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?

23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Two

22

Love Lives Not in Shadows…

...That's What Politics Are For

My favourite sister, Tilda,

This appellation is not as redundant as it first appears, as Adrahil has three sisters of his own, who have pointed out, repeatedly, that they are now my sisters as well; and it is lovely, but overwhelming. There were only ever the three of us, and Da was gone most of the time, ensuring we continued to have a roof over our heads. There was no time for simple games, and foolishness; I never got to gossip about clothing with you, or worry about hair styles, beyond what was practical. We didn't worry about face creams or vanishing powders for freckles, or other possets and tinctures of unknown value, nor were we brought up knowing, down to our fingertips, that our worth in society was assured. I don't say we suffered for it, for no one could mean more to me than you, all the more so for all that we have learned together, but it is strange to suddenly be at the centre of all of this flurry of feminine attention, whose experiences thus far in life have, mayhap, been vastly different from my own. Nor do I wish to imply that they are arrogant creatures, or anything less than warm and welcoming!

Only, it is vastly different, and I miss you dreadfully.

They are determined to cosset me, feeling somehow that I have been deprived of this basic pleasure, though I do not understand why they would think so when I had you. But, they have reason to be excited, and my fingers tremble even as I write...but it is the most exciting, and yet frightening news that I have to share.

I am going to be a mother!

Which means, of course, that sometime late next spring, you are going to be an Aunt...

It is a good sign, everyone feels, that I have fallen pregnant so quickly—a good omen, though I honestly didn't expect it. Adrahil is overjoyed, and keeps vowing to never leave my side as I eventually slow down, and begin to rest more—though I have warned him, most firmly, that if he tries to be domineering, or demand that I rest more than I need, I shall put him in his place most soundly and quickly.

I do have some small skill with a sword, after all. Not to mention years of braiding ropes, slinging hooks and hauling nets have left a certain hardness that I notice his sisters do not possess...I wonder if it is I who should pity them?

Wouldn't that make for a fun afternoon as a counterpoint to their cosseting—I shall bring the fine princesses of Dol Amroth out to haul nets of wriggling, slimy fish, and learn to trim sails in the heavy winds?

The image amuses me, though it is, of course, not fair.…

For I do not think it would be long before they were, all of them, strong and fit to challenge their brother even more than they already do...

...

.o. .o.

Denethor, and those of the Men who were fit to travel, left the mountain at first light.

By first evening bell, a red-faced and panting runner found Tilda; The fact that the message had been born as if his bum was on fire didn't bode well, Tilda thought. If her da's mood could be sensed from as far away as the battlements... well, this of course, was not a good sign

It took half an hour more before he and his party had made it to the part of the mountain where the royal family resided, which gave Tilda plenty of time to undo all of her maid's patient work by pacing circles in the Royal Family's private receiving room.

Pausing in the doorway, Bard took a good long look at his youngest child. His tousled dark hair had begun to lose its battle with the grey now, and his lean face had acquired a few more lines than Tilda liked to remember; but his brown eyes were just as sharp. His clothes were dusty from the ride, and the smell of horse and leather clung to him, proving he hadn't even taken a moment to clean up before demanding he be lead to her.

And, in that moment, seeing him for the first time in almost a year, Tilda would have it no other way.

"Da!" Tilda flew across the room as quickly as her bound ankle would allow, all at once needing to feel her father's embrace. Bard, of course, noted her gait, and frowned, but when he tried to let her go, so he could examine her, she merely burrowed into his arms a little more solidly, and he gave up with a sigh that sounded at least half as relieved as Tilda felt.

"I missed you," she murmured against his breast, and for a moment, she was transported back to her childhood, when this man could make all her fears melt away with his solid presence. She could feel his chin resting against her head, safely cocooned from the rest of the world, but her fears stemmed from grown-up troubles now, and she knew her father couldn't solve them.

"Oh my child, what have you gotten yourself into?" he asked, and he sounded sad, as though he too realised the change. "I'd barely landed, before I was hearing such tales as to put ice in my veins."

Pulling away, Tilda was about to answer; had almost opened her mouth to spill out the whole sorry mess, when she stopped. She could only imagine what her da had heard—the truth was bad enough, but the story would have shifted and warped by being filtered through the eyes of the uncomprehending Men who had witnessed it, and then a day being told and retold amongst themselves. Whatever he had heard, it was enough to drive Bard to make the half-day journey to the mountain mere hours after making port. Her heart ached for him, and the clear worry haunting him.

But, the simple truth was, Kíli's secrets were not for the ears of Men; not for the general knowledge of her people, and Tilda knew she had to speak with care. Politically, the King of Dale must be made to understand, without further damage to an already fragile situation.

For her own happiness, she had to make her father accept her choices. Asking what he already knew would only confirm his suspicions that there was information she wished to hide from him, so better to take this head on. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. Her father had never treated her with anything less than the respect of only dealing in truth. She owed him the same.

Or, at least, as much of it as he was able to stand, Fíli had said.

And, hesitantly, she launched into a story; a story of political intrigue from a dwarven nation far to the south; about how, through a dwarf named Iór, that had got tangled up with the story of a trinket Bilbo had found on his journey east.

Her father's expression grew grimmer, and grimmer, the longer she spoke. "This trinket sounds very dangerous," Bard said, frowning. "Lord Denethor had...he had a peculiar expression on his face when he spoke of it–aye, he saw this ring," he confirmed, at the startled look on Tilda's face. "But his eyes...I did not like the way he looked when he thought on it; a chill wind blew over my soul. There is mischief there, mark my words." The memory of Bilbo's restless hands, clutching absently at his pockets came to mind, and Tilda shivered.

Nothing escaped her da's sharp gaze, of course. Reaching out, Bard gently caught her shoulders between his palms, his expression bleak. "And what of your husband?" he asked. "To what kind of fiend have I given over my youngest child?"

Stomach roiling rebelliously, Tilda shook her head so hard her teeth felt like they might rattle. How could her da even think...?

The awful stillness of the cavern came back to her; Kíli's song, and the way the very water seemed to obey his will...Tilda knew it was because he was exerting pressure on the rock beneath, but, from her people's perspective, how much worse it looked, not understanding, seeing only that the dwarven prince had commanded the water, the very thing the Men of Dale depended on, to give up its secrets at his behest.

Yes, their fear must have run deep, and the tale her father had received likely the worse it.

"It's not like that!" she hastened to exclaim.

Bard eyed her, his dark eyes searching hers for a long moment, before he released her. "Then why don't you tell me how it is?" he demanded, but despite his belligerent tone, Tilda could tell, that he was prepared to listen to her.

Kíli, though...Kíli was harder to explain.

"I don't know what Denethor told you," she began hesitantly, but he cut her off with an impatient gesture.

"It does not matter what the young Lord told me; I want to know what you are going to tell me," her da told her. "You will not lie to me, not unless the witchcraft of these dwarves runs deeper than trust and love and honour, and that, I do not believe." His eyes, wise and honest and achingly familiar, shone wetly as he said it, and in his expression Tilda could see how much he feared for her.

She gave a little cry, and threw her arms around him again, and for a long moment, she could only whisper unintelligible words against his fine linen tunic as she clung to him, perhaps for the last time.

"Is it as bad as that?" Bard asked her, running his hand in soft circles between her shoulder blades. "Whatever it is, my darling, we will make it right. You do not have to stay here; not for all the treaties in the world."

Leave Kíli...?

"No!" Tilda exclaimed, letting go as her head shot up at his words. "No, I..I want to stay," she stammered slightly in her haste to reassure him, and she could feel her cheeks burning hot as she said it.

Bard moved her back, so that he could look at her fully. "I see," he said, and his lips twitched with the tiniest hint of amusement. For the first time, some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders, and Tilda felt herself relax infinitesimally, despite her embarrassment. "Then, no more assumptions. Why don't we start at the beginning, and you can call for some tea, and a dram of whisky, and I will hear the whole of it."

And, smiling ruefully, Tilda did just that. She told him a little bit about Kíli; though none of the personal things she was beginning to suspect—that part was for the two of them alone. Instead, she spoke about how he listens to the stone, and how important it was that no one knows of his abilities, despite the fact that now everyone under the mountain likely does. She told him about the school children, and about learning to shoot. She told him about picnics under the stars, and about armlets meant to showcase her soul.

She told him about Alfrid.

When she spoke of the cave in, all the blood left her da's face, and the whisky, which until that point he had merely rolled between his palms, was downed in one long, burning swallow.

But he let her get it out; motioned for her to continue, and poured himself a second.

