Courting Habits of the Hopelessly Unprepared

by Nyruserra

When the planned marriage between Fíli and Sigrid falls through, Kíli finds himself volunteering before he even has a chance to question his Maker on the finer points. Like, how did a hasty proposal to the wrong daughter morph into what Kíli suspects might be his perfect match? Or, how is he to convince a perfectly-imperfect princess that she holds his heart in her tiny grasp?

22. Chapter 22

WanderingSmith, I couldn't do this without your patient help.

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Chapter Twenty One

21

All I Am, and All I Ever Was….

~ In which there is an aftermath, and Kili and Tilda agree to have A Talk ~

.o. .o.

The whole chamber was silent.

Even the groans of the wounded seemed muted in the wake of his brother's very deliberate exit, and Fíli's heart clenched so tightly in his chest, he felt it might become diamond on its own accord. There was no hiding facts now, of course, and Fíli knew he would be facing the rest of his reign as alone as Uncle Thorin had been.

That's not true, he chided himself. Kíli was alive, unlike Uncle Frerin, and would always be his brother, even if he wasn't his Doyar any longer, and that was a gift he would never cease to be thankful for. Shaking his head, he forced his focus back to the here-and-now, instead. Mahal's will would be done, as his amad was fond of reminding her sons. He took a deep breath, feeling these reassurances settle around him, making him feel grounded once more.

The aftermath of the battle had left dozens of dead and wounded Easterlings littering the shore, and it didn't take a close look to prove that their own forces had also not escaped unscathed. With a chill, he saw that some of the fighting had made it as far as the tunnels into the mountain proper.

All around him, Fíli could discern the subdued sounds of dwarven and human voices alike, and the underlying uncertainty was obvious. The had just witnessed a miracle—or the blackest of blasphemies, and Fíli wasn't at all sure how the popular opinions of the two races would fall. Bad as it was for his own people, he shuddered to think what this must look like from the perspective of their above-world allies.

Through all the ages, have there ever even been Men in the mountain before, fighting along side them? Fíli didn't think so, and it was accompanied by the bemused thought that this may be a definitive example of his Uncle's political prowess—with races that weren't Elves—bearing fruit. By the time Óin had finally made his own unexpected, and critical, arrival, Fíli knew there would be songs about this day, likely even before the sun set; though he had no idea what those songs might make of everything that had happened.

He thought he might be looking forward to finding out—then maybe he would know how to feel, too.

But he doubted it.

There had been even more tribesmen patrolling the dark waters than Fíli had initially thought, and the fighting had been furious. Untested and untried as they were, his crew had responded with aplomb, and Fíli was incredibly proud of them. They had kept their heads under pressure; showing a humbling amount of confidence and courage, Fíli felt, in his leadership, they'd quickly taken to watery warfare; descending on the invaders with vengeful battle cries and curses, leaving little behind in their wake

Kíli's arrival on the shore, a startlingly mixed force at his back, had been a profound relief. Men and dwarf had pelted onto the shore, but any surprise they may have gained was lost by the overwhelming noise of the Men's nailed boots striking upon the stone; though that same booming thunder of their approach had driven all nearby to gape at them in such shock that it made no difference. The reinforcement burst forth into the fray, weapons drawn and laying about them almost as soon as they had cleared the choking confines of the tunnel entrance. It had only taken Fíli a few stunned seconds to cede the responsibility for winning the shores to his nimble brother, finally able to focus solely on his own watery skirmishes.

Diving in after Bifur had required no thought; he hadn't even spared a passing consideration for the nearly insurmountable toll it would be for the Mountain kingdom if their only Cantor had drowned in that turbulent river. Fíli's only thought, if one could even call the terror churning his gut a thought, was of what it would do to his brother if, after everything, his Master were to perish there before his helpless eyes.

Bylgja and Bofur had lost no time in scrambling from their beached craft when they landed, strong arms reaching out to relieve Fíli of his burden and let him struggle to catch his breath unhindered. Bifur had taken in an alarming amount of water, and Bylgja was quick to flip him over and pound on his back until the Cantor had coughed up what appeared to be his own weight in river water, and promptly began swearing hoarsely, so they knew he would be alright. Of course, even he had gone silent when Kíli had begun his spell, filling the chamber with incomprehensible music; the very language of the rock, and of their Father.

Fíli wondered, perhaps for the very first time, what it was like to be able to understand that fundamental language of Creation, and he watched his brother in awe, and wondered if he had ever truly seen him filled with such joy before.

A dwarf in the grips of his craft was the greatest blessing, after all, next to finding your Umùrâel, and Fíli had a brief glimpse of what it was Kíli had been suppressing all these years, and his heart ached for him.

Kíli's exit with the Lady Tilda had been as dignified as it was defiant, and Fíli was so, so proud of him in that moment, he felt he would burst. No matter what happened, Kíli would finally be able to follow his own path, though Fíli knew his heart would hurt to leave behind his duties as prince. Even the sound of the Mountain seemed muted in the long moments since Kíli's retreat, and the voices of the men and dwarves was so subdued as to be impossible to decipher it, blending with the murmur of the disturbed water against the rocks.

Behind him, the rest of his makeshift crew were just landing on the stone beach, Gimli caught half in and half out of the boat as he stared after Kíli with his jaw unhinged and his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. If it wasn't for Tóki steadying him, Fíli was sure the lad would have fallen over and landed himself in the river. Beside him, Sváva and Levi clearly didn't know what to think; they were far too young to be jaded enough to handle the impossible with any kind of aplomb.

Uncle Bilbo looked pained, but had a determined air to him when he met Fíli's gaze, grasping his waistcoat by the hem and giving it a firm twist, settling it and making sure the lines were straight, no doubt, his gentle uncle's way of girding himself for battle—the kind that usually involved words instead of swords and axes.

Nori had slipped to their side without Fíli having noted it. "Let me help, Highness," he said, pulling Fíli to his feet almost perfunctorily, before crouching at Bifur's side, murmuring quietly and rapidly to the older dwarrow. "Shall I—" Fíli started, but was waved away by Nori with almost studied casualness, leaving the prince with the distinct impression that he was superfluous. Fíli eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged, deciding to leave it to Bofur and Bylgja to make sure Nori and Bifur weren't interrupted—except maybe by Óin, instead taking an unobtrusive step closer to where Bilbo now stood.

"Cat's out of the bag, now," Bilbo murmured, sounding weary, though he kept his back straight, and his shoulders un-slumped, and Fíli knew there was no way his diminutive uncle would ever allow anyone watching them to see that the royal family was anything but completely comfortable with what had just happened.

Uncle Thorin's consort was truly a gift to them all.

"Kíli always was good for a show," Fíli agreed softly. He was tired, he realised. Weary and ready to just be done with this nonsense, and could only imagine how his brother felt after everything that had happened.

"Unnatural," he heard the whisper coming from among the Men, hushed and suspicious as some threw dark looks at the dwarves surrounding them. For their part, the dwarves bristled at this very mannishassessment, even as they shifted uneasily, and refused to look each other in the eye.

For a dwarf, a Prince, to have hidden such a talent?

It was more than unnatural.

Sadness filled him at hearing these whispers, but even more at the unspoken unease behind them. Hadn't Kíli proven himself yet? The craftless prince who had nonetheless retaken a mountain kingdom, and given a home to his people?

Óin was refreshingly impervious to any tension, and his peevish voice could be heard throughout the chamber as he upbraided Men and Dwarf alike, and Fíli had never been so grateful for the old dwarrow's ability to ignore all that wasn't as simple as an infected thumb, or as consuming as a battle wound.

Beside them, Denethor was eyeing the space Kíli and Tilda had been with a troubled look on his young face, and Fíli glanced around, trying to appear casual, to take in the other Men's reaction to their Lord's unease.

It wasn't good.

"Oh bother," Bilbo muttered, following his gaze. Fíli took heart from the fact that the men, though uneasy, had not yet pulled away from the dwarves they had fought beside, though he could see them getting restless, and knew that they still might. He needed to remind them, quickly, that the dwarves were still the same allies they had come to respect. Catching Balin's eye, Fíli quickly signed to him, urging him to engage any of the Men he could; Balin was deft with the Westron language in a way most dwarves were not, and his ready compassion and sympathetic ear were always quick to put others at ease. If anyone could make innocuous small talk, it would be the dwarrow who had somehow talked a suspicious Bard into smuggling a sodden pack of miserable dwarves into a fortified town.

Stooping to recover an abandoned weapon, Balin turned to hand it to one of the younger lads with a kindly smile, saying something that had the young man nodding hesitantly back, and Fíli doubted the lad was even aware of his shoulders slowly relaxing as they spoke. Further down the way, Fíli noted with satisfaction that Óin's healers were moving among the men, checking for injuries and treating wounds with much better bedside manners than their Master possessed.

Slowly, the tension seemed to lessen. There would be no broken treaties this day; but it would be the work of many years, Fíli didn't doubt, to fully repair this damage. As soon as Bard returned, he would ask Tilda if she would speak with her father as candidly as the man could stand; and they would just have to hope that previous actions would speak loudly enough that their ally of battles past would keep the details to himself.

He would get no such assurance from Lord Denethor, Fíli was sure. Perhaps sensing Fíli's attention, the tall lordling turned, a troubled frown making his already thin lips nearly disappear.

"I feel as if I am coming awake after walking in the mists of dreams most troubled," Denethor admitted, heavily. "There is much that happened here this day that I fear I do not understand."

"I think there are not many here this day who do," Fíli admitted. A few paces away, Bilbo watched intently, but didn't interfere. Fíli wasn't sure if he was honoured by the hobbit's trust in him, or terrified that Bilbo didn't have a plan.

For a long moment, Denethor simply watched as dwarf and man helped each other to their feet, not saying anything more, and Fíli tried to extend his stone sense for all he was worth, hoping for some indication as to what the man was thinking.

It didn't work, of course. It was nearly impossible to sense someone with whom you weren't close, after all, the exception being dwarves like Kíli and Bifur. Fíli really wished he could swear, in this moment, frankly.

"I take it your brother's...I do not know what it is I saw, frankly. His abilities, mayhap—or was it witchcraft?—they are not common among your folk?" he asked at last, seeming to have come to some kind decision.

"It's exceedingly rare," Fíli admitted to him. "And yes, it is a natural gift, not one born of any craft save being able to listen to the stone."

