A/N: Ok, so I said I'd have this chapter up over the weekend, and I didn't. I'm a very bad Elf Girl! :( But it's a long one to make up for it, and now you get something to enjoy at bedtime after your first day back to work/school. :) Thanks very much to those of you who left reviews last time, and if you're just now joining us and added this fic to your follows or favorites this past week, then mae tollen! (If you don't know your Sindarin, I'll let you look that one up. ;))

Extra special thanks to Moonraykir, who kindly rushed to have a look at this chapter even though I didn't leave her much time. I was too eager to update to give her a second pass at it after my first set of revisions, so if anything is confusing, it's not her fault! (Credit also goes to her for the idea that dwarves in their aristocratic society would see voting as slumming it. I stole that from her excellent fic "So Comes Snow After Fire." And I did it shamelessly.)

A Promise Kept

Chapter 25

A New Direction

February 1, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton

Tauriel opened her eyes and blinked at the familiar blue and yellow surroundings of her bedchamber in Bag End. She'd half expected to see intricately carved stone, and her heart sank when she did not.

What a strange dream! How real it had seemed! She touched her lips, which felt swollen as if from a long, passionate kiss.

But of course it was not real. It was just a fantasy, born of her own heartache, that Kíli had not wanted to send her away and longed for her return to the Lonely Mountain. She was finally managing not to think of him consciously every day, so at night she thought of him in dreams, that was all.

How very odd, though, that she'd dreamt he was injured in an uprising and that she'd advised him as she had! Yet, if the circumstances of the dream had been real, she supposed she would've recommended precisely the same course of action.

In the guest chamber opposite, which had since become the nursery, she heard Norithil stirring, and the clink of silverware and copper pots told her that Bilbo was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Still, she huddled in bed, loathe to shake off the afterglow of such a beautiful vision. Though she knew it was foolish, she allowed herself to indulge in the memory of Kíli's sweet, soft lips, such a contrast with the body she knew was granite-hard, the liquid brown eyes brimming with all the emotion she had ever wished to see, the crack in his voice when he'd called her his love, for she'd long since guessed that was what the exotic, rolling "amrâlimê" meant.

The Kíli of her dream had wanted to make her proud. He'd wanted to protect her from . . .

From what?

He hadn't said. In the dream, somehow she'd known what he meant, and both the cause of his distress and its solution had been perfectly clear. But here, in the cold light of morning, she was left with a jumble of incoherent thoughts signifying nothing.

Norithil was babbling to himself now. Time for her to get out of bed and begin the day.

For half a minute more, Tauriel lingered on the memory of that kiss, Kíli arching to meet her lips with his, the grateful sigh that escaped him when her mouth opened and the gentle tug of his hand in her hair. Her body responded, a slow fire sliding through her veins. "Oh, meleth nín," she whispered into the empty room.

Amrâlimê, she imagined him whisper in return and, for a split second, thought she felt his sigh tickle the fine wisps at her hairline.

Then she pulled back the bedcovers, stopped fancying herself as Kíli's love, and got on with being Norithil's mum and Bilbo's friend.

"Amrâlimê," Kíli sighed. He opened his eyes and blinked at the familiar face of . . . Ori.

Where was Tauriel?

A dream. She'd been nothing but a dream. It wasn't real.

Kíli's heart sank, and heat suffused his cheeks when he realized how he'd just addressed his cousin. He loved Ori, of course, but not that way.

To Kíli's relief, however, Ori seemed not to have noticed the term of endearment in his excitement about . . . something. "Kíli? Oh, Kí, Kí! I told them you'd come round!" The young scribe uttered a Khuzdul expression of joy whose Westron translation was something silly like "grow me an everlasting beard from here to eternity" and called out, "My lady, Master Óin, he's awake! Kíli's awake!"

Ori needn't have told them, for they were already there.

"If ye please, Princess, don't go smoth'ring His Highness to death afore I've a chance to be sure he'll live," Óin grumbled, though it was obvious he was nearly as delighted as she, albeit less free with the kisses and caresses. And then to the page who'd entered on their heels and now stood rooted to the spot: "Run along now, lad, and fetch Master Balin!"

