A/N: First off, my continuing gratitude to everyone who's been reading along with this fic and most especially to those who reviewed the last chapter or who followed and/or favorited since the previous update! Your interest is a great motivator! :)

Second, I remain thankful to Moonraykir for her careful editing, thoughtful suggestions, and well-considered opinions on key elements of this story.

Third, I've added a new warning to the Chap. 1 author's notes at the beginning of this fic. It also contains what some might consider a plot summary but what others might consider a spoiler. For those of you who've been reading along from the beginning, it won't be a spoiler at all at this point. However, the warning still applies. I added this warning due to a few complaints about the plot direction that I received on a different web site. I'm not changing the plot direction, but I believe readers should have fair warning about what kind of fic this is so that everyone can take responsibility for their own choice to read it or not. As I suggested after Chap. 7 and will suggest again, if you want to read this fic but find it too frustrating to wait and wonder when Kíli and Tauriel will meet again, you might want to consider saving it to favorites or bookmarking it in your browser and returning to it when it's complete. It's shaping up to be a true longfic!

A Promise Kept

Chapter 26

A Second Reawakening I

July, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton

Turn around, turn around, and the seasons were revolving, winter melting into spring, spring blossoming into summer.

Turn around, and the babe was gone, replaced by a leggy little chap, as "Unc Bibbo" would say, though still soft of skin and full in the cheeks.

Turn around, and Norithil was gone, for he was every bit as mischievous as his nana had been as a child, and more so. Although he could happily concentrate on a pleasurable task for long hours like any elfling of his age, when he finally decided he was bored or when it was time for bed, he could lead Tauriel and Bilbo on such a chase that they were the ones longing for bed at the end of it. Though of a sturdier build than Tauriel or her siblings had been, Norithil was light on his feet, nimble and flexible enough to wriggle into nooks and crannies from which only Bilbo was small enough to extract him. He learned the fun of this game quickly and often squeezed himself into the places Bilbo was most loathe to go—up the chimney or down the rain barrel, for example.

Tauriel was sore and weary at the end of every day, but perhaps all mothers of young children were. She missed her own mother dearly and wished she could've asked the elleth with the knowing gray eyes and the patient smile if she too had fallen into bed at night exhausted. If so, Tauriel wished now that she could apologize.

September, T.A. 2944—Erebor

Shouts rang and hammers clanged, echoing through Thorin's Square. But no longer were they shouts of fear, nor were the hammers raised in anger. The dwarrow who swarmed the square were architects and engineers, masons and carpenters, all applying themselves to the task at hand—rebuilding the balcony that had collapsed during the riots.

"As ye can see, Yer Majesty, Master Balin, we're just gettin' started here, but we expect construction ta be completed within the next three months," said Mundin, Minister of Internal Affairs, a paunchy fellow who let his salt-and-pepper beard flow free and unfettered by braids or beads.

"Good work. Please tell the foremen I said to keep it up," Kíli nodded, though the balcony was last on his list of priorities. "Let's move on to Level Two. I'd like to see what progress has been made in the fifth residential quarter." That section had been condemned almost a year ago, and since then the displaced families had been forced to take refuge with relatives or pitch their tents alongside the new arrivals awaiting permanent living quarters.

"I'm pleased ta report, sire, that our work in the fifth quarter is almost done. Fifty o' the ninety-eight fam'lies who lost their homes were able ta reclaim 'em in the last three weeks, and the remainder o' the homes should be ready by the end o' the month."

Kíli exchanged smiles with Balin. "That's the best news we've heard all morning. Lead on then, Master Mundin, and we'll have ourselves a look." In actuality, the young king intended to do more than just look. He wanted to stop a few passersby in the public square, knock on a few reconstructed doors, and make sure the residents were satisfied with their new housing.

"Forgive me, my lord, but perhaps we should hold off on the tour of the fifth quarter. Our distinguished guest is soon to arrive."

"I'm aware of the time. We won't be long, Master Balin," Kíli assured him. He meant it, too. He would allow plenty of time to make himself presentable, for their "distinguished guest" was none other than Lord Elrond of Rivendell, only the second ruler to be granted an audience with the King of Erebor.