Denethor eyed him incredulously for a moment, but chose not to challenge that assertion. "Men do not have such ways of leaching thought from stone," he told him, casting his eye over the huddled, muttering knot of allies ten yards distant. "How much easier it must be, to divine the thoughts of others," the young lord mused quietly, leaving Fíli startled, and troubled, by the deep longing he heard in the man's voice.

"I have fought beside your brother, and called him friend," he said after a moment of staring out at the river, and the wreckage that bobbed on its currents. "I do not know what foul thing he pulled from the water, but its presence was plainly felt as a black miasma that clouded the heart and mind. For the respect your brother has earned, I will hold my peace on this matter, but I cannot speak for the Men of Dale—or their King, when he returns."

"With that I will have to be satisfied," Fíli murmured, but he saw that Denethor's attention was caught by something at the water's edge.

There seemed to be something under the water, some fainter patch of light, and as Fíli followed, Denethor stooped to draw it up out of the water, but he stopped, before he'd even touched it.

It was the orb the shaman had raised, in those last harrowing moments of their battle, and Fíli suppressed a shiver at the cold feeling that crept in his bones at the sight of it. Silliness, he told himself firmly. An association to the danger Bifur had faced—that they all had faced, if the man had succeeded in raising the ring. It was a fact, one hard for him to willfully ignore, however, that the globe almost seemed to be lit from within: a strange, nebulous glow that invited one to look closer, drawing the eye almost irresistibly; rather like another stone he had seen, one that had almost single-handedly caused a war between three peoples, almost a decade ago, and Fíli shuddered.

Noting his reaction, Denethor's mouth settled into a firm line. Casting about, he drew a long horn-handled knife, and hastily scavenged a sizable scrap of rough cloth from one of the many bodies still littering the shore, and used it to gather the crystal up and out of sight, without actually touching that fey light. As soon as it was hidden, Fíli felt the subtle discomfort ease, and he let out a soft sigh.

Denethor, he noticed, was already cradling the thing under his cloak, obviously not willing to accept any challenge for ownership of the strange item; Fíli briefly considered bringing it up anyway, but given everything that had transpired here, felt that perhaps he was better to let it go, rather than disturb the fragile accord they had achieved.

For now, at least. A few yards away, Bilbo watched what had transpired with a troubled expression, but when Fili caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he gave a slight shake of his head. Bilbo agreed: they would wait and see, it seemed.

Thoughts of his bed, and the solitude to be found there, were almost irresistible, and he was glad that soon he and his very tired-looking uncle would be able to turn the remains of this mess fully over to Óin and his healers, and retire for a few hours. It was these soothing thoughts that were interrupted by some kind of growing commotion, of which Bifur seemed to be the centre...

Fíli sighed.

.o. .o.

Silence.

Blessed silence.

The welter of confused thoughts, in the aftermath of Kíli's actions, were all left behind, for others to deal with. Kíli's head ached, a fierce pounding brought on by exhaustion, and being turned practically inside out by the Shaman's spell; but at least the only resonances and mental noise he was hearing, besides the faint murmur of the stone, belonged to himself or Tilda.

Tilda, who felt even tireder than he did, if that were possible; Tilda, who had only gotten out of her sick bed that morning, after her ordeal in the mines.

Tilda, who's very essence was in the process of binding to his own.

There was no way Kíli could deny, or ignore it, any longer. Left alone to his thoughts as they made their quiet way through deserted hallways, the only thing to cut through his blank musings was her presence; the difficult, glorious intrusion of her inside his being, at the most fundamental level.

Her exhaustion was there, too, unfortunately; beating a persistent counterpoint to his own, exacerbated by the complicated, difficult transition...that she knew nothing about.

As much as the realisation of how entwined their souls already were already thrilled him, the idea of trying to explain it to Tilda, on the other hand, terrified him.

Somehow, he was going to have to find the words to explain the unexplainable. She needed to know.

And amongst the things he needed to know, was if his Lady had been right, when she declared she was able to face the new life they were likely to lead, now that his abilities were out in the open.

Abdication.

The word haunted his nightmares often enough; dreams where Fíli was taken by madness, like grandfather.

There was no less greedy dwarrow than his brother, Kíli knew, but all dwarves had the seed of avarice inside of them; could he be certain Fíli couldn't be taken by it? The thought was too much to bear right now, and Kíli pushed it away. As if sensing his mood, Tilda squeezed his forearm gently, but held her peace as she continued to concentrate on setting her steps as gently as she could, to spare her ankle.

Beneath his boots, the rock grumbled in minor discordances as he bore the ring through the corridors, though it was tired and muted. But the rock wasn't the only thing to react to the ring's presence. If it weren't for his hyper-awareness of her, he probably wouldn't have noticed the subtle shift in resonance about his Lady; a sickly sweet miasma that clung like diaphanous threads.

The events of the last few days proved the influence of this trinket reached far; farther than Kíli would have believed.

And they had already divined a way to remove it from the most secure cage Kíli could devise; he didn't dare let it out of his sight, after this. There were few rings of this power, in their lore...rings that harkened back to times of great conflict. His people where not susceptible to the power of these trinkets; what was the might of such magic, when compared to the vast mysteries left for them by their Father?

But the other races were not so fortunate; on this their stories agreed. And the most vulnerable….were Men.

He shuddered. The ring could not stay. Not one more second than Kíli could help; the ring's grey touch made it seem, at times, as though he were sensing Tilda through a veil; dampening her presence, even when she was right there beside him.

Blocking her….

An idea, a tiny seed of inspiration, sparked his sluggish brain, and slowly, a plan began to form.

"...Kíli?" Tilda's voice eventually cut through his thoughts, and with a start, he realised they had stopped, and he was staring, for who-knows-how-long, unseeing, at the door to their chambers. Warm fingers reached hesitantly, then with greater courage, to trace the skin above his brow, smoothing the furrows there.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked, gently.

Closing his eyes, he caught her hand, and brought her palm to his lips, placing a soft whisper of a kiss on her skin. "Only that I am very fortunate you are so brave and true," he admitted, as he tried to smile, but he was sure the expression was not as relaxed or comforting as he intended.

"Bravery is a nice word for impulsive," Tilda waved it away without interest. Cocking her head, she asked, "And what is it you mean by true?"

He kissed her hand again, closing his eyes as he let his lips linger, taking in the faint scent of waterlilies that always seemed to cling to her. "I am happy to have this moment with you," he finally said. "As to your bravery…" he trailed off, wishing he could simply follow her into their chamber. Take her in his arms. Lay with her one more night, to wake in perfect contentment. But the ring….

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" Tilda accused.

Looking around, despite knowing they were completely alone, Kíli dug his fist into his innermost pocket, where once he'd kept a rune stone, and drew out the ring. Watching Tilda carefully for any sign of the ring's sedition, Kíli slowly unfurled his fingers.

For a long moment, Tilda stared at it, the hypnotic golden surface, so smooth it seemed to reflect some kind of inner light. Her slate grey eyes were wide and unnaturally focused, and her expression was uncomfortably rapt. For several seconds they stood there in a silent tableau, and Kíli was just about to snap his fist shut and shove the ring out of sight again, when Tilda shuddered, as if throwing something off, and stared at his hand with a look of revulsion.

"And that is what I mean by true," Kíli murmured with relief.

"Can't you destroy it?" Tilda asked plaintively, but the resignation in her eyes told him she already knew the answer.

Tucking the ring away, Kíli shook his head. "Its evil is beyond my skill—beyond any dwarf's skill, to unmake," he admitted with reluctance.

"I will accompany you—" she started, before Kíli was holding up a hand.

"Your ankle is not up to traipsing much further, this eve," he told her gently.

Sighing, Tilda stared down the deserted corridor for a long moment, before conceding with a reluctant nod. "What do you plan to do with it?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Kíli admitted. "I've got a...a feeling, that it needs to be done tonight, and I was kind of hoping that once I got closer to wherever it is I am supposed to be, it would become clearer."

Tilda frowned—as well she ought, Kíli supposed, because that explanation had sounded positively mental to anyone that wasn't Bifur.

"That is a lot of ground to cover, and you're exhausted," she said, shocking him when she completely sailed over the part where he was acting like he wasn't working with all his hammers on the same forge. "Surely we have a moment to try and narrow it down."

"And how do we do that?" Kíli asked tiredly, but with a rueful smile for her enthusiasm to try.

"Well...what's more secure than the bottom of a river?" Tilda asked, proving that she, at least, had a firm grasp on the heart of the matter.

What was more secure, indeed.

"I was not prepared, when I first encased the ring," Kíli pondered, trying to feel the edges of the thought that had ticked him as they walked. "More than anything, I was asking the rock to confine it for me, because I lacked the ability to command it, and sort of left it up to the stone to figure out how to do that, but the ring wasn't...asleep. It still cast its lures, sometimes."

"I don't suppose encasing it in lead or something would muffle it any—" but Kíli held up his hand, cutting her off gently while he thought. For a long moment, they were both silent.

"Even encased in stone, it was still...awake; at least occasionally." he said slowly. "And loud enough for Uncle Bilbo to hear it, sometimes."

Tilda nodded, and Kíli felt glad to note that she was taking him seriously. "So, the real challenge is, how do you stop anyone from hearing it?"

"That is not something I've figured out yet," he admitted.

He could see Tilda's eyes flick about, back and forth, as she thought, her nose wrinkled and her mouth pursed comically as she pondered something with no answer.

"Kíli," she said slowly, "When Alfrid had me, you couldn't...the rock couldn't tell you where I was?"

Kíli made a face. "Something like that, anyway" he said, hedging and not at all sure what clues Tilda had managed to put together, but absolutely sure he didn't want to have their first discussion about their connection here on the doorstep, with the ring burning vilely in his pocket.

"Why?" Tilda asked, eyes no longer darting around, but looking straight at him as her face broke out into a sunny smile, clearly feeling she had the answer.

Feeling sluggish, and not immediately seeing what she obviously thought she did, Kíli stumbled to answer, "When you were captured, I couldn't find you within the Mountain, because—" he blinked, and continued more slowly, "because Alfrid was keeping you near the Heart of the Mountain," he breathed.

Tilda was watching him expectantly, and Kíli realised that though she had reasoned that something had kept him, or the stone, as she had thought, from hearing her, she didn't know what it was she had forced him to remember. Hugging her, quick and hard, he offered a half explanation; the full one would take too long. "The details don't matter," he said, already feeling the rightness of this action, grounding him within the stone. "Not right now, anyway. The important point is, you're right—it's a perfect place to hide something you don't want found; it's too noisy."