When she got to the part about the Easterlings, and the ring, and the very real likelihood that Kíli would be forced to abdicate by weeks end, he very carefully put the second glass aside, whisky untouched, and took her hands in his.

"Are you telling me that these people are going to cast out a Princess of Dale? My daughter?" he asked quietly.

"It was my choice, da," Tilda told him, sharply. Softening her tone, she pointed out, "This was what had to be done. What good is monarchy, except to serve the good of the people?"

Bard blew out a slow breath, watching one of his weathered hands clenching and unclenching against his thigh. "When did you become so wise?" he finally asked, smiling at her sadly.

"I learned from you," she admitted, but stuck her tongue out at him, hoping to lift the heavy mood.

It worked, at least a little.

Huffing, Bard shot her a look and shook his head. "I do not envy either of us, right now; or your dwarf, either. I can reassure the people well enough, for now, I think. Remind them that Alfrid is the one to bring these devils to our lands, and that it was their foul sorcery that gave rise to all this trouble. A few well-placed words to the men, and they can likely be convinced that what they saw was no more miraculous than some dwarven automation; some defensive measure attuned to sound or some such. Your dwarves are far too clever by half; already what they do looks like magic to the common man. It will pass for truth easily enough; along with a few judicious reminders of how the mountain's folk helped us in the past. If you were to come occasionally, mingle with your people, and reassure them of how highly you think of Thorin and his nephews, that would go a long way to helping this blow over by spring planting."

"Me?" Tilda asked, startled.

"Of course, you," Bard said, sounding solemn and stern, as he had during her long-ago lessons. "The princess who looked after their children? Who nursed the sick and wounded; kept inventories and distributed medicines, and never, ever put herself, or her station, above the comfort of her people? They would take your word for it if you were to tell them that the mountain was filled with blue cheese, and this prince of yours could turn things to gold with just his littlest finger."

Tilda was blushing again, and for a long moment, the warm feeling in her belly threatened to overwhelm her composure. "Go on with you," she said, waving a hand as if she could wave away her flaming cheeks. "But I will come, just the same."

"See that you do," Bard told her, lips quirking in something suspiciously like a smile. "Now, this council—that might prove to be a difficult hurdle."

Tilda blew out a deep breath, frustrated at her inability to do anything to help Kíli in this trial, and nodded miserably.

"You love him?" her father asked, dark eyes stern and probing.

"I do," Tilda admitted, meeting those familiar brown eyes calmly. For a long moment, her da simply looked at her, breathing with deliberate rhythm as he assessed the conviction of her sentiment. She had never been able to hide anything from that stern gaze, and didn't think she ever would.

Finally, Bard let out a deep, measured breath, and reached to the sideboard, and took up his abandoned whisky. "I'll not have my son-in-law thrown out like yesterdays fish-stock," he declared, with a brief smile at Tilda's delighted look.

"Send for a fast messenger, and get that clever scribe of yours; the one with the knit mittens."

"Ori?" Tilda asked as her hand was automatically reaching for the bell, though she was not certain of the thought of disturbing Ori, who was spending most of his time by his brother's side, since Dori's return to the Mountain morning before last, with the rest of the injured. Though the eldest 'Ri brother was vacant-eyed, and slept a great deal, Óin had some small hope that he was showing some very small signs of improvement.

She only hoped that Ori would not resent her intrusion on his quiet vigil, too much.

Absently, her da nodded, already reaching for parchment and quill on the small desk in the corner, and scribbling a hasty note. "Now here is what we are going to do..."

.o. .o.

When Kíli finally came back to their chambers that eve, Tilda was eyebrows-deep in equations, as she tried to work out the logistics of blocking off the tunnels. It was largely for her own curiosity, as she'd want to verify all of the measurements, instead of relying on old drawings, but it kept her mind occupied, and stopped her fingers from drumming out a nervous tattoo on any available flat surface, so she gave herself over to it gratefully. She had left her father just an hour before, telling him gently that he should perhaps make use of the opportunity to get cleaned up before joining everyone for the evening meal. It had been good to see him, and find out firsthand about how sumptuous and joyous Sigrid's wedding had been, and Tilda had felt again a deep pang at not being able to be there for her sister. Her father had passed on a bundle of letters, with a bemused expression, as if not sure what two young girls could possibly have to say, after so short a time apart, that would fill that much paper, but Tilda's delighted squeal had him laughing and playfully holding his hands over his ears. She'd tucked them away, determined to space them out, and make them last as long as her patience would hold out.

She gave it until no more than the middle of next week, if she were honest.

Kíli dropped a kiss on the crown of her head as she worked at her desk, her fingers flying over the slide-rule he had made her, more than a year ago, now, and she hummed happily in acknowledgement, not wanting to pause her thought until she had it down on paper, but once he was home, the numbers could no longer hold her focus, and the equations dissolved, back into the ether from which she'd been trying to coax them.

"Don't stop on my account," Kíli offered, noticing her pushing the papers away, and standing up to stretch her back.

"It was just a distraction, anyway," Tilda admitted, feeling unaccountably shy now that Kíli was here—and the promise from last night, which had been looming in her awareness all day, suddenly became front and centre in her thoughts. Something must have shown on her face—or perhaps Kíli could actually sense her emotions now, she had no way of knowing for sure, but he was suddenly there, tenderly taking her hands in his much larger ones, and rubbing soothing circles into her skin with his thumbs.

Her hands were shaking, she noted.

"Tell me only that it is not me who makes you tremble so," he said softly, staring at her intensely. "Tell me that I haven't frightened you, now that you've had time to think on things."

Twisting her hand in his loose grip, Tilda gave his palm a good pinch. "Of course it's you that makes me tremble, but it has nothing to do with being afraid," she told him more bluntly than she likely would have if she hadn't been annoyed. She blushed scarlet when her mind caught up to her mouth, but she wasn't about to take it back.

Kíli was blushing, too, but he looked pleased by her admission, and he brought each of her hands up to his lips, nosing her wrist before placing a slow kiss on the sensitive flesh there, and grinning when Tilda's trembling intensified.

"Oh, that's not fair," she accused him, feeling flushed from the pit of her belly to the tips of her hair.

Kíli's smile softened, and he laced his fingers with hers, instead. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "At least for right now."

"You owe me explanations," Tilda grumbled, face flaming, and not liking the feeling that Kíli held all the cards, somehow.

A knock sounded on their door, reverberating loudly in the silence, and Kíli squeezed Tilda's hands before releasing her. "That will likely be a dinner tray—I asked them to send one up for us, instead of...well, I didn't think we'd want to be joining everyone else, tonight. Why don't you get that, and meet me in the sitting room?"

Tilda nodded absently, making her way towards the door while her thoughts galloped ahead.

Kíli was right; there was no way she felt able to sit through a meal, and make intelligent small-talk, with her promised explanation hanging between them. Someone would excuse their absence to her da, she was sure. Briefly, she thought of mentioning the talk they'd had, but dismissed it, for now.

Now was the time for other thoughts.

Gathering the tray as he'd asked, Tilda brought it to their little sitting room, to find that Kíli had pushed most of the furniture back, leaving only a low stool that could be used as a table. The blanket Tilda had brought with her from her home, the one she had made with Mette and Sigrid during her first, and last, long winter in Dale, was spread on the floor, in the space he'd created by the hearth.

The green-blue was a cheery colour against the woven wool rug, and it reminded Tilda of the gem in her armlet—the one meant to give her courage; and she straightened her shoulders, and sat.

The smells coming from the covered dishes were heavenly, and Tilda's stomach rumbled faintly, making her realize how hungry she'd gotten while she'd been working. Silently, Kíli plated for her, and she realised that he'd ordered with her in mind—he must have spoken to Bombur, because she knew that clams from the Long Lake were rarely on the menu, here in the mountain—due, no doubt, to the quantity that would be required to feed everyone. Tilda hadn't realised how much she'd missed it until the first bite was on her tongue, and she may have moaned in appreciation.

They were clams, though. In some kind of crisp sweet wine, with saffron and she wasn't sure what else, but it was positively sinful. It wasn't until the third bite that Tilda could think of anything other than how much she appreciated this taste of home, and then she set her fork aside, and stared at Kíli, hard.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, and she saw that he had hardly touched his meal, had instead been watching her enjoy hers while pushing the shellfish around his plate absently.

Tilting her chin just enough to let him know she was serious, she demanded, "How did you know?"

"How did I know what?" he asked, but it sounded like he was hedging.

"The clams. And the tea—always perfect! How do you know?" She wasn't angry, not really, but her tone was firm. She was tired of them not talking—at least, not about the right things—and tired of the hurt feelings and confusion that always seemed to follow.

