Blood soaked the small being determinedly clawing its way out of the corpses of Orcs and Wargs. Beorn the Skin Changer growled lowly at the creature. It was covered in black blood and red blood pumped from wounds in its arm and in one shoulder. It could barely move, especially with one arm wrapped tightly around its stomach, and Beorn's yellow eyes narrowed slightly at that. What an odd position. It couldn't be easing any of the being's pain, yet it determinedly moved with that arm wrapped around its abdomen and used only one, injured arm to drag its way from the bodies. That little thing must have been the one to kill them all, so did that make it a friend? Beorn didn't know and another, low growl escaped him as he took a step closer and the little thing finally looked up.

Fear, but not of Beorn, shone in hazel eyes and a blood soaked hand tightened around its stomach, desperate and frightened and pleading. It whimpered as it tried to heave itself up, one hand scrabbling for a tiny blade left at its waist, and it couldn't manage to stand. Every time it got further than its knees, it hit the ground and, every time, it turned to ensure it always hit the ground on its back. What an odd little creature. Beorn grunted, nose twitching at the scent beneath the stench of Orc and Warg blood, because that scent was oddly familiar. Just what was that smell? He took another step closer and reared his head back with a snarl when a tiny knife slashed at his nose. The thing bared its teeth at him, trying to seem intimidating, but its teeth were all flat and harmless with no fangs to speak of. Silly little thing.

Lazily, Beorn swatted at the creature without meaning any true harm, as though it were a misbehaving cub, and he realised just what the little thing was attempting to protect as its arm fell. The fallen arm revealed a large stomach that indicated a child grew within the creature and that's why it was so determined. That's why it was still moving, still breathing, despite its horrific injuries. Those injuries were worrying if it were in that condition. What if the child was harmed? The Orcs or Wargs would have shown the creature no mercy, despite the life in its womb, and Beorn snarled at the thought. The silly creature should be somewhere safe with its mate, waiting for the babe to be born, yet it was fighting its way towards…what? What was here apart from the Mirkwood? Just where was this little creature going?

Desperately, the little being struggled to keep its dimming eyes open, stubborn as a Dwarf. Beorn realised that this was a Dwarf, one of the rare females of its kind, and the scent of it was vaguely similar to one of those Dwarves he'd allowed in his home not long ago. He stepped closer, secure in the knowledge all of the female's weapons had been dismissed, and sniffed at her. Yes, the smell of her was faintly familiar, just the slightest strain of it catching at his memory. He scowled as he smoothly shifted into his human form, which was easily more than twice the little creature's size, and she fell back with a startled, tired yelp. Her eyes grew wide, her shaking, bloodied hands clutching desperately at her belly, and he grunted and smoothly lifted her into his hands.

"Gandalf should have warned me that another, foolish Dwarf would be passing through," Beorn stated quietly, loping towards his home, and the creature stared at him hazily. "Especially in this condition."

"She won't stop kicking," the creature whispered faintly and she smiled a little. "Thank Mahal, she won't stop kicking."

Now that was surprising, but Beorn, too, felt the unborn child kicking against his palm when the creature turned in his grip in an attempt to settle into a more comfortable position. He carried her smoothly through the sloping, tree strewn terrain that surrounded his home, holding her securely against his chest, and she fell unconscious at some point, but her child still lived within her, of that he was certain. It was a fighter, like the woman that carried it inside of her, and Beorn had to admire that, even if he did disapprove of her being so far from what had to be her home. She must have travelled far to find her mate, one of those that had passed through his home near two months ago, and he scowled slightly. What sort of a person could abandon such a foolish woman when she was so heavy with child? She had to be almost ready to birth the child, surely.