Tilda grabbed his shoulders and squeezed, before giving him a gentle push. "Then that is where you hide it, better than the bottom of a river," she said, grinning and giddy and more than likely exhausted.

She was also more than a little filthy; but Kíli was sure she had never been lovelier.

"You'd better go get whatever it is you have planned done, and hurry back to me," she said, trying to summon up an impish smile, for his sake.

Kíli appreciated the gesture, and what it cost her to give in to her injury. Tilda was always going to be a take-the-mine-cart-by-the-handles sort of lady, and idleness suited her ill. Hastily, he bent his head over her hand, placing a light kiss there. "Rest," he said, softly. "I'll be back as soon as I may."

The halls were even more desolate-feeling, now that he was alone, of course, and Kíli sternly put aside the warm, distracting feelings of moments before as he strode down what felt like miles and miles of empty, echoing corridors.

Despite being concealed in his pocket, the ring's very presence felt conspicuous, like a brand, marking him as surely as that long ago Númenorian mariner he'd heard tell of, marked to the baleful eye of ill-fortune by some sort of bird hung from his neck.

Albatross; it had been an albatross. The fact floated, inconsequential and unhelpful, to the surface of his thoughts as the ring's peculiar song curled thought his head, sweet and petulant.

Another thing Kíli forcibly pushed aside.

He was nearly at the egress, where the Royal Halls joined the kingdom proper, when Kíli sensed him, waiting in the shadow of the arched doorway.

"I should have known," Kíli greeted, somehow not surprised in the slightest.

"I would say you don't have to do this now, laddie," Balin said with a sigh, pushing himself off the wall tiredly. "Only I think we both know the sooner, the better."

"And I would say that you don't have to do this," Kíli rejoined, but he was suddenly glad for Balin's steady presence, and he reached out to grasp his shoulder, even as the older dwarrow gave him a dry look, doing a poor job of hiding his affection.

"I will be able to sit one of these incidents out, when I am finally convinced someone in the line of Durin has been elevated to being reasonable," he retorted. "I have some small hope that Her Highness, Lady Tilda, may finally inject some sense into the bloodline."

A small flush curled hotly under Kíli's collar at the thought of future children, and it was several heartbeats before he remembered to respond.

"Do you have some kind of special sixth sense, to let you know when one of the royal family might be up to trouble?" Kíli asked curiously as the old advisor easily fell in step with Kíli's much longer stride.

The question was meant lightly enough, but something about the thought sent a flicker across Balin's normally serene expression, and Kíli was struck by how old his Uncle's advisor looked; aged and tired.

The moment passed almost as quickly as it happened. "When I am very lucky," Balin murmured, and Kíli wanted to scrub his hand over his face, realising how tactless that had been; too many in the line of Durin had been lost during the eldest son of Fundin's long years of service for the joke to ever be light.

Dammit, Kíli swore, tiredly, feeling awful and helpless in the face of this long-held grief, and they reached the central kingdom without uttering another word between them.

"You have a plan, I presume?" Balin finally asked, as they rounded the final corner, drifting to a halt before the stunning Masterwork of precious metal and stone that made up the entrance to the Mithraeum. For a beat, Kíli just stared at it, blinking and muzzy-minded.

Forty-one hours, he mused. Everything, down to his teeth, ached with fatigue. In the interest of avoiding wasting evena minute more in lengthy explanations, he gave Balin a jaunty wink, trying to cover up the holes in his hasty plan with false confidence. Balin gave him a sour look for his flippancy, but seemed to accept that Kíli was going on something more than a hope and a prayer; Kíli silently breathed a sigh of relief. Instinct would not go over well with the meticulous advisor, but it was all he had—how did you explain the world of vibration and noise to one who could not hear it?

Nodding sharply, Balin took up a position by the door. "I will see to it that you are not disturbed," he said. "Now, get to it, lad."

The Mithraeum was still and quiet.

Fine glass encased the oil lamps lining the walls of the main chamber, their wicks turned down but their flames still bright enough to illuminate the empty chamber, yet casting its corners in deep shadows. At the far end, past the long length of the meeting table, and through the open doors opposite, the muted glow of the ever-present alter flame could be seen, burning with a nearly indigo light beneath the iron forge that capped it. Not a sound disturbed the quiet. Even the quiet hiss of the oil lamps was all but inaudible in the blanketing silence.

But that was a lie; it was never silent. All around him thrummed the many-layered song of the Mountain; it radiated from the stone beneath his boots; buffeted him from the walls that surrounded him; pressed down on him from the ceiling above—the weight of ages and ages of history, all being sung to him at once, as if the Mountain meant to pour that wisdom into those who could hear, regardless of their ability to contain it all, and Kíli felt small and laid bare before the judgment of all the ages that went before him.

It was chaotic. It was deafening, and Kíli closed his eyes as he slowly breathed through it, one careful lungful at a time, until his mind felt less compressed, and he could think again.

Clearly, the Mountain didn't care for the trinket he brought.

Carefully, he made his way through the main chamber, feeling the agitated sound of the Mountain like a thick tar about his limbs, making his progress feel more like wading than walking. He ignored the open doorways along the way; ones leading to meditation chambers and workrooms, and kept his eye on the dim light of their Father's forge as he thought of nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other. Reaching the final sanctuary of the Alter Room was a relief.

Kneeling, with his hands on his knees, Kíli took a deep breath, intoning the words of the prayer he had learned as a badger. The words, so ingrained he didn't have to think about them, conjured up memories of hours spent with his family; his uncle and his amad in the forge, learning religion and craft as one combined experience.

Skill came from the hands of their maker, after all.

Another deep breath, and Kíli began the difficult process of peeling back mental barriers, one by one. It was risky—those barriers were all that stood between him and the full onslaught of the noisy world that surrounded him, but he knew he did not possess the skill to force the Mountain to his will—as before, he must ask the very foundation, and pray it would serve him.

He might not even have the skill to cleave through all the welter of noise, to direct the rock to listen, but he couldn't afford to think that. Sweat, both dried and fresh, itched along his hairline, and the small of his back, and his dampened clothes clung uncomfortably, and with great effort, he pushed these distractions away. He struggled to dismantle the barriers of his thoughts, to lay bare his intentions so the Mountain could judge him; but he was tired.

He grit his teeth and tried harder.

There was a faint, off-key melody drifting in, building so gradually that at first Kíli wasn't conscious of it. The tune was out of place, and jaunty, but strangely soothing, perhaps because it had been a part of his life, a part of him, for so long; a familiar shift in the patterns of resonance.

Startled, he opened his eyes.

Kneeling on the stone floor beside him, was his Master, looking like hell itself, and offering Kíli a cheery grin that did nothing to hide his exhaustion or his numerous aches and pains, but was no less genuinely happy for any of that. Bifur wore nothing more than the worn tunic and linen pants he would have had on under his armour, stained and rank after his imprisonment, and he looked oddly vulnerable without the heavy layers that comprised most dwarves' daily attire. The hands that braced his weight on his thighs trembled faintly, and there were new strands of grey in his tangled ebony hair. Moving before he even thought about it, Kíli grabbed the old dwarrow's shoulders, and with the utmost care, headbutted him solidly.

For his part, Bifur just rocked back on his heels, muttering affectionate complaints before demanding to see the ring that had started all this trouble.

The gleam of the ring seemed duller in the sanctified light of the Mithraeum, Kíli thought; as though some of its glamour had been stripped away. Impatiently shoving his matted hair out of his way, Bifur bent to examine it. He grimaced with distaste as he poked it and muttered at it with surprisingly energetic vitriol.

Disturbingly, the ring seemed to murmur back.

Kíli felt like he might be holding a live snake in his fist, and tried not to think on that analogy too closely, either. Instead, he tried to put words to the half-formed impulse that had driven him here, and the whisper-thin idea that was trying to become a plan, to perhaps the one person who wouldn't find it all impossibly odd.

The venerated dwarrow, who had molded Kíli's thoughts for the last half decade or more, chortled, thumping him on the back with surprising strength, then carefully took the hem of his tunic between his fingers, and tore it.

Into his cupped hand tumbled a gleaming object, and when Bifur held it up triumphantly, Kíli was surprised to see a heavy garnet ring resting in his palm. Around it hung a faint aura of magic; some minor enchantment too faint to identify without more effort than Kíli wished to give it in this moment as he stared at it, stunned.

And Kíli realised that Bifur must have taken this ring—probably one of Grandfather Thror's collection, as part of his portion of the treasure, years ago, back when they had first retaken the mountain. That he had somehowalso known to bring it with him when he had left to investigate Raven Hill. Known to keep it secret, and safe, throughout the trials that followed.

All so he could produce it now.

Kíli's mind shuddered back from the scope of his Master's immersion in the Song. He wondered if he would ever be as attuned to their Father's voice.

He also wondered if he did, if he would be mad, too.

With a bushy-browed wink, Master Bifur began to explain how they were going to make Kíli's idea even better.

Groaning, Kíli resigned himself to losing a bit more sleep this night.

It had taken intense meditation, but Master Bifur had guided them through the process of altering the heavy ring's signature to suit their purpose, and the resulting angry cacophony of metallic screeches was giving Kíli a headache to match his aching knees.

Given how long they'd already been, Kíli had to marvel at Balin's patience.

Bifur was now examining Uncle Bilbo's ring; swearing at it and comparing its ancestry to some kind of metal slag before setting it aside. Kíli shook his head at his Master's antics in amusing himself, but couldn't help his weary smile; somehow, it felt reassuring to watch Bifur being, well, Bifur.

Picking up Thror's garnet and gold signet, and crooning almost lovingly at it—which made for a very unsettling juxtaposition, given the evil now emanating from the gaudy trinket—Kíli could feel his master's mind, sharper than any blade, and honed to an almost invisible edge, probing delicately at the doppelganger they'd created, examining it from every possible angle, applying more pressure, and more, until finally he was battering it, trying to break the illusion; to shock the metal into reverting to its previous sound. Kíli held his breath, waiting for Bifur to prove the worth of their work.

It held, and Kíli let out a stale-tasting breath.

Nodding with satisfaction, Bifur slowly pushed himself to his feet, depositing the fake in some inner pocket, and giving a sneer to the original where it sat on the stone floor before them.

Stretching after kneeling for so long was a relief, and Kíli was just taking the time to work a particularly irritating kink from his back when Master Bifur motioned him to take up the ring. It was time to finally get back to Kíli's original plan, and to finish this. Taking a deep breath, he wearily knelt once more, and focused on grounding himself, feeling the solid connection to the stone beneath his knees, and then took up his uncle's ring.