Kíli set his plate aside too, and tried not to think about his Master, and his frankly frightening insight to collect a ring nearly a decade before it would be needed, and sighed helplessly. "I honestly don't know, exactly...it's just, I get a feeling, like an instinct I suppose," he gave a halfhearted little smile. "Especially where you are concerned. And if I'm smart, I pay attention,""

"Because..because I'm your wife?" Tilda asked.

"No, because you are my Umùrâel," Kíli corrected, and his gaze was so intense as he said it, Tilda felt as if he were searching her very heart. He reached out as if to touch her, but let his hand drop back to his side before he could reach her.

Tilda knew her brow was furrowed, but she honestly couldn't remember hearing the term before. "I don't know what that means," she finally admitted.

"During our creation, our Father created us dwarves in pairs—"

"I thought there were seven original dwarrow?" Tilda asked, certain she had heard parts of this story in the Nursery Rooms.

"...except for Durin, who was made alone," Kíli finished, giving her a look for her interruption, until Tilda made an apologetic little wince, and waved him on. "I won't bore you with all the details, but I'm sure you can test any of the badgers in the nursery, if you'd like the full story. Suffice it to say, that each dwarf was made with a perfect partner; the other half of their soul, and together they founded the six kingdoms. The seventh, the kingdom of the Sigin-tarâg, of which yours truly is a prince, was founded by Durin, and he had no partner, until many years of wandering brought him to the Eastern mountains, and the home of the Blacklock dwarves, where the yearning in his heart had directed his wanderings, and there he found his fated partner."

"How did he know that?" Tilda asked, caught up in the story, despite herself.

"Well, the records are not entirely in agreement on that, but I think I can tell you how it feels," Kíli admitted, looking up at her almost shyly from beneath his dark lashes.

"Kíli—" Tilda started, but wasn't entirely sure what she was going to say, so it was probably good that he carried on anyway.

"I imagine he felt as though his heart grew twice its size; as if a glowing, red-hot jewel had been placed inside that burned without pain, and shone with the perfect light of a diamond. I imagine the feeling suffused him, so that all he could notice in a crowded room, was her; that no matter what else was going on, he was always aware of her. Always. That here was someone with whom he could care for, and be cared for, by turns, in the perfect balance of a shared load." Kíli looked down at his fingers, which were busy twisting his napkin into unknown knots, before looking up again, brown eyes earnest and soft as he watched her. "Now, Durin was likely smarter than this lowly prince, so he might have known that all at once, but...if he was not, then it may have taken some time for him to be sure, but it was a feeling that would strengthen within him until there was a mythril cord, binding his heart to hers, forever."

Heart fluttering like a caged butterfly in her chest, Tilda tried hard not to give in to the part of her that just wanted to sigh with the romance, and surety, of such a concept—and the suggestion that this is truly how Kíli saw her, and instead sought answers, because as pretty as it was, she still didn't understand. Not enough, anyway. "So does that make me, what, the love of your life?" she asked, hesitantly.

Kíli blew out a frustrated breath. "I honestly don't think I can translate it for you; not fully," he said. "I could love you with my whole heart, and you still wouldn't be my One. Love is...you can love many people; from family, to friends, to lovers. You only ever feel the way you do about your One, once."

"Your One—that's this Umùrâel thing?"

"As close as we can translate the concept, yes." Kíli reached out, seeing something in her expression, or in her heart, that gave him the courage to complete the motion. Cradling her cheek in his palm as he ran his thumb beneath the soft skin of her eye. "To find your soul mate, in all the world to have that meeting...it's rare as rare. Lots of dwarves find love, but even love isn't always enough to be chosen over love of craft. Your One, though, that's the other half of your soul. It's...sacred. Maybe that's why I can love you so fiercely, despite being called as a Cantor."

That feeling was welling up inside her again, the one that felt like a wave of purest emotion, and this time Tilda felt at least a little prepared, and far less apprehensive. Instead, she reached for him, blindly seeking his lips in kisses that ended, only to begin again, and the feeling inside her was only getting stronger, rising and rising until she was gasping, but her lips, when she pulled away, tasted of salt.

"Umùrâel, you're crying," Kíli whispered, pulling back, and staring at her with the deepest brown eyes as he slowly wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks. Tilda just nodded, feeling miserable.

Bemused, and more than a little concerned, Kíli pressed his lips to her forehead, taking in her strength, and trying to give his own in return. "But...why?" he asked.

"Because, how can you be happy with only half?" Tilda sniffled, and she hadn't been aware of the feeling until she said it, but it was there, and the unfairness of it was ripping her heart in two.

"What do you mean?" Kíli asked, bewildered, but continuing to run soothing circles on her skin, and pressing sweet kisses to her hair as she fought to get her breathing under control.

"Because, Daughters of Men don't have Ones, and there is nothing greater I can give you than my love; there is no mystical bond bestowed by Eru that I can offer you; no greater emotion that I know how to feel."

"Shhh," Kíli soothed, when it felt like she would begin crying in earnest, and he cradled her to his chest. "Don't you realise that's all I want?"

"It seems a poor bargain," she managed at last, finally getting her tears under control.

Kíli chuckled, pressing his forehead to hers, as she had noticed he was wont to do when he seemed to need to reassure himself of her peace of mind. If she truly wished to understand her husband, she was going to have to pay more attention. "And yet, I am satisfied," he told her, sounding reverent and completely serious.

The feeling of his skin on hers though, was...strange. The place where his forehead pressed gently against hers seemed warm, as if there were a little arc of heat between them that reached into her thoughts, and made the connection seem more than just skin on skin, and she felt that sensation again, as if a door had opened, and all she had to do was step through it; a sense of space, and of...of someplace, or stranger still, possibly someone, that wasn't the known confines of her own head waiting on the other side.

Be brave, she admonished herself, and tentatively reached out, with thoughts and feelings, towards that place. Her response felt sluggish, like using muscles for the first time, but what she encountered felt so welcoming, and joyous, that she gave a little cry and pulled back at the unexpected intensity of it.

It was every bit of it Kíli, though.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" Kíli asked, and his voice was rougher than a moment before.

"I need you to tell me what is happening," Tilda said, opening her eyes to his concerned gaze. "I need to know why I am feeling this way. Is that...am I somehow touching...you, with more than my body?"

"Brave girl," Kíli praised, and set her back on her heels, so he could see her properly. Taking a deep breath, he looked for a moment like he was searching for words.

"Just spit it out, dear heart," Tilda told him with a wry twist of her lips, but touched that he was trying so hard, for her sake. "I'm sure we can sort it out afterwards."

Flashing her a rueful smile, he took a deep breath, and tried to explain. "There is a...a further relationship that a dwarf may enter into, with his One, if both parties wish to attempt it," Kíli told her. "Even deeper than being partnered, or married; deeper even, than just finding and recognizing your Umùrâel, the other half of your soul." Tilda cocked her head, but resolved not to interrupt him when he seemed to be struggling so hard to say this just right.

"When you were so angry; you thought that we weren't married, because you had heard something about the Khebabel Azyungaz; I can only presume someone was talking about Uncle Thorin and Bilbo—"

"They were," Tilda confirmed, softly. "Are you saying that Thorin and Bilbo are...and that both parties don't have to be dwarves?"

Kíli nodded. "They are the only Bonded pair in the Mountain, right now. As rare as it is for soul mates to find each other, it's rarer still for them to attempt the Bonding ritual. It's difficult, and dwarves are...well, we are made of stone, in many senses, and we do not change easily."

"And what I'm feeling right now, is connected in some way...?"

"And what are you feeling?" Kíli asked, taking a second to wrap a strand of her hair around his finger, letting it slide over his skin before releasing it again, and looking up to catch her eyes. "Tell me, please?"

"Like...like there is more inside me than just me. When I kiss you, it feels like I might drown, like there is a sweet pressure rising up within me that there is not space to contain; and then I feel like there is a door, or a space, deep inside, but it is not me, and it is slowly getting larger; like it is supposed to get larger."

"And does this sense of being more than just yourself frighten you?" Kíli asked.

"I think, once you explain it to me, it won't frighten me at all," Tilda replied, archly, and Kíli laughed again.

"Alright, you have earned your answers; but I will hold you to your assertions of not being frightened!"

Reaching out, Tilda grabbed his hand between both of hers, and squeezed. "What could I possibly be frightened of, if it involves you?" she teased, lightly.

Lips upturning in a tiny smile, Kíli proceeded to explain—in excruciating detail, because his lady had more questions than there were stars in the sky, or diamonds in a mine—everything he could about a soul bond; how it was formed, how it felt, and finally, tentatively, how much he wished to form one with her.