A slight snarl rang from Beorn's throat, stirring the tiny creature clutched in his hands, and hazel eyes half opened to peer up at him hazily. He carried her up his front path and into his home, where he found her a bed and carefully tended her injuries with the help of the intelligent dogs that he called family. She stirred a few times throughout the process, but didn't wholly regain consciousness and he knew that she must sleep to regain her strength. Her injuries were severe, but not fatal. There was a large hole through her left shoulder, no doubt where a blade had passed through her flesh. A long gash had ripped open a large wound across her right thigh, but it hadn't managed to sever the artery there. Three, claw shaped tears had ripped open her back from her left shoulder blade down to a little past the centre of her back, even leaving a few claws in her skin, and numerous slashes and nicks were dotted over her body. She was lucky.

Pain throbbed through every part of Ovila as her eyes slowly cracked open. Her vision was blurry and it took her a while to blink clarity into them. She could barely keep her eyes open enough to take in the large bed she was laid on in a modestly sized room, though the furnishings were larger than that of a Man's dwelling. Each part of her ached, especially when she attempted to move, and her throat felt dryer than sand. A cough ripped free from her, wracking her entire body, and a whimper followed the cough at how it jerked at her injuries. It took her long minutes to regain her breath and even longer for her to ease herself up to sit with her back against the pillows. Any attempt of standing, never mind walking, would end with her in a crumpled heap on the ground, so she just sat and slowly breathed normally.

"I see you have awakened, small one."

The deep, slow voice was vaguely familiar to Ovila, coming to her from a memory of burning agony, and she frowned suspiciously at the large man that stood in the doorway. This person had saved her. That much she remembered and that much made her relax slightly. He would not have saved her and tended her wounds and offered her safety and shelter, only to kill her. It made no sense, so she let herself relax and watched him with a healthy amount of wariness. So focused on the male, she never noticed the dog approaching with a small bowl of tasteless broth until the canine was nudging the bowl into her hands. She jumped slightly, gritting her teeth against the pain that throbbed through her, and she stared at the large, shaggy dog walking on its hind legs stood at the side of her bed.

"You must eat, small one, and regain your strength," the calm voice of the one stood in the doorway intoned and Ovila frowned at him slightly. "For the child inside you," he stated and inclined his head towards her round belly. "It still lives, though it has weakened over the past three days because you have not eaten," he explained and her eyes widened.

"My baby," Ovila croaked, fear joining the pain thrumming through her, and her hands curved around her belly. "Oh Mahal, please, no," she whimpered and the dog whimpered and nudged her arm gently.

Somehow, she knew the dog was urging her to eat and she wordlessly took a shaky spoon of broth with only the hope it'd help her child. She couldn't even manage five mouthfuls before her stomach protested and she had to set the bowl aside, sleep claiming her once more. When she awoke, she had a few more mouthfuls of broth and then slept again. A routine was born until the babe was moving strongly once more, giving its mother hope, and it took well over a week before the one named Beorn and his dogs would allow Ovila from her bed. She had to be helped just to take a few steps, but she was stubbornly determined to recover and she was good at forcing herself to do things that she shouldn't. She insisted on being allowed her axes, to keep the muscles in her arms, wrists, hands, and shoulders strong, and she determinedly walked alone when she was able.

Beorn was both amused and infuriated by his latest houseguest and patient, though he understood Ovila's determination, despite how foolish it was in truth. She would not allow herself to be weakened, not when she had to find her love and tell him of their child, and she would move on, just as soon as she were able. Beorn, though, was not going to let her leave until, at the very least, the child was born and she understood that. She could accept that choice, especially because the babe was due any day, and she spent her days strengthening her body and preparing herself for her child's birth with the help of Beorn's dogs. It was rather humbling to realise that dogs could make clothes better than she, but she shrugged the thought away. She had always known her talent lay with an axe and not with a needle.

"Small one," Beorn scolded upon discovering Ovila stubbornly walking through his gardens with the help of a walking stick. Her wounds had mostly healed with the help of his healing balms, but they were still horribly scabbed over and just becoming twisted scars that would never leave her. Her stomach was huge, protruding from her abdomen obviously beneath her blue dress, and her gait was more a waddle nowadays, which never failed to amuse her host. "You should be resting with your time so close," he frowned down at her from beneath his heavy, tufty eyebrows and she shifted with a frown.