At his touch, the shrieking instantly grew louder; the ring was definitely awake to the world now, and awake to its peril. It felt hateful in his hand, no longer crooning seductively, but blaspheming like a fishwife, filling Kíli's mind with images of ashes and doom, and he actually flinched before he could check himself.

Immediately, the warmth and support of his Master's thought flooded his awareness, bolstering him. There was a slightly mercurial edge that was distinct; instantly identifiable as belonging to Bifur, and Kíli felt his muscles unclenching at that familiar sense of guidance and safety that had been a part of his training for more than half a decade.

It was probably a backwards reaction, considering how many times Master Bifur had shown a remarkable carelessness to danger, frankly.

Despite that well-documented tendency towards recklessness, his Master's solid support steadied him, providing a much-needed anchor in the chaotic maelstrom here in the heart of the Mountain's song, and Kíli found that he was able to finally focus. With part of his mind occupied with countering and containing the ring's malice, Kíli stretched out to the rock of the Mithraeum itself. There was steadfast granite of course, like there was throughout most of the mountain; marble and feldspar were there, also, but none of it felt right. Frowning, Kíli tried to work his way deeper, teasing his way between the various shouting voices of the stone. Sweat was beginning to dampen his wrists and neck as he grit his teeth, trying to hold both points of concentration as the ring's presence pounded at him, like battering the walls of a keep, and the stone shouted and sang, too many overlapping voices to easily hear.

Master Bifur was humming in the background, a soft, unmelodic tune that was totally out of step with the sounds around them...and, it actually helped, somehow.

Deeper, Kíli pushed, and he found schist and excitable and flashy adventurine; but there was an elusive sense, now; something …

There.

Bringing as much of his concentration to bear as he dared with the ring still clutched in his fist, Kíli cajoled and charmed the stone, singing his own song, until he could mimic the rock he was attempting to work; slowly he brought his fist down to the solid stone floor beneath the Forge of their Father. For a moment, he held it there, drawing a deep breath, before he pushed.

Ponderously, the stone opened before him, a sound that echoed in his heart, back to creation, and Kíli burrowed in, until he found the stone he sought.

The rose quartz was almost spongy feeling, in comparison to the solid granite, or soft barricade of the marble; like putting his mind in warm syrup, and it took several breaths for Kíli to disentangle his thoughts from that sticky web enough to loosen his grip, and release the ring into the stone's keeping.

The ring squirmed; the quartz crooned, and Kíli felt a vicious sense of satisfaction that the ring, which couldn't abide the presence of true affection, was now encased in a prison of resonating love.

Weariness, and a strange sort of sagging elasticity nipped at his mind—like the feeling of having held a heavy weight too long, and Kíli had to struggle to completely disengage the last of his thoughts from the affectionate treacle. When he finally managed to withdraw, the stone closed up behind him with a grinding clap that was more vibration than sound.

For several moments, Kíli panted, hands on his knees as he wheezed and felt like he'd run a marathon, while Bifur shuffled about the room, cackling merrily. Breath beginning to slow, Kíli slowly prepared to get up and shuffle back towards his chambers, when he felt his Master's scarred hand rest heavily on his shoulder, guiding him to remain kneeling on the floor at his booted feet.

Standing before his long-time secret pupil, Bifur inexplicably fidgeted. Paced a few steps, tapped his foot, and signed something at the wall that Kíli couldn't quite make out, but probably contained more that its fair share of swears. Paced back until he was looking down at his bewildered student once again, and Kíli was absolutely speechless when Bifur slowly, but with deliberate purpose, reached forth with calloused hands to take up a portion of his hair.

Kíli didn't dare breathe. Bifur was muttering gruffly about apprentice duties, obvious displays even an elf couldn't miss, and flighty students always haring off and getting into some kind of trouble, but despite this, Bifur's fingers were swift and gentle as he deftly sectioned the selected portion off into neat little strands. The traditional braid design of a Canting student comprised two ten-strand ropes, interweaved, and Bifur muttered as he struggled to keep the complicated design straight, snarling quietly as he undid part of his work to re-braid it tighter until it lay smoothly against Kíli's scalp.

When he was done, he held the end securely between his scarred fingers while he fished under his beard, next to his skin, for what must be a tiny braid, hidden from view, obviously after something to cap his work with. Still in shock, Kíli clumsily fumbled to pull a clasp from one of his other braids, not caring a whit about any of them in this moment, but his Master waived him off, before finally finding what he was looking for with a triumphant sound. He looked at it critically for a long moment, before holding it out to the lad he was finally able to claim as apprentice.

In the trembling flat of his palm, was cradled a bead. One obviously made by his Master's hand; it was platinum, hardy and strong and white as starlight, or the silver caps on the waves, and as Kíli took it with trembling fingers, he noted runes carved into its burnished surface, runes of wisdom, and of empathy and joy, and Kíli really hoped he didn't have to speak, because the lump in his throat was the size of a mine cart, and twice as heavy.

Tiny black diamond chips had been set to form Durin's Dohyar—his Anvil, with the outline of the mountain etched behind, and seven tiny clear diamond chips spaced above as Durin's stars, the symbol of his prognostication, and the two together had long held as a symbol of the dwarves' connection to their Father, and hence the symbol of the Cantor's Guild.

"It's perfect," Kíli told him, his voice husky and hoarse as he forced it past the building pressure that threatened to move him to tears, like a wee badger.

Master Bifur grunted again, snapping his fingers closed around the bead and quickly clasping it shut around Kíli's new apprentice braid, muttering irritably that it was about time; but his words were even gruffer than usual, and suspiciously wet sounding.

Standing, Kíli reached out, planting one hand on each of Bifur's shoulders, and brought the old Cantor's forehead to his. Bifur's muttering broke off, and slowly, his hands came up as well, and they stood there, neither one willing to admit to the tears that threatened to fall, until they could again face each other with dry eyes…

...and overflowing hearts.

In this moment, in the quiet cacophony of the Mithraeum, Kíli knew he could face his future with equanimity—with joy, even, for he finally had everything he had never dared dream of.

.o. .o.

When Kíli finally made it back to their chambers, Tilda had already drunk four cups of tea, and nearly paced a hole in the floor, despite her ankle. She had also made two separate trips to the privy, after all that tea, much to her annoyance.

After the harrowing walk from the river-chamber, Tilda was sure she would feel the eyes of the Mountain on her for days to come.

She felt jittery; as well as anxious for answers.

The relief she felt at the solid sound their heavy chamber door made as it closed behind her exhausted husband was so reassuring, it caught Tilda by surprise. Too much had happened that she didn't understand, and the door suddenly felt like a welcome barrier, protecting both of them against any further scrutiny.

Besides, she had the feeling that there was still too much unsaid between herself and Kíli, and that didn't need an audience, either; though she was suddenly, contrarily, not entirely sure she could handle that impending discussion right now.

It seemed that Kíli's thoughts were miles away, though. He stood in the middle of their front room, tiredly scrubbing his face with one hand, the vigorous action leaving his hair in disarray, and his cheeks faintly flushed, and as she watched him start to sway slightly, Tilda had to acknowledge that, between her abduction, riding out to Raven Hill, and the melee by the river, her husband likely hadn't had more than a few hours sleep in days.

Answers. She needed answers; not least of which to the burning question of what happened to the ring. But one look at Kíli's shadowed eyes and pale face, and her queries died on her lips.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked, moving closer, to catch him should his body give up, and leave him to fall over where he stood.

"Hmmm?" Kíli shook his head, bringing his focus to Tilda and what she was saying. "Yes," he managed to force out, around a truly jaw-popping yawn, and listed to the right, allowing the wall to hold his weight, but trying to appear nonchalant about it.

"Good. Come on," she said briskly, grabbing his arm firmly, and leading him towards their bedroom, and ignoring the way her belongings were still packed in trunks by the door. How much had changed since that night!

She didn't really give him a chance to get his thoughts in order, because she knew he would protest taking care of himself while he was still concerned about her, so she kept her pace purposeful, and her hands firm, not stopping until she had him safely in their room, hoping the sight of the bed would do most of her work for her in convincing him to rest.

She was right. His eyes slipped to their bed with almost palpable longing, even as he opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, or worse, to talk.

Not that she didn't desperately want to talk, despite the queasy, butterfly feeling that lingered in her stomach at the mere thought of it, but talking while one, or more likely, both, of them were almost literally dead on their feet was probably a recipe for more misunderstanding.

Her impatience would just have to learn to live with that answer for a few more hours, she admonished herself sternly.

Tilda cut him off before whatever thought he was having had a chance to more than half-form. "You need rest," she told him, bluntly, one hand on her hip as she tried to stare him down like she would one of the badgers in the Nursery Halls, and the corner of his mouth quirked ever so slightly upwards when he realized it, too. She blushed, but tried to barrel on. "Sleep!" she reiterated.

He was definitely laughing at her now, his eyes warm with amusement and his lips definitely curled, and for some reason Tilda wanted to kiss him right then, and she felt wrong-footed and shy like she hadn't felt in months, since their wedding night, really. She ended up wrapping her arms around her middle, and glaring at the rose-coloured carpet as her toes curled in her slippers.

"Hey now, none of that," Kíli chided, gently, curling one thick finger beneath her chin. "What's troubling you, my Lady?" Unfortunately for him, another truly jaw-cracking yawn split his face before Tilda could do more than blink at the warm encouragement in his voice, and she laughed softly, and gently disentangled herself from his grasp.

"Bed," she reminded him, wrinkling her nose at his armor. "And maybe a blacksmith, to get you out of all that?"

Kíli huffed again, going along with her attempt at humour by rolling his eyes playfully. "I will manage just fine."

Tilda nodded, suddenly realising that the next step was, of course, for him to get undressed, and she blushed.

She nodded, and tried to busy herself at her dressing table, hoping she was at least a little inconspicuous as she peeked at him through the mirror, cheeks flaming, but far too curious to pass up the opportunity. Indulging her curiosity proved no less disturbing to her nerves as her heart rate skipped and bumped, and her cheeks burned even hotter than before, until eventually she fled, nightgown in hand and with as much dignity as she could manage, behind the screen.

She wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she could hear a hastily suppressed snicker.

Bugger. So much for inconspicuous.

Kíli proved deft at removing the various buckles and straps that held the steal plate in place, and the bone-deep sigh she heard him utter from where she hid (and peeked) behind the screen, when the last of it fell haphazardly to their chamber floor, left no doubt in Tilda's mind as to how heavy it was.

