Day 128
"Ered Luin."
"I'm sorry, what?"
On the one hundred twenty-eighth day, Fíli straightens up from where he has been leaning over a scroll of parchment with impossibly small writing on it. If things progress like this, he'll need some sort of reading aid before he turns ninety, which would be beyond embarrassing. Behold, Fíli the Bespectacled.
He shrugs off that distracting thought and turns to Balin, raising a quizzical eyebrow at his companion.
"Ered Luin," the older Dwarf repeats. "We need to encourage the clans still residing there to join us here. It is the only strategy I can think of that would strengthen us both in numbers and in spirit – now that other means to obtain this goal have been ruled out."
Fíli ignores the jab at his refusal to marry for political gain. "There aren't that many of our people still living there," he says. "Those that are, are mostly the older generations. Hardly a group of people to build an army from, if that is what you have in mind."
Even though he knows it to be necessary in the long run, just the thought of forming an army sickens Fíli. Doing so would mean acknowledging that there will be more battles in the years to come. Battles like the one that got Thorin and, probably, Kíli killed.
"Don't underestimate the value of having your elders close by," Balin chastises him, but there is no venom in his voice. He knows Fíli's thoughts on the matter and is familiar with some of the fears that his young king suffers. "But even if they were useless to us in a fight, just having them here would indubitably strengthen us. If they come, others will, too. And we will finally be able to build the kingdom we have dreamt of for so long."
"I thought things were going rather well," Fíli comments, trying and failing to not feel criticized by Balin's assessment.
"And they are," Balin assures him hurriedly. "But we still have a long way to go and are wasting too much time with insignificant matters. To have more Dwarves who lived when Erebor was reigned by your great-grandfather join the council would surely help those who are less experienced put their differences to rest."
Fíli cannot deny the truth in that. Just yesterday the council spent a whole afternoon arguing about potatoes. Potatoes! You'd think that besides the question whether to boil or roast them, everyone would be perfectly happy as long as there are potatoes to be boiled or roasted. Well, it turns out they're not, the matters of growing, harvesting and consuming potatoes astonishingly full of sources of discord.
So, yes, the wisdom of the older generations regarding both potato-related and other matters would certainly be appreciated. Still, Fíli has his qualms about Balin's proposal.
"And what is to become of the Blue Mountains? If we move all the population here, who will tend to the fields, the livestock, the mines? I know it isn't Erebor, but what our people have built there over the years has its value, too."
He and Kíli were born there, for Mahal's sake. Are they supposed to let it all fall into ruin?
"Ered Luin would make a valuable outpost in the West," Balin amends. "But an outpost is all it should be – currently, there are dozens of families still living there. If you do not count the ones who still have their homes in the Iron Hills and only come here for trade, the population of Erebor is scarcely larger than that of the Blue Mountains. That is unacceptable if we want the clans distributed across Middle Earth to look to Erebor – to you – for guidance."
Fíli isn't completely sure whether it really is such a great idea for them to do so, but he's accepted the crown and will have to come to terms with this responsibility. He sighs. "Fine. I see your point. How do you propose to go about bringing those families here, though? If they have not been convinced by now that we truly are building a future for all of us at Erebor, how can we change their minds?"
Balin leans back in his chair and folds his hands across his stomach. "Dís is the key here, I believe. If she joins us, the others will follow."
Fíli rubs his forefinger across his upper lip a couple of times, lost in thought. "I am uncertain if she is ready," he finally says, thinking of the rather somber letters he has received from his mother in the recent past, her grief over Thorin and Kíli tangible even in her happier accounts of life in the Blue Mountains.
"She will come if you ask her to," Balin says softly, interrupting his thoughts. "You are not only her king, but also her son. If you need her, she'll come."
Balin's arguments are sound. Of course they are. Still, that does not make the lump in Fíli's throat even remotely easier to swallow. "We did agree, though, that it would be wise for her to stay so that she can manage things," he reminds Balin.
"Aye, we did. But if the families abandon Ered Luin, there won't be an awful lot left to manage. I say we dispatch members of the guard to move over there, enough to keep the place running. Assign them to this task for a year, perhaps, and then send others to replace them, so they won't feel cast out."
"It sounds as if you have put a lot of thought into it already," Fíli comments, examining his hands to avoid meeting the steely determination he expects he'll find in his companion's gaze.
Balin shrugs. "You did ask me for a new plan. This is it."
"Fine." Fíli leans forward in his seat with a sigh, his elbows resting on his knees. "Say we have Glorin select a number of men who are up for the task and send them to Ered Luin. What if Dís and the others refuse to abandon their homes and undertake that journey east? We can hardly take them by force and drag them here, like prisoners."