Instead, the page dropped to his knees and prostrated himself, forehead to the ground. "'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!" he cried.

Frowning, Kíli hoisted himself onto his elbows and squinted at the lad. "What's this?"

Ori's eyes skated between Kíli and the page, Dís smiled regally and lifted her chin, and Óin had trouble looking at anyone as he muttered, "Save it fer later, lad. Off with ye now."

When the page raised his head, trembling, but made no move to leave, Ori regained his nerve and, in a voice firmer than Kíli was accustomed to, said, "You heard Master Óin. Go now!"

The page got to his feet, shaking, backed out of the chamber, and with a last tremulous glance at the young king, took off running, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

"What was he on about?" Kíli understood the lad's words, but they might as well have meant "Greatest Coal Lump! The Black, the Sooty, the Lumpiest!" for all the sense they made to him. The sinking sensation in his heart that he'd felt on waking had moved down to his stomach, but he didn't know why. Otherwise he felt fine.

Why was he in bed?

"Beggin' yer pardon, but ye'll have to speak up, sire," Óin said, raising his ear trumpet.

Ori looked from Kíli to Dís as if seeking her permission to speak. "There was . . . an accident," he said carefully.

Dís laid a hand on her son's arm. "You were standing on a balcony when it collapsed."

Kíli remembered. "Aye, in Thorin's Square." And then he truly remembered: the chanting, the smoke, the blood. Riots!

Just then, in rushed Balin and Dwalin. The former broke into an ear-to-ear grin. "Kíli!" He flung his arms wide as though to embrace his young relative but caught a warning glare from Óin and simply repeated "Your Majesty!" with great gusto. "Overjoyed am I to see you awake and well!" Never as expressive as his brother, Dwalin nevertheless had a twinkle in his eye and color in his cheeks as he said, "Welcome back, Yer Majesty." Then he pointed a thick finger at Kíli and, in the authoritative voice of a commanding officer, said, "Now, I won't call in yer debts today on that ale ye promised me in the lift, but I warn ya the interest has been accruin', and soon as ye're up an' at 'em, we've got some celebratin' ta do at the The Dragon's Lair." And since they couldn't show their affection to their bedridden cousin, the brothers slapped each other on the back instead.

Kíli looked from one to the other, mystified by their joviality at such a time. "General Dwalin," he said, "there is civil war in this city. Why are you not with the troops? Master Óin, why are you not with the injured?" When no one answered, he felt his temper begin to rise. "Why is everyone standing round my blasted bed?"

A pall descended over the room, and those in it looked everywhere but at Kíli. That couldn't be a good sign.

"How many casualties, then?" the king demanded more softly, fearing the worst.

"Four hundred-odd injured but none dead," the dutiful Dwalin replied. "Colonel Annar trained his regiment well."

At this, Kíli brightened some. Although the injuries were unfortunate, it was a blessing there'd been no deaths thus far, and this proved his investment in the military had not been a waste. "Has the square been cleared yet?"

"Aye," Dwalin said.

"And those who resisted the troops arrested?"

"Aye."

What wasn't he saying?

"Master Óin, where are the injured? Who is overseeing their care? Have their families been notified?"

Another suspicious pause. "They're at home with their fam'lies now."

"What do you mean?" The medic must not have heard him correctly.

"Your Majesty," Balin said finally, reluctantly, "the riots are past."

"Past?" It took Kíli a moment to absorb the implications of this statement. "How far past?"

"A week," said Dís.

"And three months." That was Ori, and when Dís glared at him, he shrugged as if to say, Well, he's got to know sometime.

Kíli frowned in confusion and looked about him as though there would be evidence of the turn of seasons despite that he was miles underground. "You mean to say . . . I've been abed these three months past? What day is today?"

"February the first of T.A. 2944," said Balin.

"Ye were concussed in the fall," Óin explained, and as if Kíli needed a translation of the medical terminology, Dwalin added, "Ye were sleepin' the sleep o' death, and we weren't none of us certain ye'd wake."

Stunned, Kíli ran a hand through his hair and felt the bandage round his head.