When he crawled into bed, after a quick bath that had likely been no more than an absolutely necessary splash or two, Tilda was already there, curled into her side of their enormous bed. Kíli turned down the lamp wicks, pulled the coverlet up around her, and settled in, squirming a bit until he found a position that suited much-abused muscles, and gave another utterly content sigh, only to startle a moment later when Tilda wormed her way under his arm, and into his side.

"Better?" he asked, bemused, draping his arm around her slowly, as if uncertain of its welcome. Tilda simply hummed, content, and buried her cold nose into his ribs until he yelped a bit at the shock and the ticklish sensation.

It worked to break his tension though, and his strong arm drew her in even closer, and she felt truly safe for perhaps the first time in days. There was very little moonlight, tonight, and most of the faint light in their room came from the banked fire. The ruddy glow was reassuring, and, instead of bringing up memories of dragon fire, Tilda happily watched the faint patterns it created on the ceiling, like shifting shadows of black on black, and let her mind drift drowsily, but she found that there was at least one question that would not wait.

"Did you do something with...with that ring?" she asked, the niggling question from earlier finally worming its way out timidly; and it felt wrong to refer to it, as though merely thinking about it could invite its attention...

She firmly shut down that train of thought.

Kíli shifted beneath her ear, no doubt seeking a more comfortable position even as he obviously tried not to disturb her where she'd settled in as close as she could against his skin. She couldn't help but press her nose against the tiny sliver of his exposed collarbone, reveling in the simple intimacy of the act. Taking a breath, she took in the faint scent of yew and soap, granite and musk, feeling comforted by the extra heat he seemed to radiate.

Fingers trailed lightly down the length of her spine, soothing and pleasing all at once, and for a long moment, she lost track of her question, simply enjoying the feeling of his blunt fingers trailing so lightly along her back. For one wicked moment, she wanted nothing more than to whip off her night dress, so that she might feel that sensation directly on her skin, and she shivered.

His hand stilled for one heartbeat, then two, and his breath seemed to shudder in his chest beneath her cheek, before he resumed, but now the touch felt less soothing, and more...well, more. More deliberate, mayhap, though no less gentle, and Tilda shivered again, and dug her fingers, which had been curled beneath her cheek, into his broad chest as if to prevent him from stopping again.

He didn't; though his heart throbbed loud and quick beneath her cheek.

"The ring is...well, it is concealed as best I can devise," he admitted, his voice soft in their darkened chamber.

"It can't...it can't get out, can it?" she asked, timidly, and she hadn't realised just how deep her fear of this ring, this tiny trinket, ran, until this moment; but she remembered Bilbo's unconsciously clutching hand, the wounded sorrow in his eyes as he told her about it, and the feel of it sliding like oil inside her when it sang, and the way it made things twist within her, and she thought perhaps she was wise to be afraid.

Kíli's hand had stilled against her, and for a moment she wasn't sure he was breathing, but she felt a curious sensation, like a little tickle in her thoughts; not intrusive, but warm and playful, like she was somehow being invited to be more than she was before, but unlike the promises of the ring's song, this felt...wholesome and inclusive. Tentatively, she reached out and tried to stroke that place inside her, and beneath her, Kíli's lungs expanded sharply as he gasped, and closed his eyes tightly for a handful of heartbeats. Tilda pushed herself up on one elbow, to stare at him, dumbfounded, but Kíli just shook his head, and gentled her into lying against him once more.

"You could hear it," he said after a moment, and there was pain as well as wonder in his voice, and he definitely wasn't asking a question so much as confirming an assumption. "Not just when you touched it, but before."

"Bilbo could, too," Tilda said hurriedly, though she wasn't completely certain why she was feeling defensive, except that she felt that maybe this wasn't something that she was supposed to do.

"But Regi couldn't," Kíli said, and because he sounded so certain, Tilda found herself speaking before she'd thought of the strangeness of it.

"No, he couldn't," she agreed, softly. "Why is that?"

Kíli was silent for a long while. "Because the song of the ring is not like the song of the stone; and I think that for dwarves, who already have the sense of their master's firmament resonating in their heart of hearts, there is not room left for the ring; they are deaf to it, for the most part. But other races do not have that guiding melody, and so they can hear it more clearly, and it sounds seductive and sweet."

"You can hear it," Tilda pointed out, still trying to parse how she felt about this analogy, and if it implied the dwarves found the other races lacking.

Probably did, she admitted fondly.

"I've touched it before," Kíli acknowledged. "And once you do that, it seems to...to focus its attention, I guess. Once you've touched it, there doesn't seem to be much defence against it anymore."

"Why did you have me take it up, if it was so dangerous?" Tilda asked him.

"Because," Kíli told her with a small smile, white teeth gleaming in the darkness, "You were safe enough."

Tilda actually pinched him for that, and he squirmed back, trying to evade her reprisal without letting go of her. "You couldn't know that!" she exclaimed, not at all sure why she was cross, except that Kíli wasn't making much sense.

"Sure I could," Kíli assured her. "Uncle Bilbo told me once that the ring can't abide the presence of love...real love, I mean, the kind that goes soul-deep. So...you were never in any danger."

Tilda's heart skipped a beat, and she felt her palms getting sweaty. "That's a lot to assume, isn't it?" she challenged teasingly.

"Is it?" Kíli asked. "You were willing to give up everything, everything you've known since you got here; the only comfort and security you've had, just to follow me, should I be forced to abdicate."

There wasn't really much she could say to that, she supposed.

He sat up, propping himself up on one elbow while he leaned over her, watching her expression as he reached out and tenderly ran one finger along her jaw line, and through the tips of her hair. Tilda had never felt so acutely aware of another person in her life, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest when she noticed the faint tremors he didn't try to hide as he traced the path of her skin and hair with a touch as gentle as butterfly wings. His eyes, with all their myriad shades of brown, from tawny amber to burnished bronze, were warm as he watched her with his heart in his gaze; open, vulnerable, and yet joyful and brave, and Tilda knew her adventure might finally be beginning.

"I knew that you loved me," he said, and his voice sounded huskier than it had been before. "And I have known for a long time now that my heart and soul are entirely in your keeping. So you see, I knew that you were never in any danger. Not from the ring."

His lips were soft against hers, and Tilda sighed, the feeling of being precisely where she belonged so intrinsic, so encompassing, whenever he touched her that she could not doubt the strength of his feelings, despite any raging insecurities she might have. Tentatively, his hands carded into her hair, burrowing through the loose night-dressing she'd done, until the ribbon came loose and the whole mass was free, and tangled softly around his fingers, and he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating pleasantly, and she quite forgot that this was only their fourth kiss, and that she didn't know what she was about, or to feel self-conscious, and instead lunged, licking into his mouth in a silent demand that he do the same; she wanted his heart, and this heat, and whatever else that entailed.

For his part, Kíli seemed taken aback at first, though she couldn't say how she knew, but before she could even think of being embarrassed, he surged towards her, fingers tightening their grasp in her hair as he angled her head just so, and he proceeded to completely undo every thought in her head with just his lips and teeth and tongue. The down mattress yielded softly beneath her as he rolled them over, and she was surprised to find that she welcomed the feeling of his weight pressing into her, even as she knew he was supporting some of it, so as not to make her uncomfortable; but enough of it rested on her that she could feel the slight restriction when she breathed. She couldn't explain why the sensation felt good, other than it seemed, in some small way, to satisfy her need to be closer, and she felt in that moment that she would happily crawl inside his skin if she could. The feeling in her chest just kept expanding, like she could envelope him inside herself, or she in him, and her head felt funny—lightheaded, like when she'd had a fever as a child, like the top of her head might float away, but there was a buzzing feeling, like a conversation that was felt, instead of heard, and she couldn't make out the words.

She'd worked her fingers under the worn fabric of his sleeping tunic, but it was tangled awkwardly around his body, and she pulled away from his mouth to huff in frustration. "Off!" she demanded, and she had no sooner said it that he was scrambling to push himself up to kneel before her, reaching behind his head, grabbing the garment by the neck and pulling the whole thing off in one fluid motion, before flinging it across the room.

Tilda laughed, delighted, and Kíli grinned, looking equal parts sheepish and roguish. Tilda's hand on his sternum stopped him when he went to lower himself again, and he quirked an eyebrow at her, questioning.

"I want...I want to see you," she admitted, not sure if she should feel shy, but deciding not to bother.

The smile on Kíli's face grew even broader, and that look, combined with the half-lidded gaze that seemed to burn with its own heat, was doing things to Tilda's insides. Wriggly, hot things that she wouldn't have thought would be pleasant if it had been described to her.

But it was.

"Then look your fill, my Lady," Kíli invited, and sat up on his heels, exposing himself to her gaze more fully.

The fire's faint glow made his tanned skin almost bronze, warm and exotic compared to the pale skin common among the Northmen, and the shadows created only highlighted the shifting of his muscles beneath taut skin. Fine hair trailed from his shallow navel, down the centre line of his defined abdomen, until disappearing into his loose trousers, and Tilda's gaze followed, and lingered, staring avidly for a long moment in speculation. Beside her, Kíli huffed in amusement, but it was a strangled noise, and mostly air, and he gently tipped her head back, breaking her line of sight and her concentration, and deposited a chaste kiss on her upturned lips.

"For my sanity, and my pride, my Lady, perhaps we'll leave that, until we've both rested."

Tilda grinned at him, full of sass and humour, and winked. "Far be it from me to interfere with your pride," she agreed. "But Kíli?" she added, turning serious, "don't keep me waiting too long."

"You are trying to kill me," Kíli groaned, and leaned over until his head was resting in the crook of her neck. "There are things we need to discuss before that happens," he told her, his voice muffled and his breath moist on her skin where her gown's neckline gaped.

She hummed, noncommittal, and began tentatively trailing her fingers through his unbound hair, and she felt his whole body shudder against hers.

"I'm serious," he insisted, sounding like it was hard for him to remember what they had been talking about, and that feeling was back, the dizzy, buzz-y, insides-too-big feeling from before, and it felt...well, she was still trying to come up with the words for something that no one had ever told her about before.

"And this conversation is important?" Tilda managed to ask, even as she added a little tug to her carding motion, and the answering throb inside her was simply molten.

She felt him nod against her shoulder. "You're right—tonight is not for anything serious," she agreed, slipping her hand out of his soft hair, and instead trailing her fingers lightly over his shoulder blades. Kíli sighed, though it sounded like he wasn't entirely sure if he wasn't a tiny bit disappointed, or simply relieved, but he sat up again, and gave her a wry smile.