"That will not be necessary," Balin returns. "They won't refuse, because you will be there to convince them that this is the best course of action. They will follow their king."
Fíli swallows, his throat closing with sudden panic. "You want me to go as well?"
"Aye. Nothing could send as strong a message as the king himself traveling such a great distance on behalf of his people. You will guide them, lead them on this journey. After that, I'd wager, they will be prepared to follow you anywhere, both figuratively and literally."
Balin is a picture of confidence and calmness as he speaks. Fili, meanwhile, struggles to keep a tremor out of his voice when he responds.
"What of Erebor? I cannot simply abandon my throne. We are talking about a long journey here. Even if we do not run into trouble on the way, it will be—what? Two months? Three?"
"I admit that it bears certain risks for you to be absent from your kingdom for so long. But I believe those are risks worth taking."
Fíli stares at his hands again, not knowing what to say. He is a drowning man surrounded by pieces of driftwood that the current is carrying out of his reach. Balin is right, of course. He always is. But that does not change the fact that the mere thought of following through with this new plan fills Fíli with dread like cold water flooding his lungs.
He forces himself to look up again and finds Balin studying him carefully. "This is, as always, merely my advice," the older Dwarf says. "It is you who makes the decision. I know that you have certain... reservations when it comes to a reunion with Dís. I do believe, however, that it is time for you to set those aside. Not even to mention that I think any fears you might still harbor to be unnecessary."
Fíli nods, slowly. There is a point to Balin's observation, but of course his most trusted advisor could never grasp the full spectrum of his reluctance to travel to Ered Luin.
Yes, some of those feelings of dread originate in his doubts over whether he is ready to undertake this journey that will end with him facing Dís after such a long separation. To stand before her all by himself, without Kíli and Thorin.
Far more potent than that, however, is his fear of what traveling all across Middle Earth and back would do to what has blossomed between him and Sigrid. Could she ever forgive him if he were to abandon her, now, when he is in no position to make her any promises as to what will become of them when (and if, because, let's face it, there are millions of ways to die on such a journey) he returns? The thought that he might have to sever the bond between them so soon after he finally stopped being a coward for long enough to acknowledge it, nearly cripples him with heartache.
A chime of the clock on his mantelpiece interrupts the evasive reply to Balin's words that has begun to form on his tongue. Three strikes. Fuck.
Balin raises an eyebrow when Fíli goes rigid in his chair, his lower lip twitching involuntarily as he turns his head to confirm with a glance at the clock that the afternoon really has progressed this far already.
"Do you have somewhere to be?"
He does, but Balin is not supposed to know that. He was hoping that their meeting would be long over by now and that he would have some time left to prepare for another, much more highly anticipated rendezvous.
Turning to face Balin, Fíli quickly schools his features into an expression of indifference. "Not if we still have matters to discuss. I was going to meet Thad at the stables, but that can wait."
His heart sags with relief when Balin gives a small shake of his head and rises from his chair. "No. Go ahead and meet your friend. Sometimes a bit of distraction can help with finding more clarity on the things that matter. I confess that I am a little surprised, though, to hear that the brothers do appear to lead separate lives. I thought them pretty much attached at the hip."
Fíli suppress a wince. Flad has gone to Dale in order to assist Sigrid in leaving the city unnoticed so that she can meet with him. But he can hardly tell Balin that.
"Flad has taken a fancy to one of the kitchen maids, it seems. If I had to guess, I would say that he is currently spending more time in storage rooms and broom closets than with his brother." This is mostly true and so Fíli does not feel quite as bad about lying to Balin.
The older Dwarf chuckles. "Ah, to be young again." He leans down to gather some papers from the low table. "I shall leave you to it, then. We can speak more tomorrow."
Fíli inclines his head in agreement, the gesture successfully hiding the slight frown on his forehead. He has a lot to think about, it seems.
He waits until Balin has pulled the door shut behind him and then hurries over to his dresser, picking up his coat on the way. While he dresses quickly, he tries his best not to lose himself too deeply in the ruminations on what following through with Balin's plan would mean. Still, his mood is by far not as bright as it ought to be as he hurries down to the stables a few minutes later.
He pulls on his gloves as he climbs down the steps that take him not to the main gate, but to the smaller, concealed entrance which opens unto a series of wooden structures that house the ponies and an ever growing amount of livestock.
Thad – Mahal be thanked for his dedication to his task – is already awaiting Fíli with the reins of his saddled pony in his hands, shifting from one foot onto the other impatiently. The young Dwarf's eyes light up when he catches sight of his king.
"There you are! I was beginning to think I had gotten the time all wrong."
