A/N: Thank you, everybody, for your great response to the last chapter, for all the reviews and good questions! I see there are some new readers who added this fic to their follows or favorites since last time, so if you're just joining us, welcome aboard, and I hope to hear from you if you'd like to drop a line. :)

I owe many thanks to Moonraykir this time because this chapter, which sets up for later events, was very challenging to write, and she patiently answered all my questions and offered invaluable feedback.

Guest 12/25: Very happy to hear you liked the "Christmas present"! ;) And thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I try to keep this fic interesting and full of surprises, but of course I don't really know if I'm succeeding until I hear it from readers like you, so I appreciate that you told me. :) Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Rahj: I'm glad to know you enjoyed the last chapter! :) That telepathic conversation between Kili and Galadriel was my favorite part of it to write, without a doubt. Kili's longevity is definitely a surprise to him and everyone else, but it will give him so many more years with Tauriel and Norithil that he can't possibly complain. ;) And, yes, he's itching to go find Tauriel, which we'll see in this chapter, so read on! Thank you for reviewing! :)


A Promise Kept

Chapter 28

A Deeper Mystery


September, T.A. 2944—Erebor

Sometimes even a wizard could envy the Firstborn. Their gift of spiritual discernment was truly a blessing! Gandalf himself had sensed only that there was an aura of power about young Kíli since his resurrection—a remnant, he'd thought, of whatever force had accomplished so great a feat—but he could not have visualized it as a measure of the dwarf's strength or longevity. There was yet more for him to learn, the Grey mused, during his time here in Middle-earth.

Gandalf leaned on his staff in the courtyard outside the Gate of Erebor, waiting for the stableboy to fetch his horse. The elves would stay on for several more days to negotiate trade agreements and military alliances with the dwarven kingdom, but his own work here was done. He was satisfied that there would not be another attack on the mountain for the foreseeable future, and its new king was now free to proclaim himself to the world and get on with the business of ruling.

Gandalf was proud of the lad. He'd come far since his days of jumping in public fountains and mouthing off to mountain trolls, pulling pranks on Bombur and frightening Bilbo with tall tales. From the looks of Erebor these days, he was becoming a good king. In time, his reign might well become legendary. Certainly his resurrection had already made him a popular hero of sorts.

It was a shame the elves hadn't been able to offer a more definitive explanation for that fantastic occurrence. However, it seemed increasingly likely that Mistress Tauriel had played a bigger role in the matter than Gandalf had previously supposed, though the precise nature of that role was still in question. The aura of power the wizard had sensed around Kíli reminded him, in potency if not in quality, of the charge that hung in the air after he'd wrought his own work upon earthly matter, aided by the Ring of Fire. For this reason, he'd studied Tauriel closely when they traveled together, but in all that time, he could find no evidence that she bore a Ring.

One day he must bring her before the rest of the White Council, who were by now quite intrigued to examine her. The dwarves, too, understandably wanted answers about the elf maid's part in the strangest mystery of their time. However, Gandalf had more pressing matters to attend to at present than satisfying their curiosity.

This Enemy attack on Kíli was most distressing, an ominous portent of Sauron's resurgence in Middle-earth. If the Dark Lord had regained a stronghold somewhere, it was imperative that he be found and rooted out. Or if, as Gandalf suspected, he was not yet strong enough to launch an attack himself and had instead persuaded someone powerful to carry it out for him, that person or persons must also be found before they attacked someone more vulnerable than the King of Erebor now was.

The wizard nodded at the stableboy who approached with his horse. He was glad to see the animal well fed and rested, for they must make haste.


As he mounted his steed in the courtyard, Saruman finally permitted himself a grimace of pure, undisguised rage. How he loathed that insolent young upstart of a dwarf! He hated that the mountain rat had survived his attack, he hated that this latest spawn of Durin was practically indestructible, and he hated that there was nothing he could do about it. Galadriel had been gallingly correct, as usual: Saruman would not attack the little King under the Mountain again. He'd spent himself in that first assault, and he couldn't afford to repeatedly drain his power without good reason. "Spiritually vigorous" though this Kíli might be, he was not, after all, the reincarnation of Durin; he would not be the one to unite the dwarven world into an unstoppable force beneath the banner of an everlasting kingdom. He would, however, be very hard to kill. Thus, Saruman knew he must concede this battle with the dwarf in order to win the war for Middle-earth.