The fire had to be refreshed twice, before he got all the way through his explanation, and it was now close to the midnight bell, and still Tilda watched him with avid eyes, and sweetly flushed cheeks.

"We would truly be...connected?" she was asking, and Kíli knew he would be in awe to the end of his days at her bravery in facing this so directly. "I would be able to sense things as you do; to know what you are feeling?"

"It's not an invasive thing, that we could live inside each other's heads, reading thoughts and intentions—it's more like...an extra perception," Kíli tried to explain something he had only recently begun to grasp himself. "Neither scent nor hearing or taste, though just as subtle; and just as informative, if that makes any sense. But exceptionally strong things; acute things, those are always easiest to carry."

Tilda hummed, acknowledging his words, but had closed her eyes, clearly thinking her way through what he'd told her. Faintly, he could feel her, tentatively reaching for that place inside them where their bond had begun taking root, or would take root, with a little encouragement. The feeling, though muted, carried a sharp, almost painfully pleasurable edge, and Kíli shivered to think of how intense the sensation would become, if they were to allow the bond to open.

"I can almost feel you thinking," Tilda murmured, smiling gently but not opening her eyes. "But it feels...nervous, I think? Why would that be?"

Perhaps the Bond was more developed than he thought.

"Maybe because...I do not know what it is you are thinking," Kíli admitted. "I want you to take whatever time you need, of course, but I would feel more...comfortable, if I knew for sure you weren't panicking."

Blue-grey eyes regarded him solemnly, and instead of being offended by his repeated fears, Tilda merely arched one delicate brow. "Do I feel like I'm panicking? Why don't you check?"

Kíli had spent so long trying to mute his awareness of her, of their connection, that it had practically become second nature, by now. Being invited to bridge that connection was heady and a slow grin spread across his lips.

He closed his eyes, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to be able to focus fully on this feeling, and savour it without intrusion. Her fëa felt just as he had come to associate with her; bright and full of warmth and a touch of mischief, and his soul ached, a stretchy ache as the space inside that was hers grew just a little bit bigger. "No," he murmured, still grinning, "You definitely don't feel panicked."

She poked him, playfully, and he opened his eyes, still smiling softly. "So, where does that leave us?" she asked.

"I think, it leaves you with rather a lot to think about—and me, with the job of being just as supportive as I can manage," Kíli told her, ruefully.

"Think about? You mean, like what day, and how I shall have the Nursery managed while I am...occupied? Though, six months seems unnecessarily long…" But Tilda trailed off; at the look on his face, no doubt.

For a breath, maybe two, it felt like his heart stopped in his chest, and for a moment, it felt like this instant was suspended in crystal; eternal and fragile, both. "That is one thing you could be thinking about, yes," he finally managed, and his heart began beating again, double-time.

Tilda was giving him an exasperated look, and she gave him the second shock of the night when she shifted so that she was straddling his thighs, using one tiny hand on his shoulder for balance as she settled herself.

This position only accentuated her greater height, and Kíli found himself looking up at her wide gaze, and feeling it was entirely appropriate right now, as she obviously was the only one of the two of them with any kind of command of the situation. Leaning down, she took a very deliberate breath, before gently leaning her forehead to his, her honey'd hair tickling his temples where it escaped her pins, and they both sighed as the barely-familiar feeling of...of blending began faintly tickling along their shared senses.

"Don't you know by now that I am utterly and completely yours?" she asked softly, before moving back a bare inch to pepper his mouth with kisses, instead. "There. Is. Nothing. To. Think. About," she told him, lingering on her last word, her kiss-warmed lips hovering so close it was like the feel of a butterfly's wings against his own.

His hands came up slowly, gripping her hips, though whether to pull her closer, or to ground himself, he wasn't entirely sure. He did know his grip was probably a bit too tight for anything remotely casual, but she didn't seem discomforted, so he didn't waste what precious little focus he had on it. "Are you sure?" he asked, hoarsely.

Her answering smile was mischievous and joyful, lighting her face until he could swear she glowed with it. "Utterly," she told him, and he had to surge upwards, to take her lips again, even as he used his grip to pull her into him.

Gently, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, and there was no hesitation when she opened her mouth to him, eagerly following where he led, tangling her tongue with his until she grew bold enough to take the lead, controlling their kiss how she liked, and leaving him groaning as she sought to steal the breath from his lungs. He could feel her desire, innocent and direct, like the flickering glow of a candle flame inside him, and it mingled with his own, a heady and addictive combination that he thought might be the best feeling there was in the world.

Pulling back, Kíli knew he likely looked foolish, grinning hard enough to make his cheeks hurt, but he didn't care a damn at that moment.

His hands were busy, kneading the soft swell of her hips, which gave her free rein to touch him as she wished, and she grinned a wicked little grin as she untangled one hand from his hair, to drift down to his beard. Kíli felt his whole body shudder at her touch, but more than that, he could feel how his soul shuddered at that touch; stretching.

Hastily, he pulled back, easing her back ever so slightly, to put at least an extra inch or two of space between them, and hopefully a moment to gain a little bit of control of himself, but Tilda's eyes tracked him, hurt and uncertain.

Groaning—absolutely knowing that she was thinking the wrong things, regardless of the fact that she was currently sitting on his erection, a cock-stand that was so swollen and hard as to be bordering on painful, offset only slightly by the occasional illicit, and exquisite, friction her wriggling was unwittingly providing. And despite that evidence, she was still doubting herself, and somehow, he was the one doing this to her.

Gently, he placed a finger over her trembling lips. "Tilda—" he whispered, and his voice sounded like he'd been gargling with mine-gravel for a week, it was so husky and strained, but he grit it out anyway, praying she'd forgive him for the desire he couldn't seem to reign in. Tilda's eyes dilated at the sound, or possibly it was the feel of his rough skin on her soft lips, and he slowly let his digit slide along her skin as he let his hands fall back to her hips, watching her reaction intently.

"Tilda, I need you to tell me what you want," he told her hoarsely. "I likely haven't gone about courting you properly, at all, and I'm sure I don't deserve the affection you seem so willing to bestow on me, but—"

It was Tilda's open-mouthed expression that stopped him. "Courting me? But...that was...Kíli, we've been married for almost half a year!" she stuttered, looking as poleaxed as if he'd told her he was secretly an elf, and Kíli winced.

"I'm sorry!" he groaned, tilting his head back, and pinching the bridge of his nose. Her reaction was only confirming his worst fears; he'd been going about it so badly, she hadn't even realised he was courting her. "I did try to learn how Men go about it, but everything I tried seemed wrong, and—"

Her fingers were in his beard again, gently tugging until he was looking at her once more, effectively ending his humiliated babbling. "Are you saying you have been trying to woo me?" she asked.

Kíli nodded miserably. "I spoke with the Men in the market, to learn how it was done, but you didn't seem to respond well to anything that I tried," he admitted.

A faint furrow had appeared between her eyebrows, as Tilda regarded him thoughtfully. Her fingers still gently worked through his beard, while her thumb ran absent little circles against his cheek. "What I don't get," she finally said, letting out a slow breath, "is why you were trying to court me? I mean, we are already married..."

It was Kíli's turn to stare uncomprehending. "Because, marriage amongst your people, especially a political one, didn't seem to...require love," Kíli admitted, finally. "It didn't even seem to have set conditions of what being married meant, and I wanted to...to set myself before you as being worthy of your affection. I didn't want there to be any doubt in your mind how I felt about you."

"You kept pulling away from me," Tilda mused.

"I would never have...have engaged in any kind of...intimacies that you didn't invite!" he assured her, hastily.

Lips quirked in a fond, though exasperated half-smile, Tilda shook her head. "Do you know what happens between a husband and wife on their wedding night, among Men?" she asked, and Kíli shook his head, brow furrowed uncertainly.

"Intimacies," Tilda responded archly. "Usually lots of them, or so I am told."

Kíli groaned, this time letting his head thump against her shaking shoulder. "That seems a trifle backward," he grumbled, and could actually feel her amusement increase.

"As a matter of fact," she continued, after her humor had died down, "if...if the union is not consummated, it can be cause to have the marriage nullified."

Kíli regarded her for a long moment. "Are you saying it's actually according to your people that we aren't even married?" he asked, hoarsely, and he had been trying for humour, but it came out sharp and gruff as his gut twisted painfully as he got startling insight into how the whole debacle had happened in the first place.

"I said can be," she responded, sharply, her hold on his beard tightening, though Kíli would bet his favourite bow that she wasn't aware of the possessive hold, and it set a small thrill through his battered heart.