"You did not," Fíli assures him. "I was held up. Thank you for waiting."
"Always," Thad returns, and his easy acceptance of Fíli's rather brief explanation for his tardiness warms a remote place in Fíli's heart. For all his habitual banter, Thad is extremely sincere when it comes to their friendship. "Let's not waste any more time then," the blond Dwarf says and hands Fíli the reins. "Off to Dale with you. I shall be waiting for you when you return."
To avoid any suspicion among the other Dwarves if they were to see Thad wandering about by himself when he is supposed to be on an outing with his king, the plan is for Thad to remain in the stables until Fíli gets back. There's always plenty to do around there and, thankfully, Thad rather enjoys tending to the animals, so this won't be much of a burden for him.
"Thank you," Fíli says again once he has mounted his pony and is prepared to set off towards Dale. "I hope you won't find waiting for me too tedious."
Thad winks. "If I run out of work I can always pay a visit to Dana," he says and jerks his head into the direction of the chicken coop where the young Dwarf woman in charge of the birds is currently collecting eggs with a large basket hanging from her arm. She notices Thad's gaze and smiles, a rather fierce blush creeping up her neck.
"Just make sure that you don't traumatize those chickens," Fíli calls over his shoulder as he directs his pony towards the outer gate. "It would be a shame to not have any eggs for breakfast tomorrow."
Thad's laughter follows him out of the gates. He rides swiftly, keeping away from the main road that connects Erebor and Dale. The warm, fragrant air of spring fills him, elates him, and he can almost forget, for a moment, the worries that are gnawing away at his heart.
Plant life has reclaimed the desolation left behind by Smaug's reign with a viciousness that defies all natural law, as if the demise of the dragon has lifted a curse off those lands surrounding the mountain. Large patches of gorse and heather cover the smaller hills at the base of the Lonely Mountain, coloring the previously barren lands so vividly that it's almost baffling. Grass and thorny weeds have claimed the ground in between and although there are no trees as of yet, one cannot help but be confident that the many tiny saplings will grow into sturdy stems before long.
Today, Fíli does not pay much heed to the spectacle nature puts on display before him. He knows he is rather late for their meeting already and the hope that Sigrid is still waiting for him causes him to dig his heels more firmly into Arran's flanks, urging the pony to quicken his steps. Since their little mishap from a few weeks ago, the animal has attached itself exclusively to Fíli. He is grateful for this loyalty, now, for it allows him to push Arran to his limits without having to fear resistance on the animal's part.
They reach the derelict guard house outside the city walls in a cloud of dust whirled up by the speed of Arran's approach. The house seems as abandoned as on the evening when he came across it after his disastrous trip to Ravenhill and for a dreadful moment Fíli is convinced that Sigrid has already left. He all but jumps off Arran's back and rushes around the small building to almost smack face-first into Sigrid as she exits the house through the hole in the wall that was once a door.
She's heard him arrive, of course, but still she manages a surprised squeal when he nearly knocks her over and puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.
"Whatever is the matter?" she laughs as he makes use of their position and firmly pulls her against him with his arms wrapped around her waist.
He takes a moment to press his face into her soft hair and simply inhale her scent. Then he proceeds to press a series of soft kisses against the side of her neck. "I thought I had come too late," he mutters between those kisses, "that maybe you had gone back already. I was held up at the mountain – a feeble excuse, I know."
"And yet I accept it," she returns, leaning back in his embrace so that she can have a better look at him. "You are here now, so there is no harm done. Besides, it is not as if I have anywhere else to be."
He returns her gentle smile before leaning up to capture her lips between his. It has been too long. Five days since he last saw her, tasted her, and already he can feel his self-control slip, his greedy heart wanting more of her, now. How would he be able to go months without seeing her?
In the end it is Sigrid who breaks their kiss with a small sigh of contentment. Her hands come up to brush across his brow, his forehead, tracing the contours of his face. "Something troubles you, still," she states after a moment or two, watching with a concerned frown of her own as he leans his head into one of her palms, seeking more of her warmth. "Tell me, please."
He looks at her, purses his lips. Then he gives a small shake of his head. "Not now." He just wants to be with her, to be able to look at her lovely face without seeing the disappointment those latest developments are sure to bring. "We can speak more of it later," he assures her. "But first we ought to get out of here. It's a little too close to the city, if you ask me."
He has given up on complaining to her about the danger of being found out by her father. Her repeated assurances that she has her ways of coming and going without Bard taking notice of her absence appear to hold true for Fíli has not yet received any death threats from the Bowman. Still, putting a little distance between themselves and the King of Dale cannot hurt.