The first had been King Bard of Dale, who had answered the summons to the Lonely Mountain as soon as Kíli had sent it, not knowing what crowned head would greet him. Upon arrival, he'd been ushered into the receiving room by Balin, Dwalin, Frithr, and Rathi, who had sworn him to secrecy on the matter of their sovereign's identity before admitting him to the throne room. After his initial shock had worn off, Bard had been overjoyed to see Kíli alive and well and to regain what he'd thought was a lost opportunity to thank the dwarven warrior for his part in protecting Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda during Smaug's attack. From that point forward, trade negotiations had proceeded swiftly, and within days, the first wagon full of wheat, barley, oats, and rye had arrived at the Gate of Erebor to ease the famine.

Dale was just one city, but its renowned market attracted men throughout the North and East, and they were anxious to buy Dwarvish weapons, tools, toys, jewelry, and other wares not seen in their Mannish towns in generations. In addition, the Kingdom of Dale contracted with Erebor for raw ore and weaponry and hired many dwarven masons to assist in the more delicate, detailed work of their continued restoration effort. A steady stream of coin and food supplies began to flow from Dale to Erebor, and though Durin's Folk were not yet the wealthiest of the Seven Clans again, they were no longer on the brink of destitution.

In early spring, Lord Elrond had also replied to his invitation to Erebor, and though he wasn't able to make the journey until September, he had surprised everyone by ordering a large quantity of gold, silver, and precious gems sight unseen. His gesture of good faith in the dwarven kingdom had impressed Kíli, who remembered the Company's shameful behavior in Rivendell and felt undeserving of the high lord's confidence. Yet this substantial order had also helped to replenish Erebor's treasury, and before long, they'd begun the housing and infrastructure repairs that the mountain sorely needed.

At this time of the morn, there wasn't much traffic through the central square of Level Two. Most of the dwarrow were at their daily work, and the dams were clearing away the breakfast and dressing the children, so it was an odd hour for them to be out and about. Still, a few scurried past, and Kíli picked the nearest and approached with a friendly smile. "Greetings, madam."

When she whirled to face him, his breath hitched. Her eyes! Green as the forest on a summer's day, and the slant of them . . . ! They were the same shade and shape as . . .

But no. Of course she looked nothing like Tauriel. Not really. She was a brunette with a rather bulbous nose and a spotty complexion that she tried to hide behind her beard. Kíli tried to right his wavering smile. It wasn't her fault that she wasn't his love. "My apologies for the intrusion, but may I have your name?"

When the green-eyed dam saw who addressed her, she froze, and her ruddy cheeks blanched. "Aye, m-m'lord. Banmûna, wife o' Grafi, son o' Grafin, at your s-service." She dropped into a deep though clumsy curtsy.

Kíli smiled more broadly in an effort to put her at ease. Sometimes he forgot how his mere presence could send strangers into an apoplexy. He made a mental note to ask Mundin to approach the next dam. "Good day to you, Banmûna, wife of Grafi. May I ask if you're acquainted with anyone who lives in the fifth quarter?"

"I-I-I do m-meself." Then her control broke, and she began to babble. "But please, m'lord, don't arrest me fam'ly! We ain't done nothin' wrong! Me husband—he's in the mines now—wasn't one o' them rioters. He just got caught in the square that day on his way home to me 'n' our bairns. And me brother only run inta that scrap ta try ta find me husband, only he got the worst of it. He's a gen'le soul, he is, and wouldn't harm no one. We've always been loyal to ye, our whole fam'ly!"

Her trepidation tugged on Kíli's heart strings, and he immediately sought to relieve her distress. "My good madam, please. Be at peace. We've not come to arrest anyone. We merely hope to have a look at the new construction in the fifth quarter and wondered if you might be so kind as to point us to a dwelling that's in a state to receive visitors."

The green-eyed dam stopped trembling then and dared to peek up at the king and his small entourage. "Dunno that me humble home's yet fit for visitors, 'specially the likes o' ye, but if ye don't mind that we're still settlin' in, 'twould be me honor to receive ya."

Banmûna lived on the third story of one of the terraced abodes carved into the side of the mountain. As soon as she opened the front door, it was plain to see the family was still unpacking, for which she apologized profusely whilst in the same breath calling to whomever was in the rear apartments to wash and dress the children in their best, as "we've got high-born guests."

"High-born?" replied a gruff voice from within. "D'ya mean the damn superintendent agin? Tell 'im we'll have the money on the morrow and not a day sooner."

"Higher." Banmûna's nervous eyes were trained on the King under the Mountain.

There was a brief silence. "What d'ya mean? How high, then?"

"The highest," she gulped.