"That's good," Kíli told her, leaning in to lave a slow, open-mouthed kiss along her neck, just below the juncture of her jaw. Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips, and inside his heart, and he welcomed the duel sensation greedily. "Because I wouldn't let you go."

Tilting her chin back with a high-pitched little whine, Tilda replied breathlessly, "There's a simple solution, you know," and she shifted restlessly in his lap, a sensation he felt certain he would have enjoyed immensely if it weren't for the seam of his breeches currently pressed tight to his cock.

"Not fair," he complained halfheartedly against her skin, not actually willing to remove his lips from her jaw at the moment, and she laughed.

With a sigh, he pulled away, before he no longer remembered why he should. "Be patient, just a little while longer, my Lady," Kíli entreated softly, gazing up at her. "Let me arrange for the ritual; our confinement space, and then we will go at whatever pace you desire."

Nodding shyly, Tilda gazed down at him, biting her lip. Softly running his one finger along her cheek, and trailing down her jaw until he could encourage her to look up the millimetre or two it took until she was looking him in the eye once more, Kíli smiled softly.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

For a moment, he didn't think she would answer, and then she was reaching out in the tight space left between them, hesitantly running her fingertips over his chest. He could see her take a deep breath, before asking, "Can I see it?"

It took a moment for his mind to understand what she was asking, so distracted was he by the feathery feel of her touch. "Of course," he agreed, bemused, and she was scrambling up off his legs so quickly her absence left him feeling chilled.

"I didn't realise you meant now," he complained good-naturedly as she settled on her knees beside him, pushing his shoulder gently until he obediently lay back.

She crouched beside him, watching, seemingly mesmerized, by the play of firelight across his skin where he lay bare to the waist, waiting. Light as a breath of air, her fingers danced over the skin of his chest, this time seeking to trace the line of the large tattoo gracing the left side of his body, and he sighed to feel her fingers on the mark he had designed based only on his hazy, fledgling awareness for his One, and his instincts; but he had poured the best of himself into it, and it had felt pure and right when it was finally drawn into his skin.

"Does this—does this mark mean that we are married?" she asked, treating the mark with almost worshipful reverence as she carefully traced the strong whorls and almost labyrinthine current; so different from the straight lines and angles common in most dwarven design, but utterly right for his lake-born love.

"It means that I chose you," Kíli murmured. "Committed myself to you, and I can only wait, and pray, that you choose me back."

"Oh," she exclaimed, softly, and her voice quavered as Kíli sat up, supporting himself on one hand splayed behind him as he framed her face with his other, staring intently into her teary eyes.

"I love you," he told her seriously, not sure if he could ever tell her those words often enough, given all the doubts she'd had to endure. "Marriage was something I chose, long before we sailed down the River Running to listen to your people's priest confirm it; I will always choose you."

Beaming, and also crying, Tilda cupped her hand around his, holding his large palm to her jawline. "I chose you, too," she admitted. "I choose you now; to Bond with, or anything else it is possible for two people to do. Through all the ages of this world, I would be by your side."

Heart near bursting, and insides stretching like warm taffy, Kíli felt almost overwhelmed in that moment, and he drew her as close as he dared, forehead to forehead with her many-hued blonde hair falling around them like a veil, and he deliberately sought that place inside himself and tried to open it wide, wider than he probably should, but it felt so right, and he trusted Tilda, and himself to see it through.

"I would have you for all the ages of this world, my Lady," he whispered, hands pressed to the small of her back as he closed his eyes and breathed her in until he felt that the scent of waterlilies was burned into his soul, and above him, around him, Tilda gasped at the achy, painlessly agonizing stretch; at the feeling of him inside her, of being inside him in return, and his skin felt almost too tight; oversensitive and yet all he could feel was her gentle touch and he realised she was attempting to reach back, her hands wrapped around his very soul and he wanted to shout, to cry and pay homage to this gorgeous, generous woman who was so, so brave.

Her fingers had found their way to his chest again, lightly stroking the dark lines of his tattoo, and she hated the thought that she might be doing it for reassurance, instead focusing on the belief that it was more possessive than that.

Come to think of it, she wasn't sure that she shouldn't feel embarrassed about that, too. Mette would certainly be horrified, if Tilda were ever bold enough to confess it to her, and she gave a quick shake of her head to rid herself of the silly notion. Who cared what the minds of her people thought of her now?

Something Kíli had said while they had been standing on that bridge, what seemed like months ago, but had actually only been less than a week, tickled her brain, and she found herself asking, "Should I be getting one, too?"

Emotions Tilda couldn't quite catch flitted across his face before Kíli was catching her hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth for a kiss, his lips felt warm and pliant against her skin as he held them there while she fought not to fidget as she wondered what it was he was thinking.

"No," he said, obviously trying to reassuring. "Of course you don't have to."

A feeling of frustration welled up in her breast, and Tilda actually tweaked his nipple, hard, before she had even thought the action through.

"Don't do that," she said sharply, ignoring his startled yelp that may or may not have held a note of pleasure-pain that she would have to think about–later, and possibly with her finger somewhere interesting.

"What is it you would have of me, my Lady?" and for the first time since their fight, Kíli's voice held a layer of frustration as he glared at her.

"Don't treat me like they do; like I'm just a weak human girl," Tilda held a finger up, when Kíli tried to protest. "You were. Talk to me, Kíli, and let me decide. I want to be apart of your traditions, not always outside of them."

Blowing out a breath, Kíli was silent for a long moment as he let go of his own frustration, and actually listened to what she was saying. Tilda could see the exact moment when he realised what she meant, and he winced, looking contrite.

"The methods of marking a union are as varied as dwarves themselves," Kíli admitted, in a conciliatory tone.

"Piercings or tattoos," Tilda affirmed, thinking which sounded more appealing...or less painful.

Sounding even more apologetic, Kíli added, "Well, or braided patterns...usually in our beards."

Tilda made a face at him. "I don't see that being an option any time soon."

Kíli reached out to trace the smooth line of her lip. "Nor would I ever hope it to be. You are beautiful just as you are; as Tilda, not a dwarrowdam."

Tension she hadn't even been aware of in her heart eased at these words, a tiny flutter at his easy acceptance. Noticing her look, Kíli blew out a breath. "You find me attractive, do you not? Or at least, not displeasing? Despite the fact that I am not a Man?" he asked, looking faintly disappointed as he realised that this was something that had been bothering her. "Have faith in me, amrâlimê, to not be so close-minded that I fail to recognize beauty if it is not bound in familiar packages."

It was Tilda's turn to look contrite, and she had to discretely clear her throat against the lump there. "You're right. I'm not used to...I'm not used to being enough. Of anything particularly useful, I mean."

Brown eyes stared at her, dark and unfathomable. "You are very much enough, Tilda." It was a simple statement. A powerful statement, said with such absolute conviction and sincerity that her heart throbbed and her eyes felt damp.

"Tell me about these tattoos," she croaked, making her decision in that instant, because it felt right; it felt brave, and it felt like something the Tilda she felt she was becoming, day by day, would do.

Blowing out a breath, Kíli leaned back on his palms, staring just over her shoulder as he thought. "Bear in mind, for a union such as ours, it would have been more usual to get something more...contained. Likely combining your crest and mine, possibly with some kind of personal flourishes."

"Something smaller, because it was a political union, and not a love match?" Tilda couldn't help but ask.

Laughing, Kíli reached out to brush her bangs out of her eyes. "A reasonable size," he corrected gently, "given that there are many things in a dwarf's life that may be commemorated in ink, and only so much skin one body possesses."

Blushing, Tilda couldn't help but take in again, just how much of Kíli's skin was now marked by 'her' tattoo. "That didn't seem to inhibit you," she murmured, not aware of the appreciative note in her voice.

Kíli swallowed before answering. "This? This is for finding the one who completes you; the other half of your soul. There is nothing that will ever happen in my life that will ever alter me as much as meeting you has."

Tilda blushed, and then blanched, but managed to straighten her shoulders. "Does it always go on the chest, then? And...and, does it have to be all done at once?" She managed, barely, to suppress the wobble that wanted to appear in her voice.

Reaching out to where her palm rested on the floor beside him, Kíli covered her hand with his. "Individualists, remember?" he teased lightly. "You can put it wherever you wish, however you wish. It can be the work of a lifetime, done at any pace you can stand." He squeezed her hand gently, and smiled. "As a matter of fact, most tattoos are considered ever-evolving. Even this one will change, once we attempt to finish our Bond."

Startled, Tilda swallowed slowly, eyeing the thick black design with some trepidation—and interest, Kíli was both amused and gratified to see. "More?" she asked, and her voice sounded breathless.