There is a teasing glint in Sigrid's eyes, but she does not call him out on his paranoia. "Where would you like to go?" she asks instead.
"There is a lovely spot a few miles down the river," he answers. "The water is quiet there and it's practically hidden from view."
She frowns. "A couple of miles? It will be dark before we reach it."
Amused, he takes her hand in his, leading her around the small building to where his pony is munching happily on a patch of tall grass. "We'll ride, of course. Arran will have no trouble carrying us both. He's quite strong."
Sigrid eyes the animal with hesitation shining in her eyes. Arran looks up at them and tosses his head back sharply as if to say that he accepts the challenge. Fíli feels Sigrid flinch against his side and it occurs to him that she does not know how to ride.
"Forgive me," he says, turning her so that they are facing each other. "If I had known that this would make you uncomfortable, I wouldn't have—"
"No. It's quite alright," she cuts him off and, after a brief, reassuring squeeze of his hand, turns away from him to take a shy step towards Arran. "We did not have much use for horses or ponies at Lake-town, so I am not terribly familiar with them. My parents took me riding, once, on the shores of the lake. I was quite young still – Tilda wasn't even born yet. I'm afraid I don't remember much of it. Just the wind in my hair."
Fíli steps up close to her from behind, reaching down to take her hand in his. He raises her arm to place her hand against the side of Arran's neck, the animal's shiny, chestnut fur still damp with sweat after their swift journey from Erebor to Dale. "Would you like to feel that again?" he whispers into her ear, following the movement of her hand as she runs it down the pony's muscular neck.
It's a perfectly innocent question, but still a thrill runs through him when she leans back into his embrace. "I would," she says, her voice breathy with excitement.
Fíli smirks and, releasing her hand, takes a firm hold of her hips. She gasps in surprise when he lifts her, but then draws up one knee instinctively so that he can help her mount Arran in one fluid motion. He does not waste time to join her and hefts himself into the saddle, his front snug against her back. He has noticed before that Sigrid is not much taller than him when sitting down, which he is rather grateful for now, because otherwise riding like this would be a bit awkward. As it is, he reaches around her to take up the reins and, looking over her shoulder, directs Arran's steps away from the derelict building.
At first Sigrid's posture is rather rigid, but bit by bit the tension seeps from her muscles, and she relaxes against Fíli's chest. He has shared a horse before, mostly with Kíli, but the experience has never been as pleasant as this. The way Sigrid's body moves against his is sensual, intimate even, and soon enough he finds that he needs to focus his thoughts elsewhere if he does not want to embarrass them both.
He notices that Sigrid has angled her face to her right, gazing at the dark shape of Mirkwood in the distance.
"Not a place I'd recommend for a holiday," he jokes, pleased when he sees the corner of her mouth quirk upward in response.
"I'd wager as much," she says lightly, but then frowns as a small shudder passes through her. "As a child I used to be terrified of the Elvenking. I had never met him, of course, but the tales we children were told of him... well, suffice to say I woke up sobbing from more than one nightmare about the stern, ageless king."
"He most certainly isn't the most pleasant character," Fíli agrees. "And he definitely does not put great stock in hospitality." He pauses, then grins as a memory of his time in Thranduil's dungeons drifts to the forefront of his mind. "Did I ever tell you about that one time when Thorin told the Elvenking that he would... well, forgive me, for there is no elegant way to say this... shit on his head and the heads of his entire family?"
Sigrid clasps a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. "He did not!"
"Oh yes, he did." Fíli chuckles, both at the memory and at her shock. "There was no love lost between those two."
Sigrid dissolves into giggles at this blatant understatement and Fíli has to tighten his arms around her to prevent her from slipping off Arran's back. He does not mind doing so one bit. Once she has recovered sufficiently, Sigrid wipes her sleeve across her eyes, a few more quiet laughs shaking her slight frame. "I am very grateful that King Thranduil did not have you all killed after that."
It's a joke, of course, but Fíli holds on to her a little more tightly still, hoping to convey to her that he, too, is glad to have lived through it all, despite everything. With no small amount of surprise, he realizes that that's true. There were times when he wasn't, times when he wished to be laid up beside Thorin's body in the depths of the mountain, but those have passed without him taking notice. Now, all he can think about when he contemplates his own death is that he could not bear the thought of leaving the woman in his arms behind to grieve for him.
Sigrid's eyes have returned to studying the mysterious forest in the west, her tone more somber when she adds, "I find myself thinking about her, sometimes."
He blinks, confused by the turn in their conversation. "Whom do you speak of?"
"Tauriel, of course. I wonder if she returned to her home in the woods. I wonder what has become of her." She turns in his arms and glances at him over her shoulder. "Don't you?"