And remembered when far more delicate hands than his had tied that bandage.

But that was just a dream. That hadn't been real.

This . . . this was real.

"The balcony . . . " he said. "Tell me truly. Was it an accident?" He looked round the chamber at his family, and they in turn looked at his chief advisor.

Balin's eyes fluttered, and he gave a small sigh through his nose. Still, he complied with their silent request and answered, "Bombur and several other master engineers examined the wreckage. There were no signs of sabotage, but neither was the structure in danger of failing before the collapse."

"The force of the mob then?" Kíli guessed. Close to a thousand dwarves had crowded into that square. He'd no doubt the press of their bodies against the support columns of the balcony could've brought it down.

Dwalin shook his head. "Colonel Annar said there wasn't nobody beneath the balcony when it came down."

"Thank Mahal for that." Kíli briefly closed his eyes in gratitude. It could've been so much worse, a disaster with many innocent lives lost. Instead, the only life they'd come close to losing was his own. It was as if . . .

It was as if he'd been targeted. Very precisely and to devastating effect.

But Bombur had confirmed that there was no evidence of sabotage, and it would've been nigh impossible for a dwarven assassin to plant an explosive beneath a balcony that Kíli himself hadn't known he would set foot on until minutes before he did. So if this wasn't an attack by a fellow Longbeard, then by whom? The Lonely Mountain itself?

Tendrils of memory from a dream curled round the young ruler's head, echoes of his own dry, scratchy voice telling Tauriel that the mountain had judged him and met out its punishment. Echoes of Tauriel rationalizing that the mountain would certainly have finished him off if that was its intent. Even in his dreams, his amrâlimê's logic was sound! No, not the mountain then . . .

"Gandalf warned us," Balin said slowly, "that forces of darkness might seek your destruction, sire."

Kíli felt a cold shadow pass over him. "But we've told no one that I live!"

No one outside the dwarven kingdoms except Gandalf.

And Tauriel. After the way he'd parted with her, Kíli knew he'd given her little reason to remain loyal to him, but he had full confidence that his love would never ally herself with evil.

Dwalin raised his bushy brows. "Thorin son of Dáin knows."

"But Dáin will be keeping a hawk's eye on him," Dís said. "I think it highly unlikely that Thorin or any of his supporters could smuggle communications out of the Iron Hills undetected under such heavy guard. Besides, for all that he is a traitor to the throne of Erebor, I do not believe he is so irredeemable as to be . . . "

A traitor to his own kind. The princess trailed off so as not to speak the unspeakable, but everyone completed the thought for himself. It was one thing for a dwarf to try to depose a king but another thing entirely to expose a whole kingdom to the powers of evil. Dwarves were not made as men or hobbits. Even the worst of them were seldom susceptible to the absolute corruption of the Dark Lord, for their unyielding stubbornness was also their saving grace, and they could usually not be molded to such wicked purpose. As furious as Kíli still was with Young Thorin, even he didn't believe his cousin would sacrifice his own soul to employ black magic or consort with those who did.

In the end, it mattered less who had revealed the so-called miraculous Reawakening than to whom they had revealed it. If indeed one of the Dark Lord's minions had set his sights on the King of Erebor, it was more vital than ever that the mountain city stand united against that threat. Which would be an impossible task if Durin's Folk were torn apart by civil war.

Kíli remembered clearly the moment before the balcony had collapsed, when he'd been poised not only on the brink of his own death but on the brink of a new life for Erebor. In that instant when the stone shook beneath his feet, he'd despaired of ever making the announcement that he hoped would rekindle the faith of his people and reunite them toward a common goal. But as Tauriel had said in his dream, the mountain had given him a second chance to finish what he'd started. Though he couldn't speak to the people before, he could now do for them what he would've said.

Even if, Kíli thought, his amrâlimê had been just a dream, what she'd spoken of was real. And her counsel had been wise and fair.

He realized his head no longer ached.

"Oh, please don't remove that bandage, Yer Highness!" Óin admonished even as Kíli unwound it. "Not till I've a look at yer head meself!"