Keeping her eyes up this time, Tilda continued to look over her husband's form curiously. She'd caught glimpses, of course—they did share a chamber, of course she'd caught glimpses, but never when she'd felt free to indulge herself, and she had accumulated a lot of curiosity over the last few months.

Over the last year, if she were being honest, because of course she'd thought about it, during her betrothal; once Kíli had been coming around more, and she'd had a chance to get to know him from earnest parlour visits, and walks in the lane and through the market, and one very memorable afternoon when he'd allowed her to teach him to fish; through all that, he'd become more to her than simply an obligation; the flesh and blood dwarrow had become more real than the distant concept of a prince and a treaty.

Yes, she'd thought about it. With burning curiosity—her ever-present weakness, and her fingers trailing hesitantly between her legs as she'd tried to imagine what would happen, and whether she could believe the whispered stories the old Aunties told young brides, whispered tales about fun things, thrilling things, but sometimes frightening or painful things, if your partner was thoughtless, and her body gave a warm little flutter.

Kíli was never thoughtless, after all.

Breath hitching, Kíli reached out to cradle her cheek in a work-roughened palm. "You think entirely too loudly for my self-control, amrâlimê," he told her, voice rough, but rueful that told her he wasn't unhappy with her.

She hummed, hoping she sounded vaguely apologetic, and instead moved her hand from his shoulders, to trail down his chest, tangling her fingers gently in the coarser hair there, before smoothing it down again with the flat of her hand, appreciating the firm pectoral muscles beneath her palm as she did so. Everything felt so...so big, and encompassing, like the air around them was stretching, distorting somehow, creating a bubble for just they two.

He was all muscle, which she expected, hard beneath her hands, like soft worn linen over steel, and dark chestnut hair curled on his chest, thinning to nearly nothing below his sternum. He wasn't as thickly furred as some of the men in her village had been, but she knew he was young yet, and had a sneaking suspicion that might change, though it was by no means truly sparse now. She curled her fingers so that her nails could scratch gently at his skin as she explored, before sweeping the pad of her finger over one rosy nipple and smiled when she heard his breath catch.

It was too dark to see what she really wanted to see, what part of her needed to see, even, and she filed it away as part of those 'things' that had to happen before she and Kíli took to their bed together, properly.

But as soon as it was light out tomorrow, she was going to demand to see it, she decided. She'd only gotten the barest look at it, usually a blink of an eye when Kíli forgot to bring a tunic in with him when he took a bath, and wandered out wrapped only in a towel, and if it really was meant to have something to do with their wedding...with Kíli's commitment to her, above all people, than she wanted to know it so well she could trace the dark lines of it in her sleep. It was a strangely possessive feeling, and she wasn't sure she was ready to unpack that yet, either, so she set it aside for now.

There was a painful-looking bruise on his right side, and the fact that it was visible at all in this dim light told Tilda it was dark indeed, and she gave it a wide berth with her fingers. Small nicks and cuts seemed to litter his skin, and she was sure there were many more bruises that she couldn't see.

"Should you have seen Óin, before we came back here?" she murmured, softly.

"Probably," Kíli admitted. "Uncle Thorin field-dressed the worst of it before I rode back."

"From what Bilbo says, Thorin's grasp of field medicine is a bit...rudimentary," Tilda pointed out, eyebrow raised wryly.

Kíli shrugged. "We were in a bit of a hurry," he admitted, but at Tilda's hard look he hastened to add, "I promise I will have him look me over later."

"See that you do," she told him seriously. "I will be most wroth with you if you don't look after yourself."

Mouth quirking in a soft smile, he leaned down, supporting his weight on his forearms, nosing gently at her jaw as he murmured, "I guess it's a good thing I have you here to help me, then, isn't it?" His breath was moist on the over-sensitive skin of her collarbone, and Tilda couldn't help her little shiver. Kíli paused, and drew back slightly, swallowing audibly in the nearly silent room.

"Perhaps it would be best if we were to pause this, for tonight," he said, ruefully, gently gathering both of Tilda's wandering hands from where she was idly playing with the springy hair on his chest. He brought them both, one by one, to his lips, and placed a slow kiss on each palm, never breaking eye contact as he did so. A small grin tugged the corner of his lips, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, even as the look he gave her faintly smoldered.

The skin of her palms was rough, from years of hauling nets and repairing line and a hundred other highly monotonous tasks; her new life had softened those hard-earned callouses, but nothing could ever truly hide or erase her past, and for years, she had despaired of ever feeling like anything other than a counterfeit royal and a fisherman's daughter.

Right here, right now, though? She didn't regret a moment of it. Without those lonely years of squalor, without all the long hours learning skills she hated, and learning to make the most of it, without the hard work and the fear and the victories along the way, she wouldn't be the person she was; the person who made someone as good and kind and honourable as Kíli better, just by being in his life.

And if everything she had lived through had made her a person like that, then she didn't need to be afraid of being a counterfeit anything.

She grinned back, wide enough that she was showing teeth, she was sure, but it was a hundred tiny victories for a lonely and insecure girl who had never felt like there was a niche, just for her, and the feeling was so big, it was practically bubbling out of her pores, and through her skin. Everything she had felt since the cave-in had seemed oddly magnified, but this, here with Kíli, it was even more so, somehow; overwhelmingly so, and, unexpectedly, panic began crawling up her spine. She pushed the feeling away with everything she had, but she was exhausted, and her head ached in strange ways, and she felt her breath catching in her chest—hitching and whistling as she fought to get herself under control, and distantly she worried that she had suffered some invisible damage from her ordeal.

"Shhhh," Kíli was murmuring, and his eyes were heart-breakingly sad, but he exuded nothing but calm and patience, and Tilda clung to him as she tried to bring her breathing under control.

"What's happening to me?" she managed to stutter out, somehow sure that Kíli had the answers.

"Things are just going a little bit too fast," he told her, supporting himself on one arm, as he slowly soothed his other hand down her arm, from shoulder to wrist, and back again. Over and over, he traced a path over her skin, never taking his eyes from her as he tried to help her regulate her breath.

Surprisingly, it helped.

"But I want to do these things with you!" Tilda objected, crossly, once she felt she could get the whole sentence out without her breath catching in her chest.

For a moment, Kíli's serious expression lightened, though the lingering shadow of grief hadn't left his eyes. "And you have no idea how much I enjoy hearing you say so," he teased, bringing one of his fingers up, to run the pad over her cheek, but the teasing light fled as quickly as it came. For a long moment, he watched her and said nothing more.

Just when Tilda thought her patience were completely used up, he finally seemed to shake off whatever was weighing on him so.

"Can I ask a boon of you, my Lady, though this lowly dwarrow surely does not deserve it?" he asked softly in the small space between them.

"I would do anything that you ask of me," Tilda replied, with nothing but naked honesty. "You do know what's happening, don't you?"

For a moment, Kíli closed his eyes, looking pained, but when he opened them again, his lips had quirked into that soft smile she loved, and his expression was more wry then sad. Her heart gave another one of those painless bumps, and something inside her expanded, like a bellows taking in air. She reached up to cradle her palm against his cheek, and the contact anchored her to the only thing she felt she was absolutely sure of in this moment, but the sweet feeling of it threatened the rhythm of her breathing again, and she dropped her hand again with a frustrated little moue.

Kíli caught it, though, holding her open palm to his skin, and cradling it in his own, much larger hand, as he pressed his cheek even further into her touch. That sweet feeling rose up, like a wave, bigger than she could contain, and for a moment it felt like Tilda was being lost in the onslaught, that this pressure would crush her from the inside out, and she shuddered and cried out in alarm, but then, there was a curious feeling of...blending, of one space joining, or opening into, another and suddenly the pressure was lessened, and she knew who she was again, and her chest expanded with a proper breath, and she realised, without understanding a bit of it, that there was room within her for these feelings.

"What's happening?" she whispered again.

"I will explain it all tomorrow," Kíli promised, serious and earnest as he held her gaze.

Slowly, Tilda nodded, once, though she wasn't at all sure she wouldn't drive herself mad with the delay. "And what of the boon you wanted?" she asked, instead.

"Just, I ask, no matter how badly I cock up explaining things tomorrow—and I will, I'm sure—please remember I love you, and would never, ever let any harm come to you."

Her laughter came out as a hiccough, and Kíli's expression was rueful as he kissed her fingertips. Her heart fluttered again, but this time it was easier, and Tilda had the distinct impression Kíli was trying to help her acclimatize to these strange new sensations.

Sneaky dwarrow.

Instead, she tried to focus on the expanded feeling within her, the edges that blurred and seemed to be making space inside her for more that just herself. Carefully, she tried to reach out to that place, and as she did, she watched Kíli's eyes slide closed with a soft sound, possibly a groan, but also possibly a swear of some kind, and she paused, wide eyed, thoughts still caught halfway between where Tilda ended, and this new presence began.

"Amrâlimê," Kíli groaned, "If you don't want this to be the shortest courtship and Khufdîn in the entire long history of Durin's Folk, I beg you, please don't do that; not until we're ready."

Tilda felt herself flushing, because even if she didn't fully understand what was happening, she had caught the flavour of Kíli's distress and she was both excited and embarrassed. Be bold, Tilda, she admonished herself. She was nearly five months wed; she shouldn't be embarrassed by what happened between a married couple, even if she hadn't experienced it yet.

She was still very much looking forward to that part, after all.

"Short sounds good to me; why waste time?" she quipped cheekily. "I promised to give you until tomorrow, at least. Better make sure your explanation is a good one."

A theatrical groan was her only response, and Tilda smiled into the darkness as she curled into Kíli's side again, consciously allowing the fuzzy places inside herself to fade back, until she was almost unaware of them again.

Almost.

Sleep came surprisingly easy, and Tilda had the faint impression that it was Kíli who was so exhausted, but then she was dropping off to sleep before the thought even finished forming in her head.

.o. .o.

Dawn's light filtered down into their chamber, and Kíli came awake slowly to his favourite part of the day.

Thank Mahal he could have these moments again.

Beside him, Tilda still slept, hands curled peacefully under her cheek, having managed to steal most of his pillow, and all of the covers, and Kíli couldn't have been happier. Her hair, freed of its usual loose dressing, spilled like spun honey across their sheets, and he allowed himself a moment to imagine all the braids he might bestow upon her; braids of courage, and of valour, of cleverness and heroics, but more than that, braids laying his heart at her feet, for all to see, and he would be proud for it to be so.