So as not to show his amusement at this exchange, Kíli cleared his throat and busied himself glancing about the reconstructed dwelling. "Aye, that was the wall that was cracked and close to crumblin', so the masons said," Banmûna confirmed when Mundin spread his palm flat on the stone by the hearth to examine it. Kíli may not have been a mason himself, but he knew good work when he saw it and was glad the failing structure had been mended without sacrificing quality for speed.

They were still studying the repairs when the occupants of the rear apartments emerged— an elderly dwarf who looked to be in his last few years of life, unsteady on his feet as he led two bairns by the hand, and a younger male who bore a strong resemblance to Banmûna but had no right arm below the elbow. Despite their physical disabilities, the moment they recognized the King of Erebor, they gaped and stumbled to their knees, the elderly one tugging the children down with him. Then they chorused what was by now a painfully familiar chant: "'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd!"

Greatest Father! The Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless!

Unable to bear the old and the frail inconveniencing themselves for his sake (or the chanting, for that matter), Kíli advanced quickly to help them to their feet. "Please. Rise, my friends. Rise, and be at ease." The elder dwarf looked grateful as he accepted Kíli's assistance, though the younger waved the proffered hand away and got up on his own.

"Yer Majesty, Masters Balin and Mundin, if I may be so bold ta make introductions, this here's me father, Ingi, me brother, Vingi, and me two lads. Please fergive 'Adad if he sits in yer presence, m'lords. His back and knees trouble him somethin' awful these days."

"Certainly. Please. You should all be at your leisure." Kíli helped Ingi into the nearest chair. "We've been on our feet all morning and would welcome the chance to sit, as well."

Banmûna flushed deeply. "Oh, aye! Mahal, where's me manners? Please do, Yer Majesty, good sirs. Make yerselves comfortable, as much as ye can be in the midst of all this clutter, fer which I do apologize agin."

In truth, Kíli wasn't tired, and he doubted Balin and Mundin were, either, but he didn't want to embarrass Ingi or his family, so he gestured to his councilors to take seats in the modest parlor anyway.

"Let me pour ye some tea." And hissing at the young lads to sit still and be quiet, their mother bustled off to fetch the kettle. Whilst their hostess was gone, Kíli introduced his advisors to Ingi and Vingi by title and explained briefly what each of them did.

"'Adad here worked in the mines till winter last. A driller he was," Banmûna said when she returned and caught their conversation.

"A fine profession. And you?" Kíli asked Vingi to be polite.

"I was a cobbler, sire."

"But no longer?"

"Not since I lost me arm in the riots."

Kíli didn't miss the crafter's sullen tone, accompanied by a resentful glance that made the young ruler wonder if Banmûna had been truthful when she said her brother was not an instigator in the violent outbreak. But, it mattered not. The riots were past, and Kíli blamed none so much as himself for the desperate times that had driven some to rebellion. If this fellow had participated, then he'd surely paid a heavy price for his mistake. "I'm sorry. That was a terrible day indeed. For all of us," Kíli said soberly.

Vingi made a noncommittal sound and glared down at his tea mug.

"Before I leave, let me direct you to the surgery of my personal medic, Master Óin. He's a bit hard of hearing, so you'll have to speak up to tell him what you want, but he's very clever at fashioning iron hands for injured blasters. There's no reason why he couldn't make one for a cobbler, as well."

At last he had the lad's full, though dubious, attention. "What d'ya take me fer? Ye must be jesting. I've never seen no such thing as an iron hand."

Kíli grinned. "Not jesting at all. As Mahal is my witness. You can be fitted for the hand tomorrow if you like, and with a little practice and patience, there's no reason you can't work again."

"Oh, m'lord . . . " Banmûna gasped, nearly dropping her serving tray. "Vingi! Nudud, ye must see this medic, this Master Óin!"

"Hold, 'anai. His Majesty hasn't named the price o' this iron hand. Sure a trinket like that don't come cheap ta folk like us." He spoke to his sister, but it was Kíli he narrowed his eyes at in unspoken challenge.

Instead of responding to that challenge in kind, as he would have a few short years ago, Kíli gave an answer that was both soft and sincere. "The crown covers treatment for all injuries acquired on public land. Thorin's Square, where you were injured, my friend, is public land. That entitles you to an artificial limb at no cost to yourself."