"You can have a look," Kíli said good-naturedly, ignoring the healer's anxious efforts to stop him. "You all can. I've been asleep far too long, but I'm awake now, and I don't intend to sit in this bed a moment longer when there's important work to be done."

"Whatever it is can wait, inùdoyê. You've only just awakened!"

"I feel fine, 'Amad. Better than fine. I feel as though I could eat a whole boar! In fact, Ori, would you send down to Bombur's for some of his bacon rashers? If he's not at home, 'Imdala can griddle them up just as well. And have the page tell her not to scrimp on them!" He turned his attention to Balin. "Now then, I suppose you've been acting as regent?"

"And quite competently, I might add."

"My lady." Balin bowed his head in acknowledgement of Dís's praise.

Kíli nodded as well. "I owe you my greatest thanks, Master Balin. Who knows what new disaster I might've awakened to without your wise leadership?" Nevertheless, he continued to peel off his bandages.

Dís was becoming more agitated by the second. "I tell you, there is no need to overexert yourself, my son. The kingdom has been in good hands and will continue to be until you are fully recovered!"

"I've no doubt, 'Amad. But I must not delay a minute more in putting a stop to any further riots!"

Kíli flung off the last of his bandages, and his mother gave a little cry and clapped a hand to her mouth. There was a collective intake of breath from the rest of the room, as well, and Dwalin let out a particularly strong oath in Khuzdul.

"What, do I look as bad as all that?" Kíli joked with a lopsided smile. He'd never been especially vain, but he hoped the scarring hadn't left him unrecognizable. "Will I have to wear my hair differently from now on lest people run screaming from my hideous face?" No one said a word, but he was disturbed to see his mother's eyes shining with tears. "Right, I'll fetch the looking glass myself if you lot won't just tell me straight out: How bad is the scar?"

"Oh, inùdoy!" Dís leaned forward and caressed her son's brow, lingering at the left temple that had throbbed so painfully in his dream. "There is no scar!"

"What?" Kíli laughed, dumbfounded. It wasn't the first time he'd heard a similar exclamation, for his fatal chest wound had left no scar, either. But that made sense to him; Tauriel's magic had healed him. This did not.

"The princess is right, Your Majesty. It is as if . . . the wound never was," said Balin, and even his voice, gravelly with age, was also hushed with awe.

"It was deep and wide as a crater, too! You could see straight to the bone!" Ori blurted. "We thought it would never stop bleeding, and Master Óin had to put in a dozen stitches! I watched him."

Kíli winced a little at this description and allowed Óin to peer into his various facial orifices and pronounce him fully healed, with no sign of previous trauma. The binding round his ribs came off, too, with a similar pronouncement.

"'Tis true then!" Dís breathed and grasped at her son's hand as a tear spilled down her cheek.

"Wonder of wonders! I wouldna've believed it if I hadn't seen it with me own two eyes," Dwalin muttered.

"Now, now, it is a wonder, and it might be true, but let's not be hasty," Balin cautioned.

Kíli felt utterly lost now. "What? What's true? Or might be true?"

"The rumors!" Ori blurted again. "Kíli, everyone says you're the Seventh Incarnation!"

"Of Durin," Dís added in case he'd thought Ori referred to any other.

'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!

Kíli had understood the page's bizarre invocation, but only now did it make perfect, horrifying sense: Greatest Father! The Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless!

The King of Erebor felt his stomach drop as it had when the page had prostrated himself on the floor, but he managed to let out a short bark of a laugh. "That's the same dragon shite some people were saying after the Battle of Five!"

"There are more who say it now," said Balin. "Many more."

"And they changed their minds soon enough once I failed to recreate the Erebor of their grandparents' day. They will change their minds again."

"This time is different."

"How, Master Balin?" When the seasoned advisor was silent, Kíli's jaw dropped. "You don't actually believe this baseless dross, too, do you?"

"Now, I wouldn't say that. Not yet." Balin was clearly hedging.

It was Dwalin who finally broke the truth to his confused young relation in his plain-spoken manner. "The first time ye woke from the dead, some said it was the doin' of the elf maid from Mirkwood."

