Day 95

Day ninety-five finds Fíli none the wiser as to how he should let Dwalin's advice about tying himself to one of the old Dwarven families affect his actions. So far he has gotten by on vague promises, but before too long he will be forced to come to a decision regarding his future bride.

To his relief the other houses who have expressed an interest in being joined to his line in marriage appear to have accepted the fact that Ásta has become his favorite with unexpected calmness and have ceased their advances, expecting an official announcement any day now. However, that also means that Ásta herself is waiting for that day, her impatience spurned on by the amount of attention that is focused on her. Promises will only buy Fíli so much time – he will have to make a choice and he will have to make it soon.

Today, Fíli has found himself unable to fabricate a reason why he cannot meet with Ásta – the weather, which has been stormy and wet these past few days, is rather fair and with all of his council members busy with their respective tasks, he has a free afternoon ahead of himself. Rather than spend it hiding in his rooms, he has decided to do the honorable thing for once and has dispatched a messenger to let Ásta know that he will be meeting her at the stables as soon as she finds herself available.

Which is where he is headed now, even though his feet seem somewhat reluctant to take him to his destination. Loitering about the entrance hall a bit longer than necessary, politely greeting people as they pass him by, Fíli is surprised and somewhat relieved to find his path blocked by Óin. He opens his mouth to greet the old Dwarf, but falters when he catches sight of the expression on the healer's face.

"Anything I may help you with on this fine day?" Fíli asks carefully, concern settling in his stomach when he watches his friend's expression change from somewhat grumpy to downright menacing.

"Yes, you may indeed," Óin growls, his narrowed eyes glaring up at Fíli in a manner that few would dare to assume towards the king. But then again, unlike Óin, they have not known him since he was little more than a wee baby, babbling nonsense and sticking pebbles up his nose. "I'd like my apprentice back, if you so please," the old healer now grinds out from between clenched teeth. "Your majesty," he adds as if on an afterthought, but he manages to make it sound more like a threat than an act of reverence.

Fíli blinks at Óin in confusion. Since the healer does not habitually keep students, there is only one individual he can be speaking of. "You mean Bard's daughter?" He cannot bring himself to say her name, not trusting his voice not to betray him with a tremor or something equally telling.

Óin nods, once, his eyes still glinting at Fíli from narrowed slits. "Aye, the lassie."

Looking down the length of his nose at the stout Dwarf before him, Fíli tries his best to school his features into detached indifference. "Since the girl is neither mine to take nor mine to give, I am unsure how I can be of service to you in that matter."

He refuses to examine the little jolt bis heart gives at the words 'mine to take' just as he refuses to give into his impulse of inquiring into the reasons behind Óin's rather elliptic statement. Has Sigrid been absent from their sessions? She hasn't fallen ill, has she?

Óin continues to stare at him and Fíli has the unpleasant sensation of being read like an open book by the older Dwarf, as if all of his secrets are spelled out in bold letters across his forehead. "Don't waste my time with your blather," Óin hisses, his voice dripping with indignation. "I am too old for the games you young folk like to play. All I know is that one day I had myself a fine student, eager to learn and rather capable to assist me with the things that age has turned into a struggle for me, and the next day she says she won't come anymore, putting forth some wimpy excuses. I do not know what you have done to keep her away nor do I care to know, but I'd like her back."

"What makes you think that I've anything to do—" Fíli tries, but is silenced by another deadly glare from Óin, the sort of which he normally reserves for wayward patients. "Alright," he concedes, holding up his hands in defeat. "I will see what I can do."

Again, Óin narrows his eyes at him. "I'm not sure that's good enough for me."

"Well, it'll have to be, won't it? " Fíli returns, exasperation making its way into his voice. How in Durin's name is he supposed to fix this?

Age may have limited Óin's capacity for small talk and unnecessary decorum, but even he knows not to take things too far and he relaxes his stance somewhat, stepping backwards and out of Fíli's personal space. "Very well, then. Just be sure not to take too bloody long – I have no intention to take all my knowledge to the grave with me."

Fíli suspects that it will be a very long time still before Óin will become acquainted with said grave, but nods earnestly nevertheless. "You have my word."

After another not entirely reassuring glance, Óin departs, leaving Fíli to stare after him in helpless bewilderment. Has he really just agreed to convince Sigrid of resuming her visits to Erebor when it is obviously him whom she is seeking to avoid by staying away? Mahal, it appears that he has. Bugger it all.