"The blessings o' Mahal be upon ye, m'lord!" Banmûna burst out. And then to her brother: "'Tis an answer to prayer, it is!" Old Ingi reached over to pat his son's hand, eyes twinkling under raised brows.

Vingi, too, was finally approaching a smile as he exchanged hopeful glances with his father and sister. "If 'tis true, I'd be much obliged, sire," he said at last, his voice rough with sudden emotion, "much obliged."

"I'll tell Óin to expect you," Kíli grinned.

After that, they chatted more easily about the fifth quarter renovations. Kíli asked about the state of the plumbing, the steam heat, the sturdiness of the new construction's foundation during mine blasts. He asked whether the residence was spacious enough and if it was laid out as Banmûna and her family wanted. He asked what they knew of their neighbors' homes, whether or not they too were satisfied. And then he asked about their provisions for the coming winter: Did they have enough grains after last year's shortage? What about meat for curing and vegetables for pickling? It was only when all of these questions and then some had been answered in the affirmative that Kíli rose to take his leave.

Banmûna saw the small party out. The light of the lanterns in the entryway danced in her green eyes, and, for a moment, they were as heartbreakingly lovely as those eyes Kíli had almost mistaken them for. "Yer Highness," she said as he was poised in the doorway, "we never expected ya ta come all the way down here, we didn't. Ye did a good thing fer us today, more than ye can know. I haven't the words— That is, I don't know how—"

"You're welcome," Kíli said with a simple smile, saving her from the need to say more. Then he bowed his head in thanks for her hospitality and took his leave.

The king and his councilors knocked on several more doors and, after waiting out the inhabitants' shock, repeated much the same questions with much the same answers before Kíli conceded that it was high time to return to the upper levels and ready themselves to greet Lord Elrond and his retinue. By then, some of the miners and crafters were on their way home for lunch. When the gate to the Level Two lift opened on about a dozen of them, instead of clearing out swiftly to make way for the royal who unexpectedly faced them, they fell to their knees and began to chant: "'Uhdad! 'Uhdad! Ablâkhul, Akrâzul, Binamrâd! 'Uhdad! 'Uh—"

"Durin's be—" Kíli began, then broke off, thinking better of that particular oath. He set his mouth in a grim line. "Let's take the stairs."

September, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton

"Weed?" Norithil asked in Sindarin, holding up a leafy stem. His evergreen eyes, which Tauriel knew were a shade darker than her own, were wide and questioning.

"No, that is a hollyhock," she corrected him. "Yes, it looks like this coltsfoot weed, doesn't it? They've both got leaves shaped like hearts. But the weed is smooth and shiny, whilst the hollyhock is rougher. Do you see?" It was an irony, she thought, that the coarser leaves were the ones which produced the most beautiful blooms.

Norithil studied the plant in his hand and ran his fingers over its ridged and wrinkled surface, then nodded.

"It will bloom next year," Tauriel explained.

"Next 'ear," Norithil repeated seriously, then took up his little trowel and set about uprooting the smooth, shiny-leafed weeds with renewed vigor.

Tauriel watched him with a fond smile for a moment more before she returned to the bulbs she was planting. In late spring, it had come to her attention that her son derived great enjoyment from digging and pulling things out of the ground. Unfortunately, she had discovered this when he'd pulled out a row of Bilbo's favorite tulips. Bilbo, bless his heart, had been very understanding but had cleverly suggested that they kill two birds with one stone and set the "little chap" to weeding. As with most new tasks, Norithil was a fast learner and readily picked up on the distinguishing marks of weeds versus flowers, and so he got to amuse himself rooting in the dirt whilst also beautifying the garden.

Tauriel had almost finished planting a row when she noticed the hot prickle of the sun on the back of her neck and paused to press a handkerchief to her brow. Elves seldom perspired, but ever since becoming a mother, she sometimes found herself reaching for that handkerchief during a day's labor. When she'd mentioned it to the lady hobbits, they'd just laughed, and Peony had said that to have a youngling was to be forever sweating over something. Perhaps, Tauriel thought, it only seemed that elves seldom perspired because few of them ever became mothers! Well, with the sun so high, it was time to prepare luncheon anyway.

"Let's go inside and get something to eat, ionneg," Tauriel said.

Norithil pushed out his lower lip in a gesture of dismay that needed no words. "Ú. Darthon."

No. I stay.