"Off so soon then, old friend?"

Saruman forced a placid, close-lipped smile and turned toward the clip-clop of Gandalf's mount. "I am needed at home in Isengard. I was fortunate to get away at all. And you . . . are headed out West?"

Gandalf compressed his lips and raised his bristly brows. "I think Lindon has seen enough of me this decade."

"Ah, yes. Didn't you ever come across Glorfindel?"

"No, I did not," Gandalf said with one of those piercing looks that made Saruman's skin prickle.

"A pity. I would've sworn I heard he was in the Grey Havens."

Gandalf said nothing.

"Where are you off to, then? I'll ride with you a league or two."

"I do not think we are going in the same direction, though your company is ever welcome. I go north to Gundabad, then to Dol Guldur, and on to Lothlórien, where I shall report my findings when we reconvene."

"And just what do you expect to find in those forsaken lands?" Saruman scoffed. "Some poor, crippled specimen of an orc not fit to be marched to his death in the Battle of Five Armies?"

Gandalf scowled and nudged his mount closer. "Young Kíli was attacked by an agent of Sauron," he hissed. "There's no point in pretending otherwise. Should you continue to lock yourself away in that tower of yours and ignore the world, soon enough the world will come to you. And what will you do then? I would ensure that the Enemy has not crawled back beneath our sight lines to retake one or more of his strongholds. And if he's corrupted a servant to enact his foul plans, that villain must be rooted out! You may come with me or not, as you please."

Saruman's back went rigid. The audacity! The Grey would never have dared speak to his superior with such brass a mere century ago. Surely he was under the influence of the Master Ring! This excursion to Sauron's old haunts was in all probability a cover for Gandalf's real destination, the Shire, where he concealed the Ring until it suited him to proclaim himself Lord of All. Quite likely he'd enlisted the redheaded she-elf to guard his prized possession whilst she remained partly or wholly ignorant of its significance. This might've seemed a farfetched theory to the other members of the White Council, but what Saruman had not shared with his companions as they fawned over the little Longbeard was that their pet's "bright spirit" fairly glowed with Ring energy. Though this energy was not visible to the eye, as soon as the White Wizard had come within twenty feet of the resurrected dwarf king, he'd felt its magnetic pull as surely as he'd felt the pull of the Dark Lord when he'd gazed into the palantír. He knew then, without question, that the redheaded she-elf had been in possession of a very powerful Ring, and it was this Ring that had revived the mountain rat and imbued him with such extraordinary (and undeserved) vitality.

At first, Saruman had wondered if anyone else could sense the residue of Ring magic, but none had mentioned it as they debated their favorite theories of the dwarf's "reawakening." On the other hand, their very avoidance of the subject suggested that one or more of them were fully aware of it and wished to steer the conversation in the opposite direction. Saruman himself had employed this tactic. Perhaps, he thought, he'd been too quick to assume that Gandalf was the only one who coveted the Ruling Ring. After yesterday's maneuvering in the throne room, the head of the White Council suspected that he might have more competition among the elves than he'd anticipated. Galadriel, in particular, was a quiet one, but behind that self-controlled veneer lurked an uncontrollable lust for power, he was certain of it. Some might have said the same of him, true, but he was Saruman, foremost of the Istari and the highest authority on the Rings in Middle-earth. He stood alone and apart from his peers, as the One Ring stood alone and apart from all others. Only he was qualified to guard it and to wield it to good purpose, which was why he must discover where Gandalf had hidden it and take it into his own safekeeping. And the first place he intended to search for it was on the person of one young ginger Wood Elf.

Saruman knew he must see to it that his fellow mage followed through on the pretense of tracking Sauron and his agent north, for the old fool would not find the Dark Lord, but he also must not find the agent who even now stood right under his nose. Moreover, he must be kept away from the Shire and the Master Ring—as far away as possible! Fortunately, Saruman understood his junior's fear of failure, the intense shame he'd felt when he'd fallen to Sauron at Dol Guldur and had to be rescued by the rest of the White Council. His pride had been wounded when Radagast bore him away on a sled, exhausted and broken, whilst his elder drove Sauron into the East with skill and confidence. It would not be so difficult to goad him into another attempt to prove himself against the Enemy.

