, and various domestic tools. A squat, pot bellied stove sat beneath an open window, it chimney stack curling up and out to spout its black smoke into the night. It was a little cooler here, but she found that to be a pleasant change from the hall.

Crossing the room, she leaned against the opposite jamb of the door, folding her arms loosely beneath her breasts. If the wizard had noticed her arrival, he gave no sign, his normally twinkling eyes subdued and bland in thought.

But Culurien was no longer content with the silence that would allow her own thoughts to roam.

"Will you not say it?" she asked softly, drawing his gaze to her. He cupped the bowl of his pipe in one gnarled hand and lowered it from his chapped lips.

"And what would you have me say that you don't already know? What words have you not already said to yourself?"

She squeezed the bridge of her nose, frustration and weariness welling up in her chest.

"None," she confessed on a harsh breath, returning her hand to the crook of her elbow. "But that doesn't mean that I do not need to hear them again."

His chuckle was as dry and brittle as always. "Oh, I doubt that. But the words you need are not mine to give, my dear Culurien. You know that as well as anyone."

Indeed, she did, but his slightly chastising tone did alleviate some of her guilt, whether or not it was aimed at the precise culpability she felt she owed.

"Ah, how wisely the Grey Pilgrim administers his comfort," was her reply, her voice tinged with a mixture of gentle teasing and genuine appreciation.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a quick pat.

"Don't be so surprised. Now," the twinkle had returned to his eyes. "I believe that we actually do have quite a bit to discuss, you and I."