Before his mind can spiral into wild conjectures about how he might endeavor to solve this task and, worse, how Sigrid might receive his attempts at persuading her to return, he becomes aware of a presence behind him. Turning on his heel, he comes face to face with Ásta who is not looking at him, but glaring after Óin instead, her dark brows brought together in a frown.

"Whatever was that about?" she asks. "I cannot believe he would dare speak to you like that."

Fíli suppresses a wince. How much has she heard exactly?

"It's nothing," he says quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, for the frown does not leave Ásta's face. If anything, it turns from concerned into suspicious. "Do not grant too much importance to Óin's actions," he amends. "He has put up with enough trouble from me in the last eighty-three years to allow him a certain amount of leeway when it comes to his conduct. Are we not supposed to be somewhat lenient with our elders?"

That last part at least succeeds at drawing a small smile from Ásta, although her eyes do not lose their thoughtfulness. "Well, then," she says. "I'll leave it to your authority as king to judge the actions of your subjects." It remains unsaid, but Fíli has no doubt that if she were queen, she would not tolerate such conduct.

"Come," he says, trying to submerge his feelings regarding his conversation with Oín under a pleasant smile and a companionable manner. "Let us get outside while the sun is still high in the sky."

It is a lovely day indeed and Fíli finds that the hesitant warmth of the late winter's sun on his skin does wonders for his despondent spirits. Still, as he directs his pony to follow Ásta along one of the narrow tracks at the base of the mountain, he cannot stop his head from reliving his talk with Óin and from worrying about the task the old Dwarf has set him.

He thought that... Well, to be honest he doesn't really now what he thought. That time would heal all wounds, maybe. That if he forced himself to stay away from Sigrid, to not intrude upon her life any longer, she would move on. She is very young still, and even if she has shown both boldness and maturity in all of their interactions – which is more than can be said of him, after all – he does suspect that those stirrings of the heart, those feelings of tenderness for someone who isn't her sibling or parent, are still fairly new to her. And while a part of himself has already known that what is between them runs deeper than a simple passing fancy, he has clung to the hope that she might still walk away from this unscathed, free to give her heart to another.

The fact that she has stopped visiting with Óin is bad enough. Fíli has not seen much of her those past few weeks, but he knows from their talks before everything got so completely, irrevocably buggered how much the chance to study under Óin meant to her. For her to give up on this opportunity, what has happened must have affected her more deeply than he hoped. And now, to be asked to force himself upon her and ask her to come back... there is no scenario he can imagine in which this is going to go well.

He could, of course, ignore Óin's request. But even if that meant that the whole matter would be forgotten – which it won't, knowing Óin or any Dwarf for that matter – Fíli himself would be unable to forget. It is one thing to deny his own heart what it wants and to bear the pain that doing so inevitably brings, but to know that Sigrid suffers because of him, because of how she feels about him... This will haunt him, no matter what he does.

He sighs inwardly and then gives a surprised little jerk, for his pony has suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. He blinks in confusion, having gotten lost in the maze of his thoughts more deeply than he realized. Now, he finds Ásta looking at him over her shoulder, her brows raised.

"Forgive me," he says, trying to clear his mind and focus on the present. "Did you say something?"

Ásta studies him for a moment longer. "Never mind," she says eventually, but Fíli has the distinct impression that she does mind. Before he can try to appease her, a look of determination flashes across her face and she grins at him. "What do you say," she says, "are you up to a little race?"

And with that she claps the spurs to her horse and disappears down the gentle slope they have been following, dust whirling behind her. Fíli stares after her in bewilderment, for he certainly has not expected this turn of events. "Wait!" he calls, but Ásta does not stop and he can hear her laughter carrying over the gentle breeze.

That's when he remembers something that causes cold dread to settle in his stomach. Until now he has not really been paying attention where their excursion has taken them, too occupied has been his mind with the earlier events. Now, however, he recalls having taken this path before, during an outing with Thad and Flad. The rocky path Ásta is currently racing down may seem ideal for an exploration on horseback, but about half a mile from where he is currently standing the ground unexpectedly falls away rather more steeply, causing the rocky soil to become somewhat slippery.