"Tauriel—"

"Aye, that's who. But this time, sire, it wasn't no one but you who fell eighty feet, got buried under a pile o' rubble half that height, and pushed a three-ton granite column off o' yerself ta git free."

The darkness. The pressure. The close, thick, dusty air. Kíli remembered it all too well. He even remembered pushing the heavy stone slab above him.

But three tons of granite? He gave another incredulous laugh. "That's bloody impossible! No one could move that, not even Dori!" Whereas the average dwarf would be hard-pressed to lift more than a thousand pounds, Dori had been known to heft a ton when necessary. But thrice that amount? That was unheard of!

"Are ye tellin' me I don't know what me own eyes saw?" Dwalin crossed his brawny arms over his chest to show that he wouldn't tolerate such an insult even from the King under the Mountain, Durin returned or not.

Kíli stared in astonishment. "You were there?"

"Aye, along with Colonel Annar and half his regiment searchin' for ya."

"I searched, too, Kíli!"

"Thank you, Ori, I'm sure you did." Kíli was touched by his family's show of devotion, but there was no time to dwell on it. He thought fast and settled on the first possibility that seemed reasonable. "The search party must've disturbed the rubble so that the column rolled away. That must be what happened."

"Mm," Dwalin grunted, "much like the sword jest rolled outta me hand every time ya sparred with me these past two years."

Kíli glared from under a fringe of hair much tousled from his months abed. "I've been practicing!"

"Ya can't practice yer way ta the strength of a blazin' oliphaunt!"

"Nor practice scars away, neither," Óin murmured as if to himself. "First the mark o' the orc's mace and now the head wound. Never heard tell of anythin' like it!"

Kíli bit back the impulse to snap that there was much Óin probably hadn't heard for the past fifty years and instead said, "It's a family trait. Fíli and I always healed quickly."

"Not without any trace of a scar, inùdoy, and you know it."

Dís's son closed his eyes and tried not to think of the many thin, pale, but still visible scars that crisscrossed beneath his clothing, the record of an active, mischievous youth.

"Why, the fall alone shoulda killed anyone, and here they pulled ye out with a concussed head 'n' a few bruised ribs!" Óin exclaimed. And then again: "Never heard tell of it!"

"So, I was fortunate this time," Kíli shrugged and grumbled, "It happens to others. Miners who walk out of collapsed tunnels with barely a scratch, for example. I've seen it back home in the Blue Mountains. And none of them turned out to be reincarnated ancient kings!"

"Ye've been fortunate several times, if ye'll forgive me fer sayin' so, m'lord. Most recent afore this time when ya plunged three miles straight down in that cargo lift after the cables were tampered with. The way ye were hangin' in that cage, the force o' brakin' shoulda dislocated both yer shoulders at the least."

Kíli ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He couldn't deny that he'd never felt stronger in his life or that he'd made a number of freakishly close escapes from death since the first time he'd cheated it, and Durin the Deathless was said to be the strongest and hardiest of all dwarves who'd ever lived. But he couldn't believe he, Kíli, son of Kali, who'd grown up a simple archer in the Ered Luin, was Durin! He didn't possess the wisdom, knowledge, or virtue to be anyone's heroic savior of legend. Mahal, he couldn't even save anyone in real life!

His voice sounded desperate to his own ears, and he didn't like it, but in his desperation he turned to the one who'd known him longest and best. "'Amad, tell them they're wrong. You birthed me and raised me from a dwarfling, when I was tall and gangly for my age and teased mercilessly for my scant beard and my fondness for archery. How many times did my own brother have to get me out of some scrape I couldn't save myself from? You know who I am—Kíli, son of Kali, third born of a dispossessed minor noble, who lived by the labor of his hands all his days."

"Aye, 'tis true. But you are also Kíli, sister-son of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór." Though his mother squeezed the hand he held out to her, her reply was far from reassuring. "The blood of Durin flows from my veins to yours. You know that the greatest of the Seven Fathers must return through us."

At that, Kíli felt something inside himself draw up and seal shut like the Gate of Erebor, impenetrable. He'd never thought of himself as closed-minded, but the history, the legacy, the destiny of Durin were too vast for him to contemplate in relation to himself. And the truth was none of it had any bearing on what he must do in the here and now. No mythic hero of the Longbeards was about to rush in and save Erebor from civil strife; he, Kíli, must do that himself. And there was no time to waste.