Saruman's horse seated him a bit higher than Gandalf, and he used this advantage to look down his nose at the younger wizard with an air of injury. "I've no need to go gallivanting about with you, friend, just to prove that Sauron is in the East, where I left him to wallow in his defeat. To be frank, it grieves me that you've so little faith in my ability to properly dispatch an enemy."

There! The memory of Dol Guldur was in Gandalf's eyes, and he looked appropriately humbled by his own failure and his superior's success.

"I suppose you think Gondor installed me in the greatest military fortress of Middle-earth so that I could keep house? In fact, I've no time for aimless wandering, as the people of Gondor have entrusted me with important work. But, go hunt demons if you must. Perhaps, in another two years, you may stumble upon Glorfindel."

That was a low blow, Saruman knew, for his own word had led Gandalf astray two years prior. But Gandalf deserved it, the deceitful wretch, and Saruman was pleased when his barb was received with the drawn brows and slack jaw of one who'd felt its sting.

The White Wizard turned his horse away, knowing full well that the Grey was stewing behind him. "You make light of me now," he heard Gandalf call after him grimly, "but you ignore what I've said at your own peril. A life of wandering may not afford one much respect, but it provides far-ranging views, sometimes of things to come. The evidence of evil accumulates around us but, like flakes of snow, seems insubstantial until it forms an impassable snowbank. The blizzard will soon be upon us!"

Saruman smirked to imagine the old fool shaking an impotent fist at his back, then twisted in his saddle. Now that he'd weakened his inferior by stirring up old insecurities, it was time to draw on his own power of persuasion and slide it like a dagger between those chinks in the other's resistance. "If you can bring the Council more than insubstantial flakes of snow, evidence that won't melt away at the slightest touch—say another Morgul blade or the like from Dol Guldur—you will hear no further protest from me, friend. I will bow to your better judgement, step aside to your leadership, and consent to whatever plan of attack you've in mind. Therefore, I strongly suggest you scour every inch of Gundabad and Dol Guldur for this evidence until you've found it."

That should do it: an appeal to Gandalf's irresistible desire to prove himself to his peers. Nay, to surpass and command them. For anyone who was compelled by the Master Ring was, above all, compelled by lust for power. In a moment more, the Grey would succumb to his lust and set off to comb abandoned ground for evidence that did not exist. Quite probably, he could occupy himself that way for years whilst the White set his plans in motion undisturbed! And so thinking, the White trotted down the mountain, chuckling softly to himself. Now he had only to find that unwitting ringbearer, the redheaded snippet . . .

Thus far, Saruman had lost every agent he'd sent to the Shire. Every time he passed the palantír, untouched in almost a year and gathering dust beneath its covering, he longed to use it just one more time, just for a moment, to get a glimpse of the she-elf. It would be so much speedier, so much simpler to locate her that way. Yet he did not dare, for when he'd watched the little runt in Erebor, so too had he been watched; he could sense it. And Saruman would not tolerate being watched like some household slave! He was chief of the Istari, and on this earth, he answered to no one! So, he'd begun instead to give serious consideration to his once fanciful idea of an orcish half-breed to do his bidding, a creature with the wiles of a man but the strength and endurance of an orc. Should he succeed in breeding that creature, it would be robust enough to survive the trek west, yet clever enough to ferret out an elf who didn't wish to be found.

Saruman's only question now was how to practically accomplish his goal. He doubted he could persuade a human male to lie with a female orc since even the ugliest of men expected a modicum of feminine charm in a mate. Therefore, he would probably have to cross a male orc with a human woman. The half-breed he sought could, perhaps, be sired by a descendant of one of the orcish survivors of Osgiliath and birthed by the Dunlending wench who cooked his meals. She had a face only a mother could love, but those rapacious orcs would bed anything with two legs that moved. Besides, she also had a good sturdy frame that might realistically withstand the delivery of the beast, and if it didn't, well, he'd give the next woman to a smaller Misty Mountain Goblin. Their offspring wouldn't be as close to invincible as he'd like, but everyone had to start somewhere. A goblin-man was as good a start as any.


The High Elves stayed five days in the Lonely Mountain. For Kíli, that was five days too many.