Hmm. This was new. He'd never outright refused to do something before. Tauriel wondered if her son had reached that stage that Bell and Peony referred to as the "terrible twos." Her first instinct was to gather the youngling up and carry him inside whether he liked it or not. After all, he couldn't stay out here by himself! But then she remembered Bell calling these "terrible twos" a time to "pick your battles" because, in the end, children did need to learn how to do things on their own.

"Darthon!" Norithil repeated more adamantly, patting the ground for emphasis.

Tauriel sighed. The truth was she could both see and hear him from the kitchen window, and undoubtedly half the neighborhood (or at least Daddy Twofoot) was watching, as well, so there was no reason not to let him continue playing in the garden except for her own fear of the unknown. And did she really want to teach him to be afraid in his own front garden without her?

"Very well, then. You may stay here whilst Nana goes inside for a bit. But you mustn't leave the front garden, do you understand?"

Norithil nodded soberly.

"And you'll call if you need me?"

Norithil nodded again.

"Right," Tauriel muttered, hoping she wasn't making a foolish mistake and hurried inside the smial before she could regret it. As soon as she got to the kitchen, she threw open the window.

The babe who was no longer a babe was already elbow-deep in the dirt again, and every few seconds, another scraggly weed went flying over his shoulder.

September, T.A. 2944—Erebor

Kíli stared at himself in the looking glass, the archer from the Blue Mountains transformed into a king. The image that stared back at him was bedecked in the heavy furs and gold-trimmed teal velvet of high ceremonial garb, crown polished and gleaming, face framed by braids of status that proclaimed him Champion of the Quest of Erebor, Victor of the Battle of Five Armies, King under the Mountain, Ruler of the Longbeards, High Chief of the Seven Clans, and Heir of the Line of Durin. The braids—two on one side, three on the other, and one in back—were adorned with beads of gold, beryl, and corundum, which sparkled blue-green like cold stars against the dark cloud of his hair.

Kíli stared at himself, but was it himself he stared at?

Or was it Durin—the Mighty, the Glorious, the Deathless?

He didn't look like the images of Durin he'd seen on engravings, tapestries, or the cradle quilt he'd slept under till he was five years old. According to legend, every reincarnation of Durin was supposed to look the same. But apparently this fact made no difference to the Dwarves of Erebor.

Seven months had passed since what the people called the Second Reawakening, the day Kíli had emerged from his coma after the riots. But unlike the first time he'd risen from the dead, when the rumors were furtively whispered and had dissipated along with early confidence in his leadership, this time the rumors were no rumors at all but open declarations as Durin's Folk pledged their faith to the dwarf they believed to be their reincarnated hero. It seemed he could go nowhere without dodging prostrated bodies and hearing their chant ringing in his ears. And yet, Kíli felt no more certain of who he was now than he had been on the day he'd awakened.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Although he didn't enjoy being king and would've given his own life rather than inherit the throne by the deaths of his uncle and brother, Kíli couldn't deny that ruling Erebor had changed him. These nearly three years past had stretched him to his limits, broken them, and then pushed him beyond. They'd taught him he was capable of more patience, perseverance, judiciousness, resourcefulness, and selflessness than he'd ever dreamed possible.

He'd learned that he could aim for more than a bull's-eye on a field target, that he was capable of translating advanced Khuzdul, showing up to Royal Council meetings on time, and getting other people to listen when he spoke.

He could stop a riot and bring down a traitor and let go of the love of his life to keep her safe even when it made him die inside. He could die inside and yet live for his people. And for her.

Kíli wasn't the same lad who'd left his mother's house on a quest that some called reckless and others fated, nor even the warrior who'd been slain defending his love in the Battle of Five. But he was still trying to get to know this new Kíli he'd grown into, and it was too much to contemplate that now he might be somebody else entirely. Somebody like, say, a renowned ancient king who was supposed to lead his people to the most prosperous era in the history of their race.

Kíli placed his palms flat on the mirrored surface before him, and a minute later they curled into fists. Dammit all, he didn't want to be Durin! He didn't want the responsibility, the expectation, the deification if things went well and the demonization if they didn't. Was it not enough for him to carry the tangible weight of the Lonely Mountain on his shoulders? Must he also now carry the mythic weight of Khazad-dûm?

He hung his head, leaning against the cool glass. Any minute now, he'd have to pull himself together and welcome Lord Elrond and the Elves of Rivendell. How he wished he could greet them with his own Woodland Elf at his side! What a fine queen she would've been, gracious and self-possessed! (And fluent in Elvish, too, which would come in handy at a time like this.) He felt sure Tauriel would dismiss all this Durin nonsense with a wave of her slender hand and love him for who he was in this lifetime, not for who he might've been in the last.