He would fulfill his duty to the mountain and its people.

He would keep his promise to Tauriel.

And, having decided this, he felt that the pain was gone not only from his head and his ribs but also from his heart.

There were cries of dismay from Dís, Óin, and the others when their recently comatose king shoved back the bedclothes and hopped to the floor, but he ignored them and pulled on a pair of trousers beneath his nightshirt, then shucked the nightshirt for a loose tunic in the teal of his house. "Master Balin, General Dwalin, and Master Óin," he said as he buckled his belt, "will you kindly come with me to the Council Chamber? Ori, please meet us there with the rest of the Company."

"Don't you mean the Council?" Dís said as everyone trailed after Kíli to the door of his suite.

In the hallway, his personal guard was waiting, and though a few of them couldn't mask their amazement at seeing him up and about, all of them straightened and gave the proper salute. "At ease," Kíli nodded in return before heading toward the Council Chamber, his stride swift and purposeful.

The others scurried to keep up. "Inùdoy, do you wish us to convene the Royal Council?" Dís repeated.

"No, 'Amad," the King under the Mountain said with an easy smile, never breaking his stride. "The Company."

"I propose a vote."

"A vote?" Glóin squinted at Kíli, spitting out the offending word as though it were a bite of spoiled meat.

"D'ya mean like in a merchant guild?" asked Dori, who was a member of several.

"You could say that."

Kíli grinned broadly from where he sat at the head of the Council Chamber table. Or, more accurately, sat on the head of the table, with one hip propped against it and his leg swinging freely. The other ten members of the remaining Company of Fourteen were seated around it, and it was plain to see from their squint-eyed glances that half of them, namely Balin, Dwalin, Óin, Glóin, and Dori, thought that blow to the head had left its mark on their king's wits if not his skin. The others looked curious and, in Bombur's case, hungry.

"Mmm, Bombur, this bacon . . . mmm! My compliments to your wife. Don't take this the wrong way, but she's dangerously close to outdoing you." Kíli took another hearty bite, for the page had arrived just moments before with the requested food, which was now spread on a large tray in front of him, and he was thoroughly enjoying it after more than three months without. "Can I offer you some?"

Bombur reddened and cast an eye about the room, for it wasn't customary to eat in the Council Chamber. But then his stomach growled audibly, and as Kíli, Ori, and Bofur laughed, he lumbered to the head of the table with his head bowed to accept a helping.

"Here, have another. And don't restrict yourself to sharing my plate, take one for yourself," Kíli encouraged him. "Will anyone else have some?"

Bofur was the next to raise a tentative hand. "I-I will, Yer Majesty."

"Please! C'mon up, Bofur, and don't 'Majesty' me. Let's not have any titles in this room. We never did on the road."

Bifur followed close on Bofur's heels, then Nori and Ori came up for a serving, and soon enough, even the older dwarves who'd rolled their eyes and refused to get their own plates were picking at the others' shares and licking their fingers.

Kíli surveyed the room and felt his heart warmed by the sight of them all together again, doing what they did best—appreciating good food! He felt more at ease here among them than he had anywhere else since he'd become king.

The normally dignified Balin used his sleeve to dab surreptitiously at the corner of his mouth. Between dabs, he said, "I must admit, Your Maj—Kíli—that this is all highly irregular."

"You're right, Balin, it is." Kíli chewed with mock thoughtfulness. "I think we should make bacon rashers in the Council Chamber much more regular, don't you?"

Balin promptly swallowed his mouthful and made an exasperated grimace. "I was referring to this vote you speak of. And may I ask why, if you truly insist on it, you do not take the vote from the Royal Council?"

Now Kíli, too, stopped eating and put down his plate. It was time for serious talk. "You know I value the input of my councilors, and some of you in this room are, in fact, among them," he began lightly enough, though his words were heavy with meaning. "But the Royal Council was handpicked by royals—in particular, Dáin and my mother. It is, by nature, exclusive and far removed from the people and, at least for the first year and a half, was dominated by councilors from the Iron Hills. And I listened to them even though I would've trusted the opinion of one of my brothers-in-arms over theirs any day of the week."