Under other conditions, the King of Erebor would've delighted in conducting the Lord of Rivendell and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien on a grand tour of the kingdom, proud to display the inner workings that his great-grandfather Thrór had been too distrustful to let elven eyes glimpse on their previous visits. Weaving through the busy residential quarters or standing on the green marble deck of the Three Diamond Bridge, which was still in its scaffolding but afforded an unparalleled view of the River Running as it tumbled down the Little Gorge, he would've been excited to ask what they remembered of the city prior to the Desolation and how the reconstruction efforts of the current Restoration compared. In the drill hall, in the presence of these esteemed warrior lords, the archer king would've been gratified to watch General Dwalin lead the army, now three thousand dwarrow strong, in the fist-swinging sunrise salute called Durin's Axe and, later, in the corresponding sundown salute, Durin's Hammer. In the craft halls, he would've tried not to smile when delicate elven hands fumbled at wind-up dolls and music boxes, suddenly clumsy next to Bofur's thick, stumpy fingers that knew exactly what to do.

But Tauriel . . .

Had things been different, Kíli would eagerly have taken the High Elves on a journey through the mountain along with the gold ordered for Rivendell. With Bombur in tow to explain the mechanics, he would've demonstrated, with great pleasure and animation, how ore was first carted up the railway from the mines, then ground beneath a massive stone mill wheel, next fired in clay crucibles inside a row of smoke-belching, flame-spitting furnaces to separate out the dross, and finally—Kíli's favorite part—poured in a liquid gold waterfall into the waiting molds, where it would harden into bars of gleaming precious metal.

But Tauriel . . . Her secret smile when she thought no one watched. How she laughed without laughing! Her emerald eyes that outshone any treasure in Erebor alight with talk of the heavens, the moon and the stars . . .

In another set of circumstances, the King under the Mountain would've relished the chance to show Lord Elrond where the heated water in his private bathing chamber came from. With a hint of irony, a bit of jesting, and no small sense of vindication, he would have traced it from its bubbling source in the Hall of Hot Springs, to the Cleansing Chamber where it was filtered over a bed of sand, up through the spiraling screw pump, and into the water main that snaked higher and higher, to the highest level of the city, from where it branched into numerous pipes including the one which fed the royal guest wing and Elrond's private bath.

But Tauriel . . . His star. Healing light and warmth flowing from her hands. Strong, competent hands that could slay an enemy without hesitation but lingered gentle on his wounded leg, his chest, his brow. Slender fingers closing round a promise given . . .

And at some other time, Kíli would happily have marched their little procession up and up and up the winding staircase to the jewel of Erebor, the Lamp of Infinite Light, at the sight of which even elves could not disguise their admiration for the twelve-foot, six-ton, multifaceted glass lens suspended in the heart of the mountain, from whence the flame of its inner oil lamp, refracted and reflected to the power of ten million candles, cast highly focused beams through shafts that opened onto a multitude of halls and chambers, illuminating them in full with the light of a single spark.

But the conditions were what they were. Things were not different. There was no other set of circumstances, the time was now, and it was an antsy, distractible Kíli who played docent to Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn. He rushed through details, anxious to be on to the next sight, misheard questions as his mind drifted. He was never the rude or ill-tempered dwarf they probably feared at worst, but neither was he the lighthearted, quick-witted one they might've expected at best. He was present with them in body, but his mind, heart, and soul were far away, in starlight in another world.

Kíli could hardly believe it was real, that after nearly three years of constantly looking over his shoulder and starting awake in the middle of the night, Erebor was safe. He knew there was no longer anyone within the mountain who would raise a hand against him, and according to Gandalf and the elves, neither would anyone without. And even if someone dared try, Kíli was secure in the knowledge that, with his newfound strength and resilience, he could withstand the attack. Never again must he hide himself from the world, ruling Erebor in secret as though he'd gained the throne through some nefarious means.

But over and above that, never again would Tauriel need feel she must endanger her own life to protect his! In all likelihood, he was the one who could finally protect her if need be. There was no more reason for them to be apart! He could go to her now and fall on his knees, explain everything, and offer her his undying love and devotion if only she would return to Erebor as his queen! The flicker of excitement Kíli had tried to suppress for nigh on three years now blazed within him, and his mind churned as he tested and discarded the words he would say when he knelt before her. Not since the day he'd turned his love away from the mountain had he needed to muster such self-restraint, for if the high-born elven lords had not demanded his attention, he would already have been on his way to her.

