Chapter 38: A Challenge

Fíli stared at his brother in astonishment. "Dumsûbarâk?" he muttered. "But Reidhr's clearly in the wrong."

Dumsûbarâk—literally, the judgment of axes—was a formal trial by combat. Dwarves who agreed to settle their disputes by the blade forfeited their right to a court hearing, and therefore, the dumsûbarâk was usually chosen only when a lack of evidence or witnesses made it impossible to solve a disagreement any other way. Yet in this case, they had the testimony of coconspirators, and Reidhr himself had fully admitted to his own guilt.

Kíli said nothing, the tight set of his brows expressing his determination without words.

Fíli said, "Is this because Jari all but called you a coward?" Kíli had nearly struck Jari for the insult, and Fíli had been angry, too, though he had dismissed the words as groundless. "Kíli, no-one who knows what you did on the Quest can doubt your courage."

His brother rejected this explanation with an impatient shrug. "It's for my honor," Kíli said.

"Kíli, I don't ask you to do this," Thorin said.

"I know. But they need to see that I'm willing to be the first to die defending Tauriel. That I don't ask anyone else to die for her. Let me be enough."

"I should have defended you and Tauriel at the Council of Seven Kingdoms. I'm not going to fail you this time."

"Thanks," Kíli said, his voice momentarily thick with emotion. "But I think now I need to defend myself."

"You can't just sacrifice yourself," Fíli interjected, stomach plummeting; this was the kind of reckless thing Kíli would do on hot impulse. By the rules, dumsûbarâk was not a fight to the death, but even so, the trial could easily end in the death of a combatant. "What would Tauriel—"

"I don't intend to die," Kíli said, sounding offended.

"But you could!"

"Well, better me than all of you," Kíli returned, voice raised to match Fíli's. "I started this, and I should pay the price."

"The traitors attacked me, too. This isn't just your problem now."

"That's not the point. I'm the one—"

"Boys!" Thorin bellowed. They both froze; he hadn't called them that in decades.

Thorin took a long breath; when he finally spoke, his voice was even. "Reidhr offended first against Kíli. It is Kíli's right to challenge him."

Fíli glared. "So we abandon Kíli? I can't do that, Uncle. I fight beside my brother. Kíli has every right to our support."

Thorin put up a hand, and Fíli bit back words with an effort.

"He does; I agree. We would be perfectly just to punish the traitors, down to the last dwarf. But will that mend the fracture in our people? Your brother must earn back their respect for himself."

"Simply by proving his courage?" Fíli shook his head. "If courage is all they wanted, we wouldn't have had the succession controversy in the first place."

"By proving that your brother is a nobler dwarf than the one they would follow. By resisting us, Reidhr and every one of his followers have earned a traitor's death. But if Kíli chooses to settle this debt by dumsûbarâk, Reidhr's punishment pays for all."

Kíli said, "If I win or lose, justice is served, and the rest of his men can live."

"I understand," Fíli said grudgingly. "But Kíli isn't a pawn. I can't gamble on my brother's life."

"Fíli." Kíli grasped his brother's arm, his eyes earnest. "This is my fight. I can't let you finish it for me. I have to show them that it's worth risking my life to fix this."

Fíli gritted his teeth, unable to argue with Kíli's reasoning.

"Yer brother makes a noble offer," Daín said.

"I know," Fíli snapped. He turned and strode out of the tent, swatting the entrance flap aside with a loud crack of canvas. The guards outside jerked to attention, their faces blanking a moment too late to hide their curiosity. Fíli resisted the impulse to snap at them, too. He drew in a deep breath, and then strode towards the edge of the camp, his movements calm though his thoughts were anything but.

He wasn't sure who he was more angry at—Kíli for proposing such a reckless plan or Thorin for supporting it. He could see the political expediency of a dumsûbarâk, but still it was not right to make Kíli shoulder all the blame for Reidhr's disloyalty. Yes, his brother's choices had complicated matters, but Thorin was right: he and Fíli had agreed to defend Kíli's marriage to Tauriel.

Kíli had surely disappointed some of the more traditional dwarves, but he had not done anything truly dishonorable. He had done nothing to forfeit his people's protection. And even those dwarves who disliked Tauriel could not argue with the fact that Kíli had been wronged by the attempts on his own life. Kíli had every right to ask for justice, and he should not be forced to fight his own case as if there were no merit in his position at all.

Fili stopped, having reached the edge of camp, and drew in a long, unsteady breath.