There were nods and murmurs of understanding, though some of the older dwarves still looked skeptical.

"Seated round this table at present, we've got a cross-section of the kingdom—administration, military, merchants, crafters, miners. You are truly the representatives of Erebor, and it is as such that I ask for your opinions on a matter of utmost importance."

More murmurs, this time of surprise and confusion but also interest.

"But a vote undermines the Mahal-given authority o' the king," Dwalin huffed.

"Indeed it elevates our opinions over yours, which is not in the natural order of things," Balin agreed.

"In the merchant guilds, the vote leads to all manner of arguments from whichever side's the loser," Dori chimed in. "And if it's by ballot, often there's accusations of fraud and demand for a recount."

"It ain't by ballot, ye dunderhead." That was Glóin. "But it matters not. Votin' is the gateway ta abuse o' the law. Gits the masses addicted ta the power, and then they start demandin' a say in everythin'."

"Not that anyone in this chamber would dream of demanding their say otherwise." Kíli fought to hide a wry smile, for as irritating as the bickering sometimes was, he realized it was one of the many things he'd missed about the Company. "I've no doubt we can cope with a few additional opinions in Erebor."

"You are the king, lad," Balin reminded Kíli and everyone else.

The chief advisor had clearly meant this last statement as a concession to Kíli's divine right to do as he pleased, but the young monarch seized on it and said, "Aye. I am the king. One individual in a city of thousands of people. And as this decision will affect all those people, not just myself, I think it only right that you all get an equal say in it. There are eleven of us here, so my vote will break the tie. No need for any recounts, Dori."

More murmurs, and then Bofur piped up. "Well, I'm not sure what good my lil' ol' opinion will do, but yer welcome to it!"

"Equal say sounds like a fair deal to me," Nori decided. "Never did believe in just one body makin' choices fer everybody."

"We can try it, and if we don't like it, we don't ever have to do it again. Right, Kí?" Ori shrugged.

"So we're takin' a vote on takin' a vote now, are we?" Glóin groaned, but there were other sounds of assent, and Kíli grinned even more broadly than before.

"So, don't keep us in suspense, lad. What's this matter ye're seekin' our indispensable advice on?" Dwalin prompted.

"And speak up!" Óin reminded him.

"Right. So then." With the controversy over the vote out of the way, Kíli relaxed a bit, though his dark eyes still focused steadily on each member of the Company as he glanced around the chamber. "No one can deny Erebor is in kakhf up to Level Ten, and though Dáin and his advisors surely meant well, it was following their policies that got us into it. Some of you tried to tell me what the people needed—Balin, Glóin, Bombur, Bofur, Dori and Nori—but I was so intent on strengthening the military, I could see nothing else."

"The people do need a strong milit'ry, and they've got one now," said the chief of defense.

"Aye, and that is largely thanks to you, Dwalin. But it's come at a cost to their financial security. They live in poverty, which is as hazardous to the health as any attack from the outside world."

Balin cleared his throat. "What precisely do you propose to alleviate it when our isolation limits the profits we could gain by trade?"

"An end to our isolation."

The murmurs and mutters erupted into clamor, and Óin had to raise his ear trumpet and ask others what was being said.

"Have ye gone mad?"

"By me beard, it's about time!"

"Now, lad, we must remember what the wizard said—"

Kíli raised his hands for silence, and though he didn't get it, he was at least able to make himself heard. "I know what Gandalf said, but Gandalf hasn't been here in over two years. He hasn't seen how we've strengthened our defenses, and I don't propose that we announce my reawakening to all of Middle-earth but that, as Master Frithr once suggested, we take a few of its most trustworthy leaders into our confidence. King Bard. Lord Elrond. Those who helped us on the quest. We negotiate trade agreements with them, and then in time, if all goes well, we learn from them who else we can trust."

Glóin pumped a fist in the air. "Now ye're talkin', laddie! That's what I've been sayin' all along—ya build a strong kingdom on a strong financial base."