Manfully resisting all urges to make comparisons about being big enough, Kíli wasn't quite mature enough not to snicker. Tilda must have caught the flavour of his thought, because she flushed hotly, but rallied to look at him from under her lashes with a falsely innocent look. In a moment they were both snickering like badgers, before settling down once more.

Looking down at their hands, Tilda inverted hers, so that she could intertwine their fingers and squeeze him back. "You'll help me design it?" she asked, feeling shy, despite the hot glow in her chest that told her she had no reason to be. Not with this dwarf.

Kíli let his gaze drop and linger on her right wrist, where the hidden sheath he knew Tilda still wore usually lay, and said solemnly, "May I formally suggest that you work an owl into your design, then?"

.o. .o.

Why don't you go sit with him?" Bilbo asked.

Nori stared into the room where his brother sat, quietly humming to himself as he arranged, and rearranged the tableware from his and Bilbo's near-daily afternoon tea. Over and over again, he lined up the dainty items with his huge hands, a pleased smile on his face as he slowly exerted order on his surroundings. Nori couldn't decide if he wanted to cry at the sight, or if he was touched at this sure sign that his brother was still, quintessentially, himself.

Bilbo, for his part, was silent, letting the silence tell him things, if Nori didn't miss his guess.

There weren't never any flies on Mr Baggins.

Ori had been called away an hour ago, leaving his post at Dori's side for almost the first time since their brother had come back, and the room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of clinking as Dori carefully laid out the silver spoons alongside the china. It was a surprisingly restful sound.

He didn't think he was going to speak, until he suddenly did. "Dori was always so uptight," his voice lacking its usual smoothness. He kept his back turned to Bilbo as he spoke to the glass. "He was unbending and uncompromising, like mithril, and...I admired that about him."

Bilbo quirked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He didn't turn around to see it, but nobody could fill a silence without saying a word quite like their hobbit.

Nori smiled, and it was small and likely sardonic, but there was a surprising amount of fondness lurking in his breast, as well. "Didn't say he didn't irritate the right shite out of me," he conceded after a moment. "But…he did right by Ori. Kept the lad out of the kind of trouble I would have brought on him. Managed to find someone actually worthy to teach the lad, even if the bastard demanded triple his price, to be teaching someone so low-born. Dogged, he is; if Dori put his mind to it, it was as good as done. Only thing he ever failed at...was me."

"Couldn't quite reform a Master, could he?" Bilbo asked, and it was gentle and sharp all at once. Nori appreciated that Bilbo didn't say something trite, like how his brother didn't fail, or worse yet, that he didn't mind.

Dori had certainly failed, and he minded, a lot. Of course, sometimes, when Nori was feeling especially wistful, he thought that maybe what Dori felt he failed at, was in making sure that Nori hadn't had to supplement their meager income the way he had.

It was nonsense anyway; Dori had done everything that three dwarrow could have done, and then some. But the world was cruel, especially to parent-less outcasts. Dori had worked ten times as hard to be respectable, just to make up for it; to make the rest treat the 'Ri family with just a modicum of dignity.

Respectability. Nori felt his heart twist in his chest. He had always been as much of a stain on their respectability as their dubious origins had ever been.

"Dori deserves to be free and to have what he's always wanted; to forget all the disgrace I've ever brought to the family," Nori said, finally. "I'm not going to inflict that on him once more; he's showing signs of regaining himself, so he'll be remembering all that, soon enough. Let him have his peace, while he can." He'd gotten no more than ten steps down the hall, before Bilbo's voice caught him.

"That's the funny thing about baggage; we can never seem to put it down. Make the most of this opportunity, Nori; Talk to Dori as the brother you've both lost along the way; if one good thing has come from this, for right now, he's lost his baggage. Won't you put down yours?"

For a long moment, Nori stood there. "It does have a way of getting too heavy, doesn't it?" he murmured, and without turning around, he walked away, quickly swallowed by shadows Bilbo would have sworn weren't there.

.o. .o.

The late night talking with Tilda meant that Kíli was skidding into the informal meeting his Uncles had called just barely on time, and the knowing looks he received for it, along with the new braids Tilda had painstakingly placed in his hair, would have made him flush to the roots of his short beard, if it weren't for the soft swell of awed pride and adoration in his heart.

Still, he didn't think there was a dwarf present who didn't realize that things between himself and Tilda had...straightened out, somewhat.

Kíli was the last one to arrive, and Balin moved to firmly latch the door behind him as he sidled over to the polished silver coffee brazier as nonchalantly as possible, flushing at the knowing looks he was receiving and wondering if it was possible to drown himself in his mug. Thankfully, this meeting consisted of a handpicked group of Erebor's top advisors—at least outwardly, but in reality it was comprised of those who had Thorin's undivided trust and respect; at least those who weren't currently wounded or occupied elsewhere, in the equally important task of repairing the physical damage of the recent invasions.

Which left this small council to deal with the not-so-evident damages. The fact that all of them in this room, to the last dwarf, were a member of the Company, meant both nothing…

...and everything, of course.

It was a reduced number, sadly, with so many of their friends needed elsewhere, since the damage had been so great: Bombur and Bofur were needed in assessing issues of structure, both small and large, while Óin was still inundated with wounded. Glóin only reluctantly attended, after conscripting one of the burly guards who had already left his brother's care, to stand by with his best glower, making sure Óin took time to take care of himself, and also subtly on hand, in case Dori grew belligerent as he rested after his brain injury. Ori had been sending out a flurry of messages and runners from the bench he'd taken over in the Healing Hall, trying to coordinate everyone else while he anxiously watched over Dori. Bifur, too, would remain in the Healing Hall for some time to come, Kíli suspected. If last night's task hadn't have been so serious, Kíli would have insisted his Master head straight back to Óin's care as soon as he caught sight of him, and, as it was, their efforts had sadly taxed what little strength Bifur had been hoarding.

The early morning air was chilly, and someone had lit the fire in the massive stone hearth in their chosen council chamber, which not only helped take the damp out of the air, but had the added benefit of also preventing any intrepid souls from eavesdropping through the chimney vent.

Kíli was privately placing his bet on Nori being the one who lit it.

The eight of them crowded around one end of a large carved table of black walnut in what Kíli was sure would prove a comical sight to anyone who happened upon them, but there was something in the atmosphere, something they all sensed; an uncertainty in the future, perhaps, and the tight-knit group responded by pulling closer together.

Both figuratively and literally, it seemed, Kíli thought with wry humour.

No one looked surprised when Kíli plunked the whole coffee brazier on the table beside him, though Balin did give him a bit of an exasperated look. His eyes were fond, though, so Kíli smiled back apologetically, and then settled on getting more caffeine in his system, knowing that there were difficult decisions ahead. Balin reached across Dwalin, snagging the hot pot and deftly refilling his own empty cup, and raising his brows over the rim, as if daring his brother or Kíli to make an issue of it.

Dwalin's lip twitched, but any laughter was quickly mastered, and everyone's thoughts turned to the serious issues they were facing.

The events in the basement had almost literally changed everything—shaking the very foundations of dwarven belief in ways Kíli wasn't sure anyone realised yet, and the path forward was uncertain, to say the least. Their basement was compromised: Ancient avenues of escape now becoming suspicious portals of ingress. An insidious evil masquerading as innocuous jewelry had been dredged up from their river in a very public manner. And Kíli himself, the Dohyar Prince, the very face and heart of the people, had proven, no matter the innocuous spin provided by Bifur and Nori, to have divided loyalties.

The way forward was murky, indeed.

Despite all this, Kíli knew he must lead with his heart, as he had always done, and trust in the feelings therein, and he grinned at his Uncles when he caught their eyes. Given his general inability to hide his feelings behind even some semblance of stoic-ness, it only took one look for his uncle to realized what had changed.

"You are going ahead with the Bond, then?" Thorin asked, his expression warming with affection and amusement, from the serious frown of a moment before.

Kíli nodded, once, feeling completely sure and grounded in his decision. "Tilda has agreed," he confirmed, and he couldn't help the tiny grin that curled his lips, or the warm awe that suffused his heart every time he thought of the gift of her acceptance.

There were gasps and congratulations coming from all around him, and everyone was getting up, reaching to shake his hand or ruffle his hair, a sea of surprised chatter and the noise of scrapping chairs filling his ears. Next to him, Fíli whooped excitedly, slapping his brother on the shoulder, pulling him down roughly to butt heads in his unbridled joy for Kíli's happiness. From the look Dwalin was giving him, and the discrete way Uncle Bilbo was trying to daub the corner of his eye, Kíli was sure he was grinning like a love-sick fool again. Given the romanticism of dwarves in general, and this lot in particular, Kíli knew he shouldn't be surprised, but his heart still warmed from everyone's happiness for him.