"I do not spend an awful lot of time reminiscing about Elves," Fíli grumbles, more out of habit than of an actual aversion to the topic.
"She saved your brother's life," Sigrid admonishes gently.
"And I lost him anyway," Fíli mutters. Sigrid's hand covers his at that and he realizes he is being childishly stubborn. He sighs. "I have thought of her," he finally admits. "And of whether she fought in the battle. Whether she survived it."
"I cannot answer the former with certainty, but as for the latter I can say that, yes, she did survive." When Fíli stiffens in surprise behind her, she explains. "Tilda saw her at Dale on the morning after the battle. She was fine then, apparently. A bit confused, according to Tilda, but with my little sister you never know where she gets some of her impressions from."
"Oh," is all Fíli manages, not having expected Sigrid to have more knowledge of the Elf's fate than him. So she did survive. For some reason that knowledge leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. If she still lives and has been at Dale after the battle, then she must know that Kíli is gone. Clearly, she cannot have held him in as high a regard as his little brother hoped she did, if she did not try to find out more about his fate from the last person who had seen Kíli alive – himself.
It is highly probable that she was in no position to seek you out, the voice of reason inside of him interjects, but he shoos it away. It is much easier to feel disdain for the Elf who has captured Kíli's heart than to pity her for suffering the same loss he has.
"Kíli... he cared about her," he says, unable to keep a certain amount of reproach out of his voice.
"You make that sound as if it were a bad thing."
He takes a moment to consider that. "Maybe not bad, but certainly unusual. Inappropriate."
A pause, during which Sigrid picks at a loose thread at the seam of her sleeve. "Like you and me?"
Fíli straightens up, dismayed by her assertion. "That is different."
"Is it?"
He knows what she is doing, of course. Pushing him, forcing him to confront the things which make him uncomfortable. It angers him, a little, though that anger is not directed at her, but more at the fact that everything always needs to be so bloody complicated and that, once his thoughts start spinning, he cannot seem to make them stop.
"Very much so," he says, trying and failing to keep his tone neutral. "A Dwarf and an Elf, and one of Thranduil's no less..."
He does not finish putting his thoughts into words, but he does not have to. The implications of his words are clear enough. He wishes he could put aside those prejudices he has grown up with, but even if he is nowhere near as full of hate as both Thorin and the Elvenking have repeatedly shown themselves to be, imagining – truly imagining – his brother with an Elf is more than a little difficult. Not that it matters now, for Kíli never got to act on his misguided feelings.
"For what it's worth," Sigrid speaks up in front of him, jarring him from his thoughts, "I do believe that she cared for him as well. I—I could see it in her eyes. Those same feelings that I was beginning to harbor in my heart and that I am only now starting to fully comprehend."
Warmth spreads through his chest at her words, chasing away some of the chill that remembering Kíli's last days has brought. "Really?" he says, a smile stretching his lips. "All this time?"
She ducks her head and though he cannot see her face, he knows that she is blushing. "All this time," she confirms quietly, her fingers curling around his hand where it still holds the reins of his pony.
They don't speak any more after that and Fíli clings gratefully to the bright spark which her words have lit inside of him. If she cared for him even before she truly knew him, back when he was still cocky with confidence and full of adolescent dreams, then maybe she can forgive him after all if he decides to go along with Balin's plan. Maybe what they have does not need fortifying and is strong enough as it is to withstand any storm it might become exposed to.
After another half mile or so he gives a sharp tug on Arran's reins, bringing the pony to a stop with a sharp click of his tongue.
"We're here."
He slides off Arran's back and reaches up to help Sigrid dismount, letting his hands linger on her hips only a bit longer than necessary. Then he takes a step back to allow her to take in the view.
A few feet ahead of them the ground falls away rather steeply towards the river, and there, at the shore of the water, a small, sandy patch of earth is surrounded by a copse of gnarly willow trees, their branches hanging low above the ground. It is not the most impressive place Fíli has ever laid eyes upon, but it radiates a tranquility which he has come to appreciate in the few times he has visited it. Also, it is a place rather unlikely to be found unless you happen to be looking for it.
If Fíli were to guess, he would say that a similar thought has just crossed Sigrid's mind, for she gives him a cheeky grin as she slides her hand into his, allowing him to pull her down the narrow path leading to the riverbank. They reach the seclusion provided by the trees with the sort of breathless laughter only known to mischievous children and secret lovers and proceed to tumble to the ground in a rather graceless heap of limbs that have refused to obey and hands that are eager to touch, to grasp, to hold.