As it was, after several days of touring the realm, there were still negotiations to make and treaties to sign. Elrond was pleased with the gems and precious metals he'd ordered for Rivendell and desired a more permanent trade agreement, and even the self-sufficient Lothlórien Elves were persuaded to order some of these, as well. In addition, since Lothlórien and Erebor were both kingdoms east of the Misty Mountains and could come to each other's aid in time of war, a military alliance was struck between them, the first of its kind.

"Needless to say, the centuries of enmity between our races have not favored military cooperation, and I freely admit I've done nothing to improve relations," said Celeborn at the council table. "The wounds of Doriath run deep."

Kíli nodded, unable to truly understand the rage and anguish over a stolen necklace no dwarf alive had seen but fully capable of empathizing with anyone who bore the physical and mental scars of warfare, in any age.

"But," Celeborn continued, "we now know a great evil gathers its forces in Arda. Its assault upon King Kíli must be interpreted as a declaration of war against all Free Peoples. Lothlórien is a blessed land, a refuge from all that is dark and wicked. But to them who are much blessed, much responsibility is also given to bestow the same blessings upon others. Over these five days, my lord, you've trusted us with unprecedented access to your fair city, and as it is our wish that your people would continue in peace and prosperity even as ours do, we declare Lothlórien ready to stand with you against any threat to that peace."

Kíli was heartened that negotiations proceeded so smoothly, but throughout their talks, if the elves noticed how his fingers absently drummed the table or how his leg bounced with barely contained energy, they were too courteous to call attention to it. And that was for the best since, except for the times when Dwalin was there to give him a swift kick under the table, Kíli was unaware of his own habits. However, as the elves at last took their leave at the Gate of Erebor, Elrond said to Kíli, "You are a credit to your people, my lord, but I see that you've a journey ahead of you in days to come. Do not be discouraged by the road that is before you, for as it led you once to the door of your ancestral Erebor, so now shall it lead you through the door of your home and into its heart."

Elrond bowed briefly, and Kíli returned the gesture with a quiet but confident smile. These elves spoke ever in riddles, but he was beginning to find it endearing, and this time he thought he knew what upcoming journey Elrond foresaw.

Galadriel, too, paused before the dwarven ruler. "We are much encouraged by what has transpired in Erebor since its reclamation. We thank our host for his sincere and cordial reception, for his hospitality, and for his commitment to peace. It is indeed an honor to be in the presence of such an esteemed personage."

Kíli blushed, for she had quoted the embarrassing blunder with which he'd received her into his "esteemed presence" and turned it into a genuine compliment, a high one coming from the Lady of Light.

"We look forward to strengthening the ties between our races," she said, raising her eyebrows significantly, "and extend to you and your house our invitation to Lothlórien." And then, speaking directly into his mind: "But you must bring your red-haired elleth with you when you come. I would meet this Tauriel."

"It would be my pleasure," Kíli said with a bow, laying his hand on his heart, and those who saw how he beamed simply assumed he did so at the prospect of seeing the Golden Wood.


Well, that was an unexpected success!

Lord Elrond smiled to himself as he passed through the Gate of Erebor. He'd entered this same way in fear of finding a stubborn, belligerent dwarf determined to be recognized by the world even if it should jeopardize his own kingdom and instead had found a flexible, diplomatic one committed to the success and security of his realm. In all his years (and they were many), the elven lord had never felt so truly welcome in a dwarven kingdom as he'd felt in Erebor under the rule of King Kíli. In truth, he was humbled to admit he'd never seen so much of a dwarven kingdom until now and was as impressed as any mortal a fraction of his age witnessing its golden grandeur for the first time.

Oh, perhaps not all the dwarves had been quite as welcoming or as ready to put their closely guarded city on display. The general, Dwalin, had a hawk eye that was fixed on the visitors at all times, and the Princess Dís had made polite conversation at dinner but nothing more. Yet it was their young king's policy that had set the tone of the visit and created a favorable atmosphere for negotiation.