It was a sweet daydream, and an indulgent one, but her usual rosebud smile was missing; the one that always told him she dreamt of sweet things, and its absence had Kíli carefully crawling out of their bed far earlier than he wanted. Loathe as he was to leave Tilda's side—especially this morning of all mornings, this had gone far enough. Besides, if he had any hope of not totally bollocksing up the difficult conversation ahead, it was time he did what he should have done ages ago.

It was time to talk to his uncles.

The mornings were starting to get cooler, and the polished stone floor was chilled beneath his bare feet once he stepped off the thick bedroom rug Tilda had brought with her things from Laketown, encouraging him to not linger staring at his beautiful girl like a besotted husband, as much as he would have preferred to spend his morning like that. Despite his haste, he took his time with his braids; there was enough rumour flying around the mountain now, perhaps it was time he reminded their people that, above all, he was still their prince...at least, for a little while longer.

The corridors were mostly empty at this time of the morning, so Kíli was startled to find that Nori was loitering outside his door, passing the time with Regi, who was apparently appointing himself as some kind of personal guard.

"I'm fairly sure you are far too qualified to be standing around, making sure the wall outside my chambers stays up," Kíli told him, raising an eyebrow enquiringly. "And I definitely know you are, Nori."

"Can't think of much more important right now, actually," Regi replied, looking straight ahead, and giving a very good impression of being far too alert for shortly after dawn o'clock.

Kíli turned to Nori, expectantly. "Can't say as I like that trinket of yours moving about the mountain, without a proper guard; not until you figure out something more permanent to do with it," Nori admitted with a slight grimace. "There's a few of us who will join in the rotation; make sure no one gets itchy fingers, and the sudden urge to exercise them in your chambers."

Kíli made a face, but circumspection—and years of Nori's influence—held his tongue as to the current fate of the ring, especially in a semi-public hallway. Instead, he sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. "It's a good idea, at least for now." He waved a hand, resigned to the charade—and the scolding he'd get from Nori when he figured out he'd been lied to; though it wouldn't hold a candle to the scolding he'd have gotten if he hadn't. "Carry on, then," he told them, before continuing down the corridor.

He wasn't surprised when Nori fell into step beside him. "I don't actually have it on me, you know," he told the spymaster, irritably.

Nori just shrugged. "Doesn't mean it's not worth keeping an eye on you, for now; the ring is only one issue in this whole mess, after all."

Kíli groaned, and decided that silence was the better option. Talking to Nori when he was like this would only give him a headache.

They encountered few people in this part of the mountain, especially this early, but the few that were stirring in the Royal Wing were making Kíli uncomfortably aware of their scrutiny; as though they were trying to see inside their prince's head, weighing and assessing him; most with open curiosity, though there were others with flat stares.

Suspicion, disappointment, even anger were all understandable, and Kíli had been mentally preparing himself for it, but even though this mixed reaction was better, by all measures, than he'd had any right to expect, it still cut deeply.

Even more unnerving, there were also occasional gestures, scattered throughout, of deference and fealty—the types of subtle obeisances that once were common in the by-gone era of his grandfather's court, but all but outright banned in Thorin's, except for moments of deserved merit.

It was unsettling, though Nori, Kíli noted, didn't look surprised in the least...rather, he had a faint gleam of satisfaction in his hazel eyes that made Kíli highly suspicious.

"Okay, out with it," he finally demanded. One thing he was grateful for, in his relationship with Nori, was that the information master never jerked him around; he didn't play word games and he didn't pretend to be less intelligent than he was. All things Kíli had seen him do to others when asked direct questions Nori didn't feel like answering.

And so, Nori didn't bother pretending that he didn't know what Kíli was talking about, now. He did shrug rather nonchalantly, though, and managed to give the impression of whistling and slouching with his hands in his pockets, the very picture of disreputable innocence, despite the fact that he was doing none of those things. "Seems people are inspired by their prince, is all."

Of course, Nori did sometimes decide not to answer in a useful manner.

Bastard.

"Some of them, perhaps." Kíli stared at him, hard. "Why?" he asked, bluntly.

Nori shrugged again, with a slight, though genuine, smile that was the only indication of his profound satisfaction. "Because they witnessed a miracle down in the deeps," he said. "A gift of our Father, bestowed upon his chosen, to deal with this great evil before it could harm His children."

Kíli stopped walking, and stared at him, incredulously.

"That's a load of crap, Nori."

The thief shrugged, but continued walking, leaving Kíli to catch up. "How do we know that isn't the case?" he asked grandly. "Maybe Mahal knew that he would need someone of your talents here, in this moment, to deal with the ring. Not to mention, to rescue Her Highness. She's very popular with the people, you know; maybe even more popular than you."

Kíli snorted, but hearing it warmed his heart, or that place inside him, the one that was blending in confusing, exciting ways with Tilda. His Lady was adored by all who interacted with her. It had taken time, but a pale, foreign princess had shown a taciturn, insular race that she was kindred in spirit, if not flesh. "I don't think that interpretation will hold up...nor do I think it sprung up, out of the blue."

"That interpretation will hold up just fine," Nori contradicted, flatly. "You don't give yourself enough credit, sometimes. The Mountain has a popular, dedicated prince who was already a hero, after facing a dragon and helping reclaim the kingdom against impossible odds. That prince goes on to do something impossible—so, what else could it have been, but the will of our Father?"

But Kíli was shaking his head, bemused. "Supposing it does pass muster, at least long enough for the furor to die down—how did this particular rumour come to be circulating?" They had ambled to a halt, just outside his uncles' chamber, and Kíli turned to him, trying to give every impression of being willing to wait all morning, if need be.

Smirking, Nori did shove his hands in his pockets this time, and leaned against the door frame. "Well, it seems the only Cantor in our mountain may have said something to that effect. Had a religious experience, he did, right there in our basement, before collapsing. Terribly hard on a body, those religious communes, or so I've heard."

"Master Bifur was shot full of drugs, and held prisoner for weeks," Kíli pointed out dryly. "He could have just as easily been hallucinating, an experience brought on by trauma."

"He didn't hallucinate that trick of yours," Nori reminded him, smugly. "Not unless two armies all shared the same bad wine."

Kíli pushed that thought away, not really up to dealing with the wriggling anxiety his looming fate was inducing. "And how much of this was your doing?" he asked, instead.

Nori laughed, and shot him a jaunty little wink, before pushing off the door frame, and sauntering down the hall. Kíli watched him go, not entirely daring to let himself think too closely on the possible implications of what Nori was telling him.

Shaking his head, he knocked on the carved oak door, and slipped inside.

His uncles were both up, for which Kíli was grateful. Bilbo was seated at their breakfast table, comfortably working his way through his first breakfast, usually something light and sweet from Bombur's ovens, and fresh or dried fruits. Right now, he was savouring a cup of chocolate, chatting lightly with Uncle Thorin as he sipped his coffee. The scene was so thoroughly domestic, and looked so much like something transposed from the comforts of Bilbo's beloved smial half a world away, that Kíli grinned happily at the sight.

"Nephew," Thorin greeted, his lips upturning slightly in one of his signature, Thorin-smiles. Bruises bloomed over much of his visible skin, and his right arm was strapped up tight, effectively immobilizing his shoulder, but Kíli was filled with relief to see him.

"Hullo, Kíli," Bilbo greeted warmly, pushing out a chair with one lazy toe for his nephew to join them. "What brings you by so early?"

"Can't I come by just to see my two favourite uncles?" he asked, accepting the cup of gently steaming coffee that Bilbo pressed into his hands. He knew he didn't have to check—it would be fixed exactly how he liked it. Some habits died hard, it seemed; and being a good host was good manners, as Bilbo was so fond of reminding them all.

Thorin snorted, giving Kíli a raised eyebrow for his cheek. "After the happenings of the last seventy-two hours, I did not expect to see you until Tilda forced you to seek out Óin."

"And I wasn't sure you would have made it back to the mountain at all, yet," Kíli admitted.

Thorin frowned slightly, thinking of the many injured, no doubt. "We took the journey slowly, and the Men of Dale sent wagons for those too injured to walk. But we made it back to an empty mountain; it seems everyone was engaged in evicting vermin from our basement. Again. The look Thorin was leveling at Bilbo was part consternation and part censure, and Bilbo was giving him an unimpressed stare right back. Eventually, Thorin sighed, and tacitly gave up, his expression sliding into something softer once again. Bilbo patted him on the hand, and turned back to Kíli.

Kíli hid his grin behind his coffee mug. "Speaking of things happening in our basement, I just had the most interesting conversation with Nori," he began, tentatively, but Bilbo was already smiling, looking smugly satisfied.

"I can imagine," he said. Thorin raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

"Is it true? Did Master Bifur...I mean, did he…?"

"If you are asking me if the old coot had a genuine conversation with Mahal, then I think your next stop will be the Healing Halls, my lad," Bilbo told him dryly.

Thorin snorted. "Reports are that the tale has spread like wildfire in dry grass," he admitted, ruefully. "It appears that the general consensus of the people is in favour of the idea that Mahal has indeed blessed you, nephew, and through you, the mountain."

"Shear sophistry, of course," Bilbo admitted, shrugging. "But I honestly don't think you could convince them otherwise, at this point."

Kíli stared back, bemused. "I'll still have to abdicate," he finally pointed out, though it was a weight off his shoulders to know that, at least, he hadn't earned the type of suspicion and resentment that he had feared would have made his and Tilda's new life akin to exile.

"I wouldn't be too hasty in throwing away your crown just yet; there is still a chance." Bilbo was grinning even wider now, and even Thorin looked pleased. "Let the rumours have time to breathe and spread; it seems that the feeling is that if Mahal had intended you to give up your life in service to him, you would have been born a Cantor...but since he waited to bestow his gift, until a time of great need, you are obviously meant to continue to serve the Longbeards as prince."

Kíli huffed out an incredulous laugh, because it all sounded like an extremely strange joke. "The Council isn't likely to buy into that," he pointed out. "And they will still call for my abdication."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, giving Kíli the kind of stare that let him know his uncle thought he was being thick, but was too polite to actually point it out, and for a moment Kíli was tempted to ask if his Uncle had learned that look from Balin. "The Council may like to pretend that they exist outside the will of the people," Thorin rumbled, "But in the end, let us hope they are smart enough to know that they do not; not even the Throne does that. We ignore the popular sentiment at our own peril."