Snuffling loudly, Glóin reached down to use the corner of his tunic to wipe his streaming eyes, and several of the company hid smiles behind their hands at the sight of the soft-hearted berserker glaring at them defiantly, through damp eyes, across the scarred wooden tabletop.

Nori's expression had grown lighter at Kíli's revelation; still his habitual sardonic expression, but there was an obvious satisfaction there, and once the excitement had died down somewhat, he observed, "That will work to out advantage beautifully, actua—ow!" he turned to glare at the dwarf who had casually reached behind him to smack the back of his head with one meaty palm.

"Kíli and princess Tilda's Bond is a precious gift," Glóin admonished, glaring. "And not fodder for your shenanigans."

"Who's shenaniganing?" Nori grumbled, rubbing his scalp gingerly. "Besides, no reason it can't be both. You can be all romantic about it if you like, but the lad has to live in the real world—and in the real world, the people will develop their own ideas, will-we or wont-we. I'd rather give them some food for those thoughts, is all; we want His Highness here to remain the Dohyar Prince, do we not?"

Glóin pursed his lips, but refused to be drawn in any further. Kíli didn't blame him; Nori had a point, of course, but it had been kind and loyal of the gruff warrior to try and pretend like Kíli was just any other dwarrow; one who wasn't subject to forces beyond his control. Balin, however, was nodding along.

Once he was satisfied that he wouldn't be getting more arguments, Nori turned back to the others, "As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted," and he turned here, to glare at Glóin who was studiously not looking back, "When it is announced that the prince and Tilda are preparing to enter a khufdîn, it will be taken by the populace as further proof that not only is Tilda beloved by the people of the mountain, but by Mahal as well, and that Kíli was granted canting abilities in our hour of need, to save Tilda as well as our mountain from above-world interlopers. The Bond will be seen as 'Mahal's blessing upon the instrument of his will'."

"That sounds ridiculous, when you say it," Bilbo said, making a face.

"That's the thing—you don't say it," Nori told him pointedly, getting up to pace when he could no longer sit still while he thought. "You plant careful rumors, and let the whispers do the rest of the work. It happens all the time, when people are convinced they know something—this time, we will just be guiding the process, slightly. The only thing that could make it more perfect, is if we could shorten the actual confinement—or, better yet, do away with it all together. Too bad that there's likely enough under the mountain with the sensitivity to sense the state of such a bond, or we could just lie about it, and let the lad take his time."

Fíli frowned, likely at Nori's mention of lying. "Why would not needing a confinement be preferable?" he asked, choosing to focus on details, instead of arguing Nori's ethics.

Nori halted his pacing, and gave Fíli a patient look. "Because, if there was no need to spend all that extra time to actually grow the Bond, it would really look like Divine Intervention, and Mahal's Will, now wouldn't it?"

"Actually," Kíli interjected, and grimaced, heart sinking in his chest, and not sure he wanted to play into this, but Nori was right—as prince, nothing he did existed in a vacuum. "Our Bond is...fairly existent, already."

Six sets of eyes swiveled in his direction, and stared. Hard.

Kíli blushed, but stared back, with his chin up. After a moment, Dwalin shook his head, "Mighta known you'd find a way to rush," he rumbled, amused.

"I didn't do anything!" he protested weakly, because he supposed, if looked at from a certain point of view, his straining with everything he had to reach Tilda during her capture was what provided the catalyst...but if looked at too long, began to look like Nori's story of it being the will of the Mountain, or Mahal, or whatever, so Kíli just shut that thought down right there.

Nori grinned.

Bilbo and Thorin looked amused, and unsurprised of course, and Fíli looked like he was saving up a whole year full of teasing. Balin watched them all with a tolerant air, no doubt already drawing up the necessary contracts in his mind; there always seemed to be contracts, for everything. Glóin's expression had slid to more misty reminiscence, and Kíli just knew Tilda was being compared to his own dear wife.

"Announce it," Kíli decided. I hope you'll forgive me, Tilda.

Raising a hand ahead of the clamour, Thorin regarded his youngest nephew seriously. "You are sure, sister's-son? While I admit, the thought of losing you to a confinement of months is difficult, it is your right, and indeed, your greatest joy, to take this time to grow together with the one of your Heart. Stone does not weather swiftly, and you may find your future life together benefits from the time alone." Beside him, Bilbo was giving him a decidedly dry look, despite his fond smile.

"Stone may not, but I have learned that Daughters of Men are infinitely more adaptable," Kíli couldn't help the soft, private smile, before sobering. "Besides, the ring is still an issue that needs to be dealt with sooner, rather than later, and not a worry I would care to bring into a khufdîn with me."

Bilbo shuddered at the very idea, face pale. "Definitely not," he agreed. "No, we will do this Nori's way—and come spring, perhaps, we can arrange for the two of you to take a small holiday."

Kíli nodded sharply, once, thoughts drifting to a snug little cottage a half-day's ride down the river. He could help Tilda plant her window boxes, and spend time making a few improvements to their little home; adding things of his own hand for their comfort, and Tilda's joy.

It sounded perfect, frankly.

It took some time to hammer out the details, but by the time the waterclock had struck the hour, they had a plan in place, and Kíli knew that in less than two days time, there would be a grand feast, for the mountain to celebrate the royal couple's successful soul-bond.

Now Kíli just had to make sure they actually were successful.

No pressure.

Nori had pulled out one of his numerous dirks, spinning it jauntily between his fingers, as he somehow exuded satisfaction, without even bothering to grin. "It will certainly give the Council pause," he said, flicking the dirk from one hand into the other as he spoke. "One thing to demand a renegade prince's abdication; quite another to demand the chosen of Mahal stand aside. I hate to break it to you, but somehow, I don't think you'll be getting to step down anytime soon, Highness."

Kíli made a face at this casual teasing, but inside, the tight band in his chest began to loosen.

A little.

If Nori hadn't looked quite so much like he was trying to project confidence, Kíli might have been more reassured.

Of course, conversation eventually had to turn to the rest of their conundrum.

"Do you...do you still have the ring?" Bilbo asked, hesitantly, and there was such a wretched look on his face, longing and loathing combined, that Kíli's heart ached to see it. His fist was clenched tightly in the fabric of this trousers, and Kíli was reminded of what Tilda had described to him, and felt she was right to have been concerned. Slowly, Thorin took one of Bilbo's hands between his own, holding on to him as if he were spun glass, instead of sterner and stronger than any of them. Kíli knew he was witnessing something private, and he swallowed against the sudden catch in his throat.

"No," Kíli assured him, assured everybody, though Nori and Dwalin both frowned.

"I'm not sure I like the thing lying around, where anyone with clever fingers could help themselves," Dwalin rumbled. Crossing his arms and planting his feet, he leaned his chair back slightly as he stared at Kíli from beneath his bushy brows.

"What have I told you, lad—" Nori started, looking as frustrated as he'd ever been with Kíli.

"Peace," he interrupted, before Nori could tell him exactly what he thought of his boneheaded prince. "It's safe; no one is going to walk off with it."

"How can you be sure it's safe, if you aren't watching it? We thought it was safe at the bottom of a damned mountain, and look what happened!" Dwalin growled, bewildered.

"It's in our Father's keeping," Kíli said, smiling slightly.

Everyone stared at him.

"The Mithraeum?" Fíli finally asked. "Why would you put something so evil, somewhere so important?"

"It was actually Tilda's idea," Kíli told him, feeling smug. This only increased everyone's confusion, of course, so he hastened to explain. "Imprisoned though it might have been, it was still awake, in its own way," and Uncle Thorin frowned to hear him hint at the ring's sentience so plainly, but held his peace.

"It still...sang, for lack of a better word; not always, but when it had sufficient strength, maybe," he said slowly. "Enough to wake you, Uncle Bilbo; even me, sometimes. I guess because we had actually touched it."

Bilbo nodded. "Yes," he admitted softly, seeming to come back to the conversation, and Kíli felt glad to note that his fist was relaxing slightly. And he shook his head as though throwing something off, and said again more loudly, "Yes, I heard it." Sitting straight and looking clear-eyed at last, Bilbo gave Thorin a determined look, and gently extracted his hand from the cage his husband had made of his own. Settling his waistcoat, he reached over to pat Thorin on the thigh reassuringly. "I won't let it continue to control me," he murmured softly, and Thorin smiled in return; a tiny, private smile full of belief and love.

"It has never succeeded in controlling you, âzyungel, only proven again how strong you are," Thorin rumbled back, stroking his fingers gently over the back of Bilbo's hand.