Though not yet eighty turns of the stars, Kíli possessed an ease and grace with people that belied his age. Anyone could see he was still a bit high-strung, but that would calm in time, and fortunately for him, he'd time in abundance now. Meanwhile, he was naturally generous, sincere, and broad-minded in a way that few of his kind ever became even with the wisdom of old age. The only hint of distrust or reticence that Elrond had seen in him was that although his spirit was visibly bonded, Kíli had not presented his queen to his guests, choosing to keep her cloistered somewhere in the mountain. Dwarves were known to be highly protective of their dwarrowdams, but royals such as Dís were usually on hand for formal occasions, so Elrond found this secrecy bewildering. However, many of the ways of Durin's Folk were strange to the Eldar, and even the Lord of Imladris couldn't claim familiarity with all of them. In any event, it would've been improper to call attention to the queen's absence when she'd not been introduced, so Elrond had decided not to question the matter further nor to condemn his host for actions he hadn't the knowledge to evaluate in their proper context. He would gladly give the benefit of the doubt to someone as honest and fair-minded as Kíli was proving himself to be.

Elrond thought about the journey he'd foreseen for this most unusual of dwarves. As with most prophecy, this vision had wavered before him, hazy and indistinct. He knew it would be a long, tiring journey, one that would test Kíli's will and strength of heart. But he also knew if Kíli did not complete the journey, he would never find fulfillment. For whilst it was clear that the King under the Mountain was entirely devoted to Erebor, Elrond had sensed that he did not yet feel at home in his own city, that something was missing from it which caused it to feel hollow and empty to him. It was only by leaving it, going there (wherever there was) and back again, that he could reenter it as the seat not just of his ancestors but of his heart. And so, intuiting this, Elrond had felt the need to offer a word of encouragement that Kíli could hold onto along the road should his will flag, his heart fail. If such a time came, the elven lord hoped the youthful dwarf's tremendous resilience of spirit would fortify him in heart as well as in body.

In the courtyard, a handful of young grooms stood by with the horses that belonged to the small retinue from Imladris. As one of them attached a late-arriving saddlebag, Elrond noticed that his hair was like the crimson rays that set the Bruinen afire at sundown. The Princess Dís was also a redhead, he recalled, though her coloring was a shade or two darker and more subdued. It seemed a common enough trait among dwarves, much more so than it was among elves. In fact, Elrond hadn't seen an elf with such ruddy coloring since the Second Age and then only in the descendants of his great-great uncle's wife, Nerdanel. They were long gone from Middle-earth, all (may the stars never fade on their memories), and yet . . .

Elrond remembered the redheaded Nando, Tauriel, and wished as he'd done many times before that he'd been at home to greet her when she and Mithrandir had passed through Imladris several years ago. He and the wizard had spent many hours discussing her since. Apparently, she possessed a remarkable native talent for the healing arts, a rare gift among her Woodland people, who generally sent to Imladris or Lothlórien for Noldorin healers. Even presuming this young warrior maid had not the power to restore anyone to life by her own grace, the mere fact that she could be the conduit for such power said much about her innate potential.

Could it be . . . was it possible that Tauriel of the Woodland was not of the Woodland by blood? That she carried such potential, along with her ruddy coloring, as a remnant of a Noldorin house that was once mighty upon the earth? After all, it was in the Greenwood that—

Ul! It was an outrageous notion really.

But . . . was it any more outrageous than the resurrection of a fallen dwarf? If only he could've looked upon this Tauriel and seen if there was anything about her fëa that called to his in kinship!

Alas, Mithrandir had parted with her somewhere in the West, and the elf lord could not be away from Imladris for six moons or more to go in pursuit of her. He'd asked Mithrandir to escort her back to the Last Homely House when next he went west, but with the shadow of the Dark Lord lurking in the East, the wizard was needed on this side of the Misty Mountains for the present time.

Clearly Elrond would have to call upon the reserves of patience for which he was legendary. If only, he thought with a rather human smirk, it was as easy for him to live up to the legends as it was for the Free Peoples to invent them!


Patience! Kíli's last shred of it was dangling by a thread, and it was going . . . going . . . gone! The minute the Gate of Erebor had closed behind the last of the elven company, he turned to his chief advisor.

"Well, that was an unexpected success!" Balin exclaimed.

"Oh yes," Kíli grinned. In more ways than one. And then: "Master Balin, I must entrust the city to your safekeeping for the next fortnight."

"And why is that, m'lord?"

Now Kíli's grin was ear to ear, and he fairly bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'm off to the Woodland this afternoon!"


ul—no

A/N: Up next—Kíli and Thranduil face off in the Woodland, and (if I can squeeze it into the same chapter) Bilbo gets an invitation that has Tauriel in a tizzy!