Most of all, he simply couldn't lose his brother.

"Fíli! Fí," Kíli's voice called behind him, followed by boots grinding on loose stone. "Fíli. Are you mad at me?"

There was no entirely true answer to that question, so Fíli ignored it. "It's just not fair," he grumbled.

"Nah," Kili said wearily. "But it's the right thing for me to do."

Fíli turned to his brother. "Are you sure? If something happens to you, what will Tauriel and Galadion do?"

A nearby torch fluttered, highlighting the flick of a muscle as Kíli clenched his jaw. "I know they'll be safe. This is how I make sure of it. By fighting for them, I prove they have every right to be counted part of the king's family."

"Kíli, if you die—" Fíli huffed, reluctant to follow this thought through to the end. "I can't go home and tell Tauriel you're gone. What would she say?"

"She'll understand what I had to do."

"Will she?"

"Stop talking as if I'm already dead! I'm not planning to get killed." Kíli's voice was strained with anger.

"I know, Kí," Fíli said gently, suddenly sure that he did not want to argue with his brother. "But Reidhr hates you. He's a cheating orc, and he'll do anything to make sure you won't walk away from a fight. You have to think about what could happen."

"I know what could happen," Kíli said quietly.

"Reidhr is a traitor—mere dross!" He laid his hands on Kíli's shoulders, a gesture of blended affection, frustration, desperation. "He's not worthy to face you. And he's certainly not worthy to kill you. We'll fight him together."

Kíli smiled readily then, though his eyes remained serious. "Thanks. It's good to hear you say that." He stepped closer and pulled Fíli into a hug.

Fíli closed his arms over his younger brother. "I can't lose you—that's all," he finally admitted. "What would you do without me?"

"Something stupid," Kíli said a little darkly from Fíli's shoulder.

"Kíli."

"I know." A long moment passed before Kíli stepped back and looked Fíli in the eye. "This time you have to treat me like a prince first, and not a little brother, or the little brother is all they'll ever see." There was no resentment in his tone, and Fíli felt sure that Kíli did appreciate having an elder brother who looked out for him.

Fíli sighed, wishing Kíli did not have to be right that in this case politics should rule his natural affections. But if anyone knew the challenges of balancing love against policy, it would be Kíli. "I understand," Fíli said quietly. "I will."

"Thank you." A bit of Kíli's characteristic warm humor crept back into his face, and Fíli wondered at the irony that Kíli could still wear the charming smile of a dwarfling who had earned a treat when he had in fact just won the dubious right to risk his life in single combat.

They stood in silence for a few moments more. Then because there was nothing further to say, they turned back towards Thorin's tent together.

When Tilda arrived at the Mountain, Tauriel was waiting for her inside the front gate. Instead of the soft gown that had become customary for her, the elf wore leggings and a short, tailored tunic.

"I thought we might visit the stables today," Tauriel said in response to Tilda's curious glance.

"Oh yes, I'd like that." Tilda reached for Galadion, who had visibly perked at the sound of a familiar voice. "Hello, little friend. Missed me? My, you're getting chubby now."

"Isn't he?" Tauriel smiled as she handed her babe off. "It's no surprise, when he eats like…like a hobbit." Her eyes twinkled.

Tilda laughed. "Or a dwarf! They ate everything in the house when they stayed with us."

"I can well imagine."

Erebor's stables, Tilda had always thought, were less like a barn and more like a palace. A central aisle stretched out under a high vaulted ceiling and down both sides were large, open stalls, like the guest rooms in her own father's hall. Indeed, it was impossible not to think of the ponies as royal guests, since each stall was bigger than the kitchen in the house where she had grown up. But the place still had all the comforting smells of a barn: sweet hay, leather, warm horses.

"Is this Galadion's first visit?" Tilda asked as they walked through the entrance arch.

"Indeed."

A moment later, Tilda noted the broad stares of the grooms and supposed she need not have asked. Clearly this was the first time anyone had brought a babe this small into the stable.

"What do you think, Galad?" Tilda said. "What a strange place!"

Galadion tensed in her arms, his little brow furrowed, as if he were deeply concentrating on something. He drew in a breath, eyes widening as if in surprise, and sneezed once. Then he chirruped happily and relaxed, reaching out for Tilda as if all was well again.

"Did you see that? I think he decided he likes it here."

Tauriel said something in Elvish and caressed Galadion's foot. "I told him he would this morning."

At the sound of her mistress's voice, Tauriel's dappled grey mare, Gwilwileth, leaned her head over the nearest stall door.