With a muttered curse Fíli digs his heels into the flanks of his startled pony, setting off after Ásta with as much speed as the animal can manage. "Ásta!" he calls out again, but still she does not slow down and he watches in horror as she guides her pony up the slight rise that effectively obscures the ravine behind it.

Racing after her at full speed, Fíli does not have time to think about what is going to happen once he catches up with her or how he is going to prevent both her and himself from falling on the dangerous terrain. All he knows is that he would never forgive himself if she came to harm because he has been too busy daydreaming.

Ásta's head of black curls vanishes behind the rising ground and Fíli follows her, preparing himself for all kinds of terrible views once his horse has climbed high enough for him to see down into the valley. There is only a split second during which his mind registers with utmost surprise that not only is there no injured Ásta to be seen, but that she has disappeared altogether. Then the inevitable thing happens and his pony begins to struggle with the loss of solid ground beneath its hooves.

He tries his best to help the animal regain its footing by throwing himself to the side and for a few seconds he really believes that they might succeed at gliding down the steep incline in this manner, but then his pony panics and tries to leap back up the slope, throwing him off in the process. A loud oooph escapes his lungs as he hits the ground, but any pain he might have experienced at the impact is quickly overshadowed by the discomfort of sliding down a seemingly endless expanse of rocky ground on his back.

When he finally stops, he has a hard time distinguishing top from bottom. His vision is blurry and his ears are ringing, making him feel as if he has been submerged under water for too long. Eventually he becomes aware of the blue sky above him and a blurry shape leaning over him. He must have hit his head harder than he thought, for for a heart stopping moment he fancies himself to be looking up into soft, smooth features and hazel eyes, framed by strands of light brown hair.

"Are you a dream?" he rasps, wanting to raise his hand to brush his fingers against those soft curls, but finding that his muscles refuse to obey him.

His vision smiles and tilts her head to one side. "I am as real as you allow me to be," she says and Fíli frowns, for the voice he hears does not match the face he is gazing up at.

He blinks repeatedly and Sigrid's lovely features swim before his eyes to be replaced by Ásta's. Her face shows a mixture of concern and amusement as she reaches out to gently cup his jaw. "You had me rather scared there, for a moment." She gives a small laugh. "Can you imagine the trouble I would be in if I failed to return the king in one piece?"

Under different circumstances Fíli might have taken her cue and engaged in a bit of lighthearted banter. Now, though, her words barely register with him, for he has just realized, with utmost certainty, that he cannot marry Ásta.

"I'm sorry," he says, that dense fog still not having cleared from his head. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be silly," Ásta returns, understandably failing to grasp the meaning of his words. "I almost fell myself and only managed to redirect my horse's steps at the last instant."

Recovering his senses sufficiently to understand that this is neither the time nor the place to be having the discussion he just realized they will need to have soon, Fíli cranes his neck to cast a look around. "My pony?" he asks.

Ásta nods towards the bottom of the slope. "Fared much better than you did." Fíli follows her gaze and finds his pony grazing peacefully in one of the rare patches of green in the otherwise barren land. Upon feeling his eyes on it the animal at least has the decency to assume a somewhat guilty look.

With a small grunt and a considerable amount of pain, Fíli pushes himself into a sitting position and takes a moment to assess the extent of his injuries. His back is sore as are his ribs, but he is rather confident that nothing is broken. The outer layer of his clothing is ruined, but thanks to the thick leather of his coat the skin on his back is not the flayed mess it would have been without it. There's a tickling sensation on his left temple and after raising a hand to it he frowns in dismay when his fingers come away coated in red.

"It is but a mere scratch," Ásta assures him, leaning forward to press a handkerchief against the wound. Rather than have her fuss over him, Fíli takes the piece of cloth from her and continues to apply a gentle pressure, looking at the ground rather than at his companion, his revelation from a few moments ago still firm in his mind.

Ásta sinks back onto her heels and studies him for a long moment. "We should get you back," she says eventually, her voice gentle. He really must look quite the mess. "You could ride with me if you do not feel well."

"No," he says immediately and then, when a hurt look crosses her face, "No, but thank you. And I'm sorry that our outing gets cut short."

A corner of her mouth lifts at that. "You will find a way to make it up to me."

"I shall try," he replies, hoping that his lack of enthusiasm does not seep into his voice.