"But, I can't sit still," Ovila argued and rubbed her belly slowly. "I've tried, but I feel so restless," she sighed heavily and Beorn sighed at her. He reached out and carefully lifted her by the back of her dress to set her on a stone bench. "Beorn!" she protested, scowling at him, and he sat beside her. He gently patted her head, rather fond of the small creature he had rescued, and her scowl deepened. "I know my body's limits, Beorn, and how much it can take."

"That is why you fought a pack of Orcs and Wargs, yes, it all makes sense," Beorn nodded and almost smiled at the glower the blonde Dwarf woman sent him. Only one braid was still in her hair, one that was clasped with another's name, and the rest of her hair fell free and loose down almost to her waist. It made her look softer, despite the scars and healing wounds visible over the neckline of her dress and past the ends of her long sleeves. "How is the child? Still moving?" he asked calmly and did smile at the way she softened completely.

"Oh, yes, she keeps kicking me, but she's been still for the past hour or so," Ovila answered fondly and stroked her stomach. "She always calms when I walk around," she admitted and Beorn nodded. "I've awful backache, though, and only moving seems to keep it all at bay."

Beorn's eyebrows lifted, concern flickering through his eyes, and she didn't notice as she rubbed slow circles into her stomach and hummed a light, cheery, lilting tune. It filled the garden, bright and soothing, and it almost didn't suit the warrior sat on the stone bench with her feet hanging over the ground. She wasn't soft, or cheery, or bright, not that Beorn had seen. He'd only seen her smile when her child moved inside of her, but, otherwise, she was solemn and her eyes always drifted east to the Lonely Mountain. Her mind was too often on her lover and her friends travelling into the jaws of a dragon and there was nothing Beorn could do to ease her fears. He wanted to, but it would be impossible, he knew, and all he could do was sit in silence and, for the moment, listen to her hum to her unborn babe.

Quite suddenly, the humming was cut off by a sharp, startled gasp that was torn forcibly from the Dwarf's mouth and she bent over slightly, gripping her stomach. A frown creased Ovila's face and she released a long, slow breath. She didn't even protest when Beorn lifted her into his hands, cradling her gently, and carried her to her room. She seemed focus on making sure her breathing stayed calm and steady, even as her wide hazel eyes met Beorn's calm, yellow ones. He rumbled soothingly, setting her on her bed, and gently patted her head. That earned him a scowl and a swift punch to the arm, but her fingers soon curled around his arm, blunt nails digging into the flesh mercilessly, and she let out a guttural groan of pain.

"Your child is on its way."

The unimpressed, unamused look Ovila sent Beorn's way spoke far more than any words.

The dungeon cells of King Thranduil, of the Woodland Realm, were impenetrable. Kili knew this from experience, as he'd been sat in one for near a week now, and he knew the smooth, wooden walls of his cell well. He'd been staring at them for so long, for what felt like longer than the actual time he'd been there, and he itched to be free. He felt twitchy and agitated and restless and hated being confined to the dungeon with only his thoughts and his memories for company. Occasionally, he'd be able to talk to the others of the company through the barred doors, but the guards usually barked at them to silence, so Kili was left with his thoughts. He didn't particularly like being left with his thoughts. Ovila would taunt that it's because he doesn't have many, but that wasn't true. It was because his thoughts always circled the feisty blonde he'd sworn his life to.

It pained Kili to think of Ovila, to remember her, to linger on what she could be doing without him. She'd be going stir crazy, he was sure of it, and that thought brought a sad half smile to his lips. She'd probably already torn her hair out in sheer frustration at being stuck in the quiet Shire, but he had no doubt she was doing her job diligently. She wouldn't like it, but he knew she'd do her job, because she'd never disobeyed Thorin, no matter how she disliked his orders. Kili was sure that when they finally reunited, she'd go off on a tirade about how he was never allowed to leave her behind again and he could almost hear her angry bluster. He kind of loved it when she got angry with him. Her face would flush, the blood creeping up her neck to fill her face, and her hazel eyes would grow dark and brown with only the faintest flecks of green. Her hands would flail and she'd stamp her feet, like an impatient child. It was both adorable and terrifying – Kili couldn't decide on which.