"Look, here's Mama's horse," Tilda said. "Isn't she pretty?"

Galadion blinked, observing with serious attention as his mother petted this strange new creature.

Tilda stretched out a hand, then paused. "Do you think it will be all right if I get closer with Galad?"

"Oh yes, he will be safe." Still stroking the horse's cheek, Tauriel murmured something in Elvish again.

As Tilda drew near, Gwilwileth kept her head very still and let the girl rub her velvety nose.

"What did you say to her?"

"I said that we have a delicate little flower whom we must handle with the softest summer breeze."

A loud whicker sounded behind them, and Tilda turned to see Kíli's pony nodding to them from further down the hall. "Arrow feels left out," she said.

Tauriel giggled. "He knows that when I am here, Kíli is usually not far behind. And Kíli always has a biscuit in his pocket."

"Did you bring one?"

"Of course."

As Arrow munched his treat, Tilda combed her fingers through his long blue-grey coat. She liked him; he was friendly, and on visits to Dale, Kíli and his pony had been teaching her to ride. "I miss Kíli. I haven't seen him since summer!"

"I know," Tauriel said, wistful. "Twas August twenty-third—two months ago—when he left to find Fíli. He has been away all but a sennight since then. I know he misses us, too."

As she talked of her husband, the pretty elf seemed to wilt slightly, like a plucked flower that needed to be put in water. Poor Tauriel; it was very unfair that she must be separated from Kíli for so long, and especially with a little babe to take care of! Tilda wished there was more she could do to cheer her friend.

After a few moments, Tilda said, "We should have a party for Kíli when he comes back."

Tauriel's expression lightened. "So we should."

"And it can be for Galad, too." Tilda tickled him. "You haven't had a birthday party yet, have you?"

"No." Tauriel reached for her son, though he was not fussing for her, and Tilda supposed Tauriel must feel closer to Kíli with her arms around the little babe who looked so much like him. Tauriel nuzzled Galadion and kissed him. "Little Galad has been very patient, hasn't he? Much more so than his nana." The elf looked back to Tilda. "Kíli left so soon that there was no time to have a party before he left, and I cannot not hold a Naming Day feast while he is away."

"Naming Day?"

"When a new elf child is born, his name is formally announced to the family."

"Oh! That sounds important! But…Isn't it a little late? We all know his name."

Tauriel laughed gently. "Any time within the first year is appropriate. It is mostly a symbolic event."

"I see." After all, even a year probably wasn't so very long for an elf. Tilda smiled, remembering something else. "Kíli had a birthday last month, too, didn't he?" She had been at his birthday celebration last year, a joyous, noisy event with lots of beer and even more food.

"Yes; it was the day after he left for the Iron Hills. My poor little dwarf," Tauriel said with mournful sweetness. "I'm afraid he was overlooked this year, eclipsed by his son and the trouble with the traitors."

"Oh no, that won't do!" Tilda cried, Galadion turned to regard her, apparently interested by her burst of emotion. "Yes, we must have a grand party for you and your Da," she told him. "Da turned eighty-two this year. Don't you think he deserves a party for that?"

"You've a good memory!" Tauriel sounded impressed.

Tilda giggled. "I remember because he's as old as my great-granddad! Are you sure Kíli is really that old? He doesn't act like it." She knew that dwarves lived quite a lot longer than humans, but Kíli was so impulsive and teasing that in truth it was hard to think of him being much older than her own sister, Sigrid, who was recently turned twenty.

Tauriel laughed long and hard, apparently deeply amused. "Eighty is nearly even old enough to get married, for an elf." He eyes crinkled, tears of mirth caught in their corners. "Nearly. Kíli and I caused only a small scandal with our wedding."

"Really?" Tilda giggled, not sure whether to believe Tauriel or not. None of the elvish wedding guests had seemed particularly scandalized.

"Oh yes. I'm sure that the gossips will stop talking after another century or so." Tauriel winked, a gesture that she surely had picked up from Kíli.

Tilda grinned, joining in the joke. "What if he just made his age up to impress you, and he's really only twenty-five?"

Tauriel gaped in a humorous expression of horror.

"I think that would be a scandal worth at least a thousand years of gossip!" Tilda added.

"Indeed! Is that truly how old he looks to you?" Tauriel asked, clearly overcome by her own curiosity now. "I have little reference for human ages."