Kíli sat back, too surprised to know how to react, or how much hope to have for such a fragile thread. "And how much of this thought was suggested by Bifur or Nori?" he finally asked.

"Nearly all of it," Thorin admitted easily, shrugging as best he could around the bandages. "But the people want to believe, and the tale keeps growing in the telling."

Kíli sat in silence, not at all sure how to begin sorting through the complicated scrum of thoughts and emotions inside his head.

Something must have shown on his face, because Bilbo reached over, resting his hand lightly on Kíli's. "What is it, lad?"

"Am I just trading one lie for another?" he asked, feeling a little bit ungrateful for expressing any kind of dissatisfaction when he had been handed such a boon.

"Nephew—there is no lie, here, except in details. Mahal made you the way he did for a purpose; and I don't believe that purpose was to make you miserable. You are a good leader to His people, and a good dwarf. Nori and Balin are clever beyond words, and neither would see you leave your duties behind."

Flushing slightly, embarrassed and touched by the unexpected praise, Kíli huffed a little, lips quirking in a tiny smile. "It seems that getting the Council on board remains our greatest challenge, then."

"I trust you, and your allies, will endeavour to succeed," Thorin observed, dryly, and at that, Kíli couldn't help but laugh.

Bilbo refreshed his coffee, a silent encouragement for his nephew to visit longer, no doubt, and Kíli sipped it slowly, trying to figure out how to find out what he wanted, without being mortified in the process, and for several long moments not a word was exchanged as they all seemed content to simply enjoy the company of family.

"You think entirely too loudly, nephew," Thorin murmured finally, a teasing little smile curling his mouth as he looked at Kíli slyly from the corner of his eye.

Kíli probably flushed, if Thorin's increased amusement was anything to go by, but he put down his mug resolutely. He needed to know. For Tilda's sake.

"I need to ask, Uncle," Kíli began, feeling suddenly shy.

Putting down his own mug, Thorin turned to him with affectionate curiosity, and a hint of a smile. "Yes, nephew?"

Kíli paused for a moment, testing his resolve, but no, this still felt like the right course; a solid conviction that they were ready, despite all odds against it. "I would ask you…I wanted to ask about your Bond. With Uncle Bilbo."

He had Thorin's full attention now, and his uncle was regarding him thoughtfully. Both of them, actually.

Kíli squirmed, feeling shy and exposed, but ploughed on doggedly. "How did you make it safe for Bilbo? I mean, he isn't a dwarf...though, obviously the Bond could happen, but..."

Thorin continued to study him for a moment, perhaps testing his resolve, or the strength of his feelings, but Kíli sat still as stone, and let him. There was nothing to test, nothing to break; Tilda was his heart, and never could he doubt his choice. Slowly, Thorin smiled, but his gaze was serious, and Kíli knew his uncle understood his fears.

"Are you saying you wish to begin preparations for a Confinement Ritual?" he asked slowly.

Kíli made sure to keep his gaze steady as he nodded, once. "I can think of nothing I want more, frankly," he said, seriously.

Thorin smirked at him. "Better you than me, Sister-son."

His expression abruptly twisted, and he shot his bondmate a wounded look, and Kíli was absolutely positive Bilbo had just pinched him under the table.

"As I recall, you didn't do so well with your own challenge during your Khufdin," Kíli groused.

"Yes, but at least I was only courting under the combined eye of the whole mountain; The way Nori has spun it, you are being tested by our Father himself."

Kíli promptly choked on his coffee. "Mahal!"

Thorin just smirked some more, the absolute bastard.

"How did you keep Bilbo safe?" Kíli asked again, earnestly. "How did you explain it to him?"

At this, Bilbo let out a snort. "Badly," he said, glancing at Thorin fondly. "If nothing else, Kíli, know this: be honest with Tilda. Even about the things you think don't need explaining."

"I was honest with you," Thorin protested mildly.

"You thought I could feel things through the rock!" Bilbo admonished, and Thorin flushed. Shaking his head, Bilbo became serious once more. "I don't know how it is for the race of Men, Kíli, but I imagine I can commiserate a bit, since we are both outside races. She is not going to understand, at first; you're trying to explain things she has never felt before, and when the Bond actually starts to form, and she actually experiences the feeling of being more than she was before, she is not going to have a frame of reference. You will have to be patient in explaining it to her, and above all, do not make any assumptions."

Kíli flushed at this, and looked down at his cooling coffee. "Well..." he started, but wasn't sure what to say.

"The Bond has already started, hasn't it?" Thorin asked, not sounding surprised at all.

"Uhm...yes?" and Kíli winced at the question in his voice. "I...well, when she was kidnapped, I tried...I spent all my time, and my effort, trying to reach out, to sense her, and find her within the mountain..."

"Which you achieved, with dramatic results," Thorin agreed.

Kíli flushed, remembering that moment of spun glass grating the inside of his mind, when the world suddenly became clearer...when a mithril thread had welded itself to his soul, tethering him to his Umùrâel for the rest of his life, and beyond, if he was lucky. "Yes, well...I seemed to have opened a door that wasn't open before, perhaps..." and Kíli winced. It sounded much worse when he said it out loud, like he had somehow lost control of himself, instead of experiencing a genuine gift.

But neither of his uncles seemed to be inclined to censure, only looking thoughtful. "Is Tilda aware of the Bond's presence?" Thorin asked, slowly.

"Yes," Kíli admitted. "And I have promised to explain it to her later today."

Bilbo smiled. "Then you have already made the first step. Always keep that communication—with words!—open. Tilda will need to hear you say things out loud."

Thorin was looking at his Bondmate with sardonic amusement. "And perhaps make sure to stress to Tilda that she should communicate with you, as well," he advised. "Anything she feels should be discussed; she should not try to work through this alone, no matter how trivial she thinks it is."

Kíli snorted, but tried to look innocent when Bilbo glared huffily at the both of them.

"But how did you make it safe?" he asked again.

Thorin sighed, while Bilbo seemed thoughtful, and Kíli's heart shrank. "Is it that hard?" he asked, softly.

"It depends on what you mean by safe," Thorin admitted. "If you fail, you will never be able to attempt the Bond again; that is what you risk. But as to safe? Tilda's mind will not be harmed by the experience, any more than she would be harmed in the regular course of marital relations."

Kíli digested this for a moment. "You're saying I could hurt her, but only if I were very careless, or reprehensible in my treatment of her?"

"The same goes for her ability to hurt you," Thorin admitted gravely. Beside him, Bilbo startled.

"What do you mean, I could have hurt you?" he demanded.

Thorin shrugged. "You were, and are, inside my mind and my soul, kurdel. Of course you could have hurt me, should you have desired it. Strength of body matters not in this instance; only strength of character."

Bilbo stared at him, aghast. "I would have preferred to know that," he said finally.

"Why? You could hurt me now, if you were to pick up a weapon to do so, but I trust that you wouldn't. This was no different."

Bilbo grumbled, but held his peace, and Kíli tried to think his way through what Thorin had said. "I do not fear Tilda wishing me harm...Not today, at least," he teased finally, and watched Bilbo relax slightly at his own ridiculousness. "But what about failure?" Kíli finally asked the question that had been weighing on him the most selfishly. "How do I prevent that?"

Thorin and Bilbo exchanged a look, one full of memory and meaning, and Kíli fought not to squirm at the heated quality of it.

"I wish I could give you a mine-map, telling you exactly how to get there," Thorin admitted finally. "But I do not know why I was blessed with success, while some fail. All I can say, is until you find a way to make peace with failure; until you know that the attempt is enough, then you should not be attempting it at all."

That...was rather a lot to digest. And not what Kíli had been hoping for, but it had been a longshot anyway. It looked like this was something he was going to have to work out on his own...well, almost on his own.

.o. .o.

"A Khebabel Azyungaz?" Ori nearly hissed, looking around to make sure no one had overheard as Fíli grabbed his brother's arm, drawing Kíli towards a more private corner of the room. "Seriously?"

Thankfully, the Great Library wasn't busy at the moment, other than Balin working on an alarmingly large parchment roll a few tables over. Kíli tried hard to ignore the sneaking suspicion it had something to do with him, deliberately focusing instead on his friend and brother. "If my lady Tilda agrees, then yes," he admitted.

"And how likely is it that Tilda understands what it is you are asking?" Fíli asked, looking apologetic for bringing it up. "It's just that, the misunderstandings between the two of you have been rather spectacular, to date."

Kíli waved it away, not bothered by his brother's honesty. "I am going to explain it to her today, actually—"

"Maybe use small words?" Ori supplied, somewhere between cheeky and earnest.

Kíli shot him a look. Ori shot him one right back, and his was better, dammit.

"The Bond may have already started," he admitted, giving in, and Fíli shot him an exasperated stare.

"Again? What, are you going for some kind of record I don't know about?" Fíli asked, groaning theatrically.

"This time it wasn't my fault!" Kíli protested, trying, and failing, not to blush. "Well, not entirely."

"So you're saying, what? That the Mountain did it? Or Mahal himself?" And his brother was mostly teasing, Kíli knew that, but he still felt his flush deepening.

Ori took pity on him, which is why he was his best friend, and his brother was a little shit. "Have you given any thought as to when? Or where you would consecrate as a Confinement Chamber?"

"When? The minute Tilda gives her consent; right then. As the rest? That's why I'm talking to you two," Kíli told him, and Fíli and Ori grinned, crowding close as they began to plan.

"Ah, wise strategy; commit before she regains her senses," Fíli agreed, laughing and rubbing his arm when Kíli smacked him.

.o. .o.

---

Author's Note:

And time has gotten away from me, yet again.

I have an excuse this time, though! There have been a lot of changes in my life, these last few months - and I am scrambling to keep up *lol*.

I decided to go back to school.

This is huge; I haven't been in school since I left college twenty years ago - and wow, nothing let's you know how much time has passed without your noticing until you start counting , but the pandemic, despite keeping me very busy, has given me time to think, and to re-evaluate. I am still working full time - I was lucky enough to find a program that is completely virtual, and that I can fit around my schedule, but it does mean that my free time is approximately zero, and will remain so for the next eleven months. Ten now, actually - yay for having the first month under my belt! *lol*

I am excited, and terrified, and slowly getting my feet under me, but it's been exhilarating in equal measure.

I will still find time to finish this story - I am going to need this escape now, more than ever, but my already erratic posting schedule may become even more so.

There is so much more I want to say, but I am struggling for words, and you have waited for this chapter long enough.

Thank you all, so much, for all of your support and patience - this story wouldn't be nearly as much fun to write without you!