Since that one night in his chambers, Fíli has not had Sigrid to himself without the constant fear that someone might intrude upon them any given moment and all their interactions have been marked by a sort of hurried desperation. Now, he fully intends to use what little time they have left before he must take her back to Dale to make up for those lost opportunities.
Sigrid's laughter echoes through the river valley as he fumbles a bit to sort out their position, but when he finally succeeds at sitting up and pulls her onto his lap, she goes quiet, bracing her hands against his shoulders as he reaches up to cup the back of her head in his hands. He tilts his face up and kisses her, deeply, unhurriedly, for the first time in days. Her lips are soft and pliant beneath his and when he gently nips at the lower one, demanding entrance, they part for him without even a moment's hesitation.
Having lost himself in her taste, her scent, the feeling of her body pressed so intimately against his, Fíli can do little else except gape at her in surprise when Sigrid breaks their kiss unexpectedly and wriggles out of his lap.
"What are you doing?" he asks in a dumbfounded tone while he watches her shrug out of her light coat.
She looks at him over her shoulder, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I'm going for a swim."
Again, he can only stare at her as she toes off her ankle-high boots and approaches the water's edge on bare feet. She dips in a toe and, apparently satisfied with what she finds, proceeds to divest herself of her long, woolen skirt. Wearing only her blouse and underskirt, she wades into the water, pausing to lift her face towards the sun, catching its warmth on her skin.
"You will catch a cold," Fíli mumbles, but it sounds halfhearted to his own ears. The sight of her standing in the shallow water, the reflection of the sunlight making her skin glitter, is so transfixing he has no desire whatsoever to have it end.
His throat dry as parchment, he watches her take a few cautious steps, lowering herself until she is submerged up to her shoulders. The water must be positively freezing and Fíli experiences a little jolt of concern when he wonders if the current might be strong enough to pose an actual danger. He clamps down hard on his impulse to remind Sigrid of those things – he's not some sort of mother hen and Sigrid may be many things, but a helpless little chick is not among them. Not anymore.
Instead, he gets to his feet and moves closer to the water as well, kicking off his boots as he does so. He won't go in, for returning to the mountain in a completely drenched state would raise too many questions. But seeking a bit of refreshment cannot hurt, especially with a view such as this.
He was right – the water is rather on the icy side of the temperature scale. His feet tingle as he watches Sigrid drift around in the clear, relatively quiet water for a bit, clearly not too perturbed by its effect on her body. Eventually, though, even she is forced to succumb to her need for warmth and she returns to the river bank, raising herself from the water with both a shiver and a smile.
"Are you sure that you won't come in? I feel that a cold bath does wonders for a distracted mind."
He ignores her allusion to the confession which he still owes her and shakes his head, grinning. "Another time, perhaps. It wouldn't do for me to leave a puddle under my seat when I return to Erebor in time for dinner."
Her answering smile is a little rueful. "No, that wouldn't be so clever, would it?"
Fíli hates to see some of the mirth in her eyes dim at this reminder that time is, as always, working against them. He tries to think of a way to return that spark to her gaze, but quickly becomes distracted by another shiver coursing through her body.
"Here," he says, reaching up to undo the lacings on his tunic. "Wear this while we put your clothes into the sun to dry. I hate sounding like my own mother, but you will catch your death if you do not get out of those wet things."
As Sigrid steps closer and reaches out to take the proffered garment, Fíli exerts all his willpower to not let his eyes stray to the places in which her wet blouse and underskirt cling to her skin. Still, warmth rises in his cheeks despite the cool breeze that brushes across his now bared chest. What happened between them that night in his chambers is one thing, but standing here, in broad daylight, with her being so very... exposed is a different matter altogether and sends his imagination reeling.
Maybe it's silly, but still Fíli turns his back to her to give her some privacy while she replaces her drenched clothes with his dry shirt. Behind him, there's the sloshing sound of water as Sigrid fully emerges from the river and after a few more seconds he hears her wet clothes drop to the ground with a wet splat. Fíli's already overactive imagination takes this clue to Sigrid's current state of (un)dress to provide him with even more material that gets him into a rather intolerable state of excitement. A prolonged silence follows, after which the sound of Sigrid's voice causes his breath to become stuck in his throat.
"You can turn around now."
He does, slowly, and feels his jaw drop when he sees that yes, she has put on his shirt, but has not bothered to do up the lacing at the front, the garment hanging open to reveal quite a lot of her upper body. Before he can stop himself, his gaze travels down her long neck to take in the sight of her firm, round breasts that are only halfway covered by the rather coarse fabric.
As always when she is being deliberately bold, a very becoming flush tints her delicate skin, betraying the effort it takes her to be more courageous than anyone might expect her to be. And, as always when this happens, Fíli feels himself fall a little harder for her.