It takes them longer to return to the gates of Erebor than it did for them to come out here, Ásta again taking the lead and setting a slow pace. Fíli is aware of the concerned looks she keeps casing over her shoulder, but does not meet her eyes. They will have to have a serious conversation before too long, but he needs to get his thoughts in order first. If he went into this with his mind as muddled as it is right now, he would risk hurting her more than necessary. In fact he does not want to hurt her at all, but it looks as if there is no way around that. Keeping up this farce in the full knowledge that his heart would never be hers – that would bring her a lot more unhappiness that the sharp, quick pain of injured pride would.

Back inside the mountain, Fíli gratefully accepts Ásta's offer to tend to both their ponies – her way of showing that she does feel a little guilty still for being the one responsible for his little accident – and heads back to his rooms, dodging worried glances and evading inquiries after his well-being on the way. Alone in his quarters, he carefully peels layer after layer of clothing off his upper body, revealing purple bruises over the whole expanse of his back. No blood, though.

A look in the mirror reveals the reason for all those concerned glances in the hallways, for the side of his face is covered in dried blood, strands of hair sticking to it. That, together with the layer of dust and dirt that appears to cover his entire body, lends him a positively frightful look.

Chuckling a little at the amount of gossip that his appearance is sure to generate, Fíli fetches a clean cloth and wets it in the water-basin placed on his nightstand. He starts with the blood and then proceeds to rub at the grime covering his face, his neck, his hands, rinsing the cloth again and again. When he is finished the water in the basin has turned a reddish brown and the once crisp white cloth has become a filthy rag.

He pulls on a fresh linen shirt, but does not bother to do the lacings all the way up. He has no intention of receiving company in the immediate future, so who cares about being dressed in a manner proper for a king. Grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill, he sits down in his favorite seat by the window and takes a couple of deep breaths in order to focus his thoughts on the task at hand.

Going to Dale to see Sigrid is out of the question – how would he explain doing so to anyone, especially to her father? And since she is clearly not coming to Erebor any longer a letter it will have to be that convinces her to resume her studies with Óin.

But what to write? To his dismay Fíli finds that even the manner of address gives him trouble. Dearest Sigrid, he writes, but then crosses the words out again, feeling silly. This is not supposed to be a love letter. He wishes it could be one, but it just isn't. Sigrid, he tries instead and frowns, for this sounds much too cold. In the end he decides to begin his letter without any form of address, telling himself that it is safer this way lest the letter should be opened by a third party.

However, having overcome this initial impediment, the real difficulty begins. Fíli is neither poet nor scrivener and none of his attempts at conveying the message he wants Sigrid to receive end up being even remotely satisfactory. When it is time for dinner, he finds himself surrounded by a mess of crumpled pieces of parchment, his beard sticking up at odd angles from running his fingers through it while searching for the right words.

A knock on the door has him jumping up like a startled deer and he just manages to shove his sorry attempts at a letter under a stack of maps and plans before Balin enters.

"Are you—" he begins, but then stops and just stares at Fíli in astonishment. "Whatever happened to you?"

Fíli paws at his hair and beard in a futile attempt to tame them. "Rough day," he grunts, sparing Balin an exasperated glance before moving across the room to gather some of his clothes in order to dress for dinner.

His coat really is ruined, the back of it torn up badly. Shrugging he puts it aside, picking up a leather tunic instead to wear over his shirt. He turns around after fastening his belt on top of the garment to find Balin still looking at him in obvious bewilderment.

"Do I even dare to ask?" The old Dwarf looks from the shredded coat to Fíli's wild hair and then over at the mess Fíli made while trying to clean himself up.

"That depends," Fíli replies as he passes Balin on his way to the door, "on whether it bothers you to watch your king's dignity fall to pieces before your very eyes. If it doesn't, I shall be happy to indulge you in a tale about a very unfortunate afternoon on our way to dinner."

Balin's answering frown wavers between curiosity and exasperation. As Fíli holds open the door for his friend to pass through, he casts one last look at the stack of letters peeking out from under the other documents on his table. He'll have to do better than that, not just to keep Óin off his back but also for Sigrid's sake. If only he wasn't so utterly useless with words. Maybe a full stomach will help with his endeavors.

Sure, he scoffs at himself before closing the door behind him. That, and a bottle of mead. Or two.

...to be continued...

A/N: Again, sorry for the delay. I'll make up for that and for the absence of Sigrid from this chapter in the next one. That's a promise ;-)