"I know more'n a few in the Craft Halls who'll be pleased as Yule punch ta start sellin' their wares in earnest," Bofur added.

"Aye, and in the merchants' guilds, as well," acknowledged Dori, though he stroked his beard as if troubled. "And I'm not sayin' I wouldn't welcome a bigger purse myself. But not at the expense o' the king's safety."

"Which'll be compromised without a doubt," Dwalin glowered.

"It already is," Kíli said quietly, locking eyes with the tattooed warrior.

"That's no reason to go'n make it worse, spreadin' the news to who knows what other walls and their eager ears!"

"Bloody axes! What're ye blatherin' on about, Gen'ral?" Glóin threw a strip of bacon fat that pinged off the forehead of its target, whose long, slow answering blink would've silenced anyone but the ginger-bearded chief of finance. "Yer army's strong as it's ever been, stronger'n men or elves can match. If any of 'em dare attack Erebor now, we'll griddle their long, scrawny hides right up with the bacon rashers!"

"It ain't just men or elves we're dealin' with now," Dwalin said darkly over the others' guffaws. "That balcony didn't collapse by itself."

"I must say I cannot advise this course of action, either. Not so soon after the attack three months ago."

"Then when, Balin?" Kíli's voice rang out amidst the ruckus, which died down around him. "Now that we know someone knows, another attack could come at any time. We cannot plan. We cannot prepare. We cannot even defend ourselves. Against those whose attacks we cannot see, weapons are of no use."

Kíli startled then, for he'd heard the words that had just issued from his mouth before, in a long-ago vision, when they were a warning he hadn't understood. He understood it well enough now and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to Thorin just in case his uncle had been more than a phantom of his mind in the drill hall late one night. Fortunately, none of the dwarves noticed their king's strange pensiveness, heads hung in contemplation of the truth he'd spoken, however unwelcome it might've been.

"What do we do then?" Kíli continued a moment later, "Close and lock the Gate of Erebor till the end of the age or till we starve to death inside, whichever comes first?"

Low vocalizations and one or two Iglishmek gestures told him the idea was unthinkable.

"Obviously, that's not an option. Now, the attack on the balcony was an attack on me alone, thank Mahal, and was carried out with great precision. Whoever wants me dead apparently has no interest in harming anyone outside the ring of his well-aimed destruction. For the sake of Erebor, for the sake of the people, I accept this risk to myself. As for anyone else who has frequent occasion to be in the ring with me . . . " The King of Erebor paused and swallowed, thinking of all the loved ones in close proximity to him every day and one in particular who was not but might yet be. " . . . You each must decide for yourselves what degree of risk you will bear. I will hold no one at fault for keeping his distance."

A hush fell over the chamber as each dwarf weighed the risk to himself, but the silence didn't last long before Dwalin broke it. "If ye can take the risk," he said decisively, "so can we."

"That's right, ain't none of us gonna abandon ya, Kíli," said Bofur. "Not after we came this far. We do it together or not a'tall."

Kíli shared a smile with the toymaker as other affirmative sounds and gestures followed. This was why he trusted the Company above all others. The miles they'd crossed together had left their imprint not just on the soles of their shoes but on the soul of brotherhood between them.

Balin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know you can count on me till my dying breath, lad, but I must remind you one more time that Gandalf strongly urged us to—"

"—take a risk," Kíli finished for him. "Go on an adventure. Be brave and believe in ourselves. If we learned anything on the quest, wasn't it that?"

"Here, here! To takin' a risk!" chorused Ori and Bofur, followed by Glóin, Nori, and Bombur, and finally Óin, Dori and Bifur (in Ancient Khuzdul, of course).

Balin and Dwalin still looked less than enthusiastic, but when the King under the Mountain called for the vote shortly thereafter, there wasn't a single "nay."

kakhf—excrement, shit

Up next—Gandalf! Galadriel! Celeborn! Elrond! Saruman! In Erebor! Kíli finds out something life-changing about himself, but will it be what everyone thinks? Plus, back in Hobbiton, Norithil continues to be an interesting child . . .