He rewards her courage by stepping closer, his expression rapt as he takes in the vision of beauty that she is. Seeing that there is no real reason to act shyly, he raises his hand and slips it underneath her open shirt, gently placing his fingers against her waist. Her skin is cold and still a little damp and the desire to press his lips to every inch of her, to allow his hot breath to chase away the coldness, shoots through Fíli like a bolt of lightning.
He gives into this temptation and brings his mouth to a spot right above her collarbone. Her skin tastes like spring rain and he wants more of that. Now.
Running his hands down her sides, he reaches around her waist, cupping her shapely bottom in his palms. His long tunic covers the upper half of her thighs and he pushes away the very distracting thought that she wears nothing underneath. Adjusting his hold onto her, he lifts her off her feet in one swift motion, causing her to yelp in surprise. Her hands dig into his shoulders for support while her legs come up automatically to wrap around his hips. Holding her close to him, he carries her back to their spot under the willows, his steps steady even though the sensation of having her cling to him like this has reduced his knees to jelly.
In his arms, Sigrid turns her head and nips at his earlobe, which makes him drop to his knees much less graciously than he intended. A growl of almost feral quality escapes his lips and he lowers her onto her back, not pausing before he covers her body with his. He attacks the exposed skin of her collarbone, her shoulder, her throat with vigor, scarcely pausing to draw a breath before he finally crushes his lips to hers.
She squirms beneath him, her legs still wrapped firmly around his hips. As she arches her back and pushes herself up against him, the urge to join his body to hers becomes almost unbearable in its intensity and Fíli does the only thing he can think of that will prevent him from yanking down his trousers and granting them both the release which they so obviously crave.
Raising himself on his arms, he begins to scoot down her body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses on her skin. Past her navel he goes and he can both hear and feel her breath quicken a little bit more with every inch of his downward progress. A voice in his head keeps reminding him that he had originally intended for this encounter to remain at least somewhat innocent, but clearly they have moved past that point now. He lifts one of his hands off the ground and strokes Sigrid's leg, running it up and down her thigh before grasping her knee and angling it outward by applying gentle pressure.
She obliges him, and he eagerly uses his newfound freedom of movement to conclude his mouth's journey with a tentative exploration of her womanhood.
"You—what—," Sigrid splutters when he sweeps his tongue across her most sensitive flesh and Fíli raises his head to find her propped up on her elbows, staring at him with her face as flushed as he has never seen it before.
"Do you wish for me to stop?" he asks, the brush of the braids in his beard against her flesh as he speaks not entirely accidental.
She shivers in response. "No," she whispers. And then, more firmly, "No, I most assuredly do not want you to stop. In fact, I might never speak to you again of you do."
"I thought as much." He grins wickedly before resuming his previous attentions, growing bolder now that she has given him explicit permission to do so.
If the taste of her skin was exhilarating already then her very essence flooding his senses certainly has the potential of driving him stark mad. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip as a tremor of want surges through him and she hisses in response. He relaxes his hold onto her immediately, an apology already forming on his lips, but her hand clasps his in an iron grip.
"No," she pants, pressing his fingers even more firmly into her flesh.
If his mouth wasn't busy with other things, he might have smirked at that. As things stand, he shifts his weight so that he is now kneeling between her legs. With both of his hands now freed, he takes a firm hold of her hips again and yanks her towards him, thereby increasing the pressure of his lips, his tongue, against her.
He's not opposed to the occasional bit of roughness and neither is Sigrid, judging by the loud moan which escapes her lips. She is writhing in his grasp, now, and since Fíli does not want to exert too much force in order to hold her still, he decides to have mercy on her. His licks and nips change into little sucks, gentle at first, but quickly growing in intensity.
One of her hands tangles in his hair, tugging on it with just enough force to elicit a hum of pleasure from him. The little tremor in his lips brought about by that sound appears to be just a tad too much for Sigrid and she crashes over the edge of her own passion with a cry that makes Fíli very, very glad that they did not stay at that abandoned guardhouse.
With his left hand he holds her down as she convulses against him, accentuating every wave of pleasure she experiences with a little flick of his tongue. Shoving down his trousers with his right hand, he takes himself in a firm grip, thrusting into his closed fist with several sharp bucks of his hips. He shudders as his own release washes over him mere seconds later, resting his now damp forehead on Sigrid's lower belly while his breath rushes out of him in one long groan.
Sigrid hisses when his breath brushes across her swollen flesh and her fingers grapple at his shoulders, his hair, his upper arms to pull him up to her. He follows gladly, crawling over her with shaking limbs to bury his face against the side of her neck. She holds him close, the erratic beating of her heart rivaled only by his own frantic heartbeat where their bare chests are pressed together.