Mahal, he longed to hear her voice, to feel her touch, taste her lips. His fingers rose to his hair, to the courting braid that was still in place just behind his right ear, and he could feel the dark hair beginning to fray free from its confines. The weave was strong, though, and as stubborn as the Dwarf that had it put the six strand braid into the dark hair. The clasp was a bit dirty, covered in grime and blood and who knew what else, but he could still easily make out the carving of Ovila's name by touch alone. He rubbed a thumb over the runes and the image of her smile flashed through his mind. He could see her so clearly. The way her nose would scrunch slightly. How her eyes would soften to green. The white, straight teeth framed with soft, pliant, red lips. The way her blonde hair, littered with braids, would sway about her gently tanned face.

Sadness tightened Kili's chest as movement at his cell door made his head snap up, eyes narrowing on the She-Elf with red hair. She'd saved his life in the forest against the spiders and he'd seen her a few times since, usually when she came to check on the prisoners. She was beautiful, he supposed, but it was a cold, detached sort of beauty. She reminded him of starlight – distant and faraway. Starlight was beautiful and functional, in its way, but Ovila was the sun. She burned with life and warmth and vitality. Kili would take the sun over the stars any day. Still, he was grateful that the She-Elf had saved his life, if only he could remember her name.

"Sounds like a party," Kili said carefully, uneasy with the silence between them and the Elf's intent stare. He allowed his hand to drop into his lap and felt the braid fall back to its original position. "What's going on?"

"It is the Feast of Starlight," the Elf admitted in a quiet, gentle voice and he couldn't help but go back to his previous thoughts, though he chose not to voice them aloud. "I needed some peace and quiet," she sighed softly and his eyebrows raised slightly.

"So, you picked the dungeons? Interesting," he teased and she smiled a little in return. "I don't know if you know this, but we Dwarves are usually quite the rowdy bunch – can't shut us up for love nor money," he grinned and a small laugh left the Elf.

"Yet, you seem rather quiet now, master dwarf," she retorted almost…playfully? Oh no, Ovila would have Kili's hide, and the She-Elf's, if she caught wind of this conversation.

"Just biding my time," Kili chuckled uneasily and wondered how to get her to go away.

"I'm sure," she responded with a light smile and Kili's fingers flew up to his courting braid once more. Other races weren't privy to their courting rituals, though, so she didn't know the significance of the braid and how important it was. "Perhaps I should warn the guards," she smiled and his returning smile was more like a grimace.

Oh yes, Ovila was definitely going to gut him if she ever heard the slightest hint that this conversation had taken place. 'Leaving me to guard the Hobbit's home,' she would snarl with an axe swinging dangerously in her hand. 'While you're off fraternizing with Elves, tell me, dearest Kili, why shouldn't I stick this axe up your jacksie?'

"Are you alright?" the She-Elf questioned, stood directly in front of his cell now, and Kili squawked and scrambled further away from her, even as he vaguely wondered why imaginary Ovila spoke a lot like Ori.

"Fine!" he yelped and relaxed when Fili and Thorin began to shout, hollering for the Elves to leave him alone.

The She-Elf backed off, throwing him a final, confused look, and Kili sat in the corner of his cell and let his eyes fall closed. He couldn't say how much time passed before Bilbo appeared with the keys to release them all, though the feast still continued above his cell, and apparently little Bilbo had a plan to get them out. A grin stretched over Kili's face. He couldn't stop himself from hugging Bilbo when his cell door was open, much to the Hobbit's bewilderment, but Bilbo had no idea what he'd saved Kili from. The Dwarf shivered at the mere thought of Ovila's wrath upon the discovery that he'd been unwittingly flirting with an Elf. Gah, she'd rip his hair out and burn what little stubble he had! He owed Bilbo big time.