"I would say twenty-five to twenty-eight," Tilda pronounced, amused to find herself more knowledgeable than her elvish friend, for once. "Definitely not thirty, though! That's old. But honestly, it's hard to tell with most dwarves. Usually all you can see is beard. You're lucky with Kíli!"

"So I am. And how old do I look, by human count?"

"Pretty much the same as Kíli. Especially when you smile."

"I see. Then I will be sure to do it often."

"Good."

Galadion cried out as if wanting to contribute to this conversation. It really was amazing that a babe so small could already be so interested in the people and things around him.

"Oh yes, Galad, I agree," Tilda said. "We know what would make Mama smile right now, don't we? She should go for a ride."

Tauriel did smile, though she seemed embarrassed. "Do not think I brought you here so I could trick you into being my nursemaid for the afternoon."

"Oh, shush." Tilda waved dismissively. "You're not tricking me into anything. I came here to see Galadion, and you will just be granting my wish."

"You are very kind," Tauriel said as she handed her son over again. "I haven't been riding in months, and I have dearly missed it." Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, and Tilda was glad to grant her friend this pleasure.

"You're welcome, Tauri."

The next morning, Kíli was not surprised to find that no-one inside Reidhr's dûm troubled to acknowledge the approach of the king and his heirs. Having already damned themselves as traitors, they did not seem to find courtesy worth their effort.

"Let Reidhr come forth," Kíli shouted up at the apparently empty battlements. "I am Prince Kíli of Erebor, and I have personal business with him. For his offenses against me, I challenge him to dumsûbarâk."

There was no immediate answer, but a few minutes later Reidhr appeared atop the wall. "Well, Your Highness, I'm impressed." He peered down at Kíli as if taking the young prince's measure. "It seems you still retain a vestige of your dwarven honor. I thought you'd traded it all away to marry that fairy witch."

"You've no right to speak of my wife that way," Kíli snarled reflexively. Reidhr's insults were no easier to stomach for being expected.

"Have I not?" Reidhr's tone was patronizing. "I look forward to your teaching me different."

"So you accept?" Given Reidhr's prior refusal to negotiate, Kíli had not expected to convince him so easily.

Reidhr's gaze lifted from Kíli to the dwarf at his shoulder. "Tell me, King Thorin. If I should slay your nephew in the course of the trial, you will not hold it an unlawful murder?"

"I will abide by the rules of dumsûbarâk," Thorin said. "If you win fairly, I will consider this grievance settled, for you and your followers both. I will pursue no further vengeance."

"And if I am the victor, I add these terms," said Kíli. "I offer your men the chance to regain their honor by following me in a campaign against the orcs of Gundabad."

"And should they refuse?" Reidhr's tone was almost taunting.

Was Reidhr so scornful of the king's mercy? Or was he angry to think his men might abandon his cause to save themselves? Kíli suspected it was the latter. He said, "Then they have the choice to fight me and my army, or to slink away in shame. Do you think any of the clans will accept them after the dishonor of having chosen an unjust cause twice over?"

Reidhr laughed. "Your cause is only as strong as your sword arm. And I won't tumble so easily as your elvish slut."

This time Kíli restrained himself to a grumbled curse. Only once he no longer felt in immediate danger of hurling obscenities did he call back, "Do you accept my challenge?"

"I do."

Thorin stepped forward then, wisely forestalling Kíli's need to speak further.

Kíli only half listened as his uncle arranged to meet with Reidhr's appointed second to discuss the particulars of the dumsûbarâk as custom required.

All the righteous anger that he had borne for months was finally roiling to a head, like the steam in the engines they used to run the great mining elevators. All this time he had fumed, unable to direct his energy at the one truly responsible for trying to hurt his wife, his son, his brother and sister. He had felt so helpless, so useless, unable as he was to face his true foe!

And so now, staring up at Reidhr looming on the wall above him, Kíli felt the surge of something stronger than his anger: the bright, hot joy that finally he had someone to fight.

Author's note:

Oh no, another horrible cliffhanger! My beta reader, That Elf Girl, has already scolded me. :) So do you think Kíli is making the right choice to fight Reidhr personally? What did you think of Tauriel's scene? I thought we deserved some fluff.

The dwarvish dumsûbarâk is my invention. It was partially inspired by the Viking holmgang, a form of trial by combat.

Gwilwileth, the name of Tauriel's horse, means "butterfly" in Sindarin. I've always thought it would be a good name for a horse. It's also the Elvish name of a constellation, possibly our Cassiopeia.

If you leave a review, I'll send you a preview of the next chapter before it's posted. :)