"That really was—I mean, I did not know it was possible to—without even—"
Fíli chuckles into the crook of her neck. "I'm sure I can think of a number of other ways to achieve something of similar... merit." He lifts his head to grin wickedly at her. "I would be happy to demonstrate them to you at any given opportunity."
She nods, her grin matching his own. "Please do."
He rolls off her then and lies on his back beside her. With his left arm he pulls her against his side and she follows his invitation eagerly, resting her head on his shoulder. The drooping vines of the willows filter the sunlight of the late afternoon, making shadows dance across their skin like hundreds of black butterflies. For a while the only sounds are the quiet rustle of the leaves in the gentle breeze and the steady gurgle of the river. Fili almost wishes he were allowed to fall asleep here and wonders vaguely what sort of dreams he might have if he did. Pleasant ones, he is quite sure.
Sleep, however, is not an option. Their return to their separate lives is imminent and with it the need to face certain realities.
He is not conscious of having moved at all, but something – maybe a change in his breathing, a quickening of his heartbeat – must have given him away, for Sigrid lifts her head from his chest eventually and supports her weight on her own elbow so that she may look at him.
"Are you ready to tell me, now?"
He won't insult her with feigned ignorance of what she speaks of and so he heaves a heavy sigh, his heart a painfully tight knot in his chest at the thought of what he is about to reveal to her. He lifts his eyes to hers then and finds only affection in her gaze – no suspicion, no trepidation. No expectations.
The words become lodged in his throat. He cannot tell her. Cannot smother that innocent little spark in her eyes by reminding her so cruelly of the fact that they have no real place in each other's life and that they are merely getting by on borrowed time. He has faced whole armies of enemies without ever considering running away, but when it comes to breaking her heart, he is the worst of cowards, it seems.
"We—we won't be seeing much of each other in the weeks to come, I'm afraid," he finally says, blinking repeatedly in his effort to hold her gaze. "The forgeries are about to reopen and—and Dáin will be returning to Erebor in a few days so there will be a lot of things to attend to and… well. Little time for me to go on outings such as this one."
None of those things are untrue, and yet not even the most outrageous lie could have caused him to feel worse about himself than he does now. He vows to himself that he will tell her, and soon. Just not today. Not before he has had more time with her while what has grown between them is not yet tainted by the relentlessness of his duty to his people.
Sigrid studies him for a long moment, so long, in fact, that he is certain she will call him out on his lie or, worse, run off in a fit of – justified – rage. But then she smiles hesitantly, her hand inching across the sandy earth until her fingers find his.
"That is not too bad, then," she says, and Fíli's heart clenches painfully with each syllable. She lifts her other hand to tuck a wayward braid back behind his ear. The sweetness of the gesture nearly has him on his knees beside her, confessing to his cowardice.
"My father is making plans to visit the Elvenking's halls in a fortnight," Sigrid adds after a pause. "He will be gone for several days, I believe..."
They share a secretive smile at that and Fíli takes the hand that is still toying with the beads in his hair to bring it to his lips. The part of his mind that never gets a break from his duties as king registers with some amount of interest that apparently Thranduil is gradually lifting the lockdown under which he has kept his kingdom since the battle, but he shelves the thought away for later examination and returns his undivided attention to Sigrid.
"Thad and Flad will be happy to assist with arranging a way for us to meet, I'm sure," he says. "And you are right, of course. Two weeks isn't too bad."
No, but lying to her and secretly plotting to leave her for several months is, you git. Fíli fights hard not to wince as the voice of his conscience (this one sounding a lot more like Thorin rather than his usual impersonation of Kíli) bears down on him with vigor.
A fortnight seems the right amount of time to get his thoughts in order, he silently argues, to figure out if undertaking this journey to the West is the right thing to do. To come up with a way of letting Sigrid know that this is not his choice, that, if things were different, he would choose her at every chance he got.
Still – no matter how often he repeats those resolutions to himself while they gather their things and slowly begin their journey back to the abandoned guard house outside the city walls of Dale, he cannot shake the nagging feeling that he is causing much more harm than good by keeping things from the woman nestled against his chest, by betraying her trust, so freely given.
When they have said their goodbyes in the soft light of early dusk and Sigrid has already taken a step towards the ruined little building where she will wait for Flad, Fíli reaches out to her again, twirling her around and tugging her against him so that he may press his lips to hers once more. She sighs into their kiss as he deepens it and Fíli tries to commit the small sound as well as the eagerness of her lips beneath his to his memory. He cannot help but fear that it may be his last chance to do so.