Kíli missed her.

Like fire missed air. Like a crystal missed the light. Like a downed raven missed the sky.

Without her, he felt continually out of his element even in his own home. He wondered if he would ever be able to make this her home, too.

Now that he knew forces of evil he couldn't see coming were intent on harming him, restocking the armory and rebuilding the troops would not be enough to protect her if she were in his vicinity when another unnatural attack occurred. Just hours after awakening from the highly suspicious collapse of the balcony, Kíli had offered his nearest and dearest in Erebor the choice to keep their distance or throw in their lot with him and take their chances, and they'd all chosen to remain at his side. But if he took Tauriel as his wife, no one would be at his side as frequently as she. No one else would be so often in the direct path of attack. And if the two of them were to bring a bairn into the world . . . He shuddered at the thought of the terrible, constant danger that child would be in just by virtue of being near his own father.

"Yer Majesty?"

Kíli's head snapped up. In the looking glass, he saw a page standing behind him.

"Ever so sorry ta interrupt, m'lord, but Lord Elrond's arrived."

"Very good. Thank you."

"Shall we show him and the others inta the receiving room?"

"Yes, that should be— Others? What others? You mean his attendants?" Kíli looked sharply at the page's reflection.

"Nay, sire. He's brought two wizards with 'im—that Gandalf and a white-bearded fella! And the Witch o' the Golden Wood and 'er lord!"

September, T.A. 2944—Hobbiton

"Is the little chap doing anything different out there?"

"No." Tauriel ducked back inside the kitchen window.

"Oh? I thought he might've moved a few feet to the right since last you looked," Bilbo said around his pipe, completely straight-faced until the warrior maid glared at him, which prompted a half smirk.

"He's still on the other side of the gorse." She'd nearly run outside when her direct line of vision had been eclipsed by the hateful bush, but as she could still see dirt and weeds flying out in all directions and hear Norithil burbling to himself, she'd let Bilbo convince her to let the youngling have his fun.

"Did I tell you I ran into Tom and Lily Cotton this morning whilst I was in town? Mistress Lily said to say hullo. Nice gal." He took a thoughtful puff on his pipe. "She was wearing the oddest get-up, though—a skirt over a pair of breeches! Reminded me of those leggings you elves like to wear— Oh, I say! Tauriel, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she muttered, though she also swore in Sindarin under her breath. She'd just nicked herself slicing apples for the cobbler. She sucked on her injured pointer finger, then shook the hand out. "It isn't such a deep cut. It should take less than a minute for the bleeding to stop."

Several minutes later, the bleeding hadn't stopped, and Bilbo was rummaging in the medicine chest for a bandage. "This one's a bit large perhaps," he said, unfurling a cloth long enough to wrap twice round Tauriel's arm. "But we can snip off a few inches!"

"Oh, Bilbo, no. Please. It's only a finger. It will stop bleeding any minute now, and by this time tomorrow, it will be completely healed."

"I'm sure it will," Bilbo said with a kind smile, ignoring her protests as he wrapped the ridiculously large bandage round her finger, then her hand, and finally anchored it at her wrist.

"I look as though I'm wearing an oven mitt," Tauriel said flatly.

"You can't deny it's practical," Bilbo shrugged in return.

And that was when she realized she no longer heard Norithil.

nudud—brother

'anai—sister

ionneg—my son

A/N: You may notice that this chapter is divided into two parts. I often split chapters when they get too long, but these are really two parts of the same chapter, so I've titled them to reflect that. I really didn't want to end off here since I was hinting about a big reveal for Kíli in this update, and I'm so very sorry I wasn't able to fit that in! But Banmûna and her family sneaked into the second scene when I wasn't expecting them, and I liked them too much to cut them, so they kind of stole the show this time around. Such are the hazards of posting a WIP, I guess, but I hope you'll agree that Kíli's visit to Level Two added something special to the chapter. And you can rest assured that Kíli gets his big news in "A Second Awakening II," which I'm already working on!

SPOILER FOR THE FEARFUL: No, nothing tragic happened to Norithil, but he did get up to something interesting! ;)

Up next—Kíli gets his big news, but other than that, I feel like I should maybe stop trying to predict what's next! :O