Bilbo looked like he very much wanted to say something in retort, but bit his tongue. "Yes well, we'll save the consensus on my own foolishness for another time," he said instead, waving at all of them as if he could banish the grins of his beaming friends. "Confusticating and bebothering dwarves," he grumbled, but it was affectionate. "Carry on, Kíli, since you, and Tilda of course, seem to be the only ones of us clever enough to riddle with this vile trinket. What else have you figured out?"

"And how did this Master of the Southrons, or whoever he is, even know to look for it here?" Balin threw in, bringing the conversation back to something that had clearly been bothering him. "I mean, Iór could have been describing any ring that he saw—but this was someone looking for something specific. You don't go poking around in other peoples' basements for just any random magic ring."

Nori started to pace again, brow furrowed as his boots moved soundlessly over the stone floor. "I suppose there are not many rings that can turn the wearer invisible," he posited, but he didn't sound thoroughly convinced, either.

Kíli tried not to fidget as he continued to try to get his thoughts into words. "I'm guessing, then, that this Master of Alfrid's must have also touched it; or has some other, even deeper connection to it...and he can hear it, too. It called to him, and he sent an army to answer it."

"Then he knows that it is still here, and will simply send another force," Dwalin surmised, gravely. "We'll need to contact Dain," he said, and Thorin was nodding along, clearly already drafting a blunt missive to their cousin. "And see if we can't get some extra warriors from the other settlements, too—"

"There is another way," Kíli said, quietly, and a sharp look from Bilbo had Dwalin clamming up to listen. "I've given this a lot of thought. We need to make sure he can't hear it anymore. And we need to convince him that it has left the mountain."

Nori raised one ginger eyebrow, but underneath the sardonic expression, Kíli could see he approved of his line of thinking. "You have a plan?" he asked.

Kíli forbear to mention that it was partly Master Bifur's plan, too. He wasn't sure if it would make the whole thing sound better—or worse.

And he knew his thoughts weren't entirely fair, but he'd lived so long afraid of what he was, of other people finding out, that he knew it would be a long time before he stopped cringing at anything that might mark him for being what he was. It had been easier simply to think of Master Bifur as slightly mad—like the rest of the mountain, even though he knew, better than anyone, that Bifur's oddness was simply a manifestation of moving through the world differently than others.

"When Tilda was captured, I couldn't find her in the Mountain, because—"

Snapping his fingers, Fíli interjected excitedly, "Because, she was near All-Forge!" he exclaimed.

Kíli appreciated his brother's support and enthusiasm, enough to not want to bother correcting the specifics. "Eh, close enough," he said instead. "The point is, there is too much noise in the Mithraeum for me to hear the sound of individual voices in the Mountain's song, and I bet the ring's voice would be similarly lost in the welter."

"So you what, hid it in an urn or something?" Dwalin asked, looking bemused and vaguely discomfited. Mysticism always make him uncomfortable; he was a dwarf who liked to rely on what he could see and feel, not ideas he felt were bigger than himself.

"Not quite," Kíli evaded. "Let's just say that it is as safe as I think anyone can make it."

"Where are the damned wizards when you actually need one!" Thorin snarled. "They seem happy enough to turn up and meddle when you don't want one."

There were several suppressed snickers at this outburst, but a lot of nodding and commiserating looks, too. Visibly straightening, as though gathering his resolve, Fíli proved that he could command a room without even speaking. "Then we deal with it ourselves," he stated, being sure to catch the eye of everyone in the room. It felt like a call to arms, and Kíli could feel them all responding to Fíli's unconscious charisma; his natural ability to lead born of nothing so special as true sincerity and loyalty, and Kíli felt his heart swell with gratitude and melancholy that Fíli was both his brother, and his partner, the Melhekhur-Bakhuz. He was a dwarf who was easy to follow; who could command legions, simply because he was worthy of it.

"The ring cannot stay in our Hall," Thorin said, as he glanced at his Consort with sad eyes. Bilbo, for his part, rolled his eyes at Thorin's concern, and pinched his hand with gentle affection, and Thorin looked reassured.

Kíli sighed. "No; but I think it must remain where it is a while longer—at least until we can determine how to destroy it."

"Then we are back to needing a wizard," Balin grumbled sourly.

"In the meantime, the ring suddenly goes silent; I get that—but how does that convince anyone that its been moved somewhere else?" Dwalin asked.

"Ah, Master Bifur and I have a sort of plan for that," Kíli hedged, not sure how the practical guardsman was going to respond to the idea of magical doppelgangers.

Sensing his hesitation, Dwalin gave him a stern glare, crossing his arms over his chest. "Out with it," he demanded.

"We used a ring from Grandfather's Treasure—something Master Bifur had chosen as part of his fourteenth share."

"Master Bifur is supposed to be in the Healing Halls, recovering," Thorin observed, sounding resigned.

"He is!" Kíli hastened to reassure him. "Now, at least." His uncle's stare was no less unimpressed, so he decided carrying on was the better part of valor. "We...changed it, I suppose. So that it sings, too. If you can hear that sort of thing, I mean…" Kíli trailed off, wincing, realising the whole thing sounded mad.

But his friends weren't looking at him like he was mad, at all. Even Dwalin was looking at him, consideringly.

"You made it sound like the real ring, didn't you?" Glólin asked shrewdly. "Clever."

"Yes?" Kíli admitted, wincing when it came out more like a question, than the answer of a prince, confident in his plan. Bilbo, he noticed, was staring off into the distance, a faint frown curling his lips as he thought.

"...and with everyone coming for a grand feast in two days' time, we can send the fake out with one of the guests," Nori added, sounding extremely satisfied.

"Nori! You can't just send this fake ring out with someone; it will make them a target for these miscreants," Bilbo glared, frowning.

"Uncle," Kíli interrupted, before Nori could get himself into more hot water. "Invite the elves."

Trying to wipe the grin off his face, Thorin shook his head. "I, ah, I do not think sending it home with King Thranduil solves the problem," he said, with a poorly hidden regret.

"No, but if they use their pretty little boats to come, make a bit of an ostentatious show out of it, they could sail them home, yes? Make it look like we are trying to slip the ring out in a flotilla, and then one of them peels off, down towards the Rhûn Sea, and drops the damned thing overboard." Kíli shrugged. "It's the best I can come up with, in the time we have," he admitted.

Bilbo was tapping his foot against the leg of his chair as he thought, while Thorin was staring over their heads, not really seeing any of them as he pondered. "How would we convince Thranduil to assist in such a scheme?" And Kíli counted his lucky stars that his uncle hadn't dismissed he idea of enlisting the Elven King outright.

Because the how was really going to upset him.

.o. .o.

The summons came that very afternoon.

Kíli hadn't even had time to make it to the kitchens, after the meeting with the company, before a runner was presenting him with a scroll, sealed with stamped brass, displaying a symbol of the Mountain and a hammer; which was, of course, the Council's mark.

The seal almost seemed to be gloating, somehow, and certainly hadn't been set long.

Thinking longingly of fried eggs and bacon, and grumbling the whole way, Kíli legged it for his chambers, knowing he would have barely enough time to get cleaned up before he was expected to present himself.

Tilda was straightening items on her desk when he burst in, and she nearly dropped the pen case she was holding at his sudden appearance, which made him think she had been leagues away—probably thinking about whatever equation she was currently working on.

Swearing viciously as he yanked on the brocade tunic that he would wear under his formal robes, he realised that he'd have to wait until after the council was done with him to share what had been decided—and how it was about to affected all the plans they had discussed just last night.

Tilda had been evasive and nervous once she found out the hammer had dropped sooner than expected and the Council had summoned him. When Kíli asked her what was wrong, taking her shaking hands between his, and squeezing them softly in encouragement, she would only say that she might have an idea, if things got really bad for him, but she was waiting for a messenger from Dale. And with that, Kíli had to be content, because he had no time to coax her thoughts from her; instead deciding, with a certain amount of whimsy, that if her plan was to move them to Dale, he might find it was a pleasant life, tucked away with Tilda in her cottage by the river.

It proved to be the last pleasant thought he would have for several hours.

The council chamber was dimly lit, the reflective mirrors turned on their tracks to provide slightly less light from the outside world than was usual. Kíli thought the odds were better than even that it was some kind of belated protest to his own and Fíli's stunt, a few years ago, when they had burned away the ambitions of the council in a room ablaze with light.

Kíli wasn't sure if he felt more proud, that their tactic had been so effective as to still make the Council raw about it more than half a decade later, or worried, that the dwarves here were sending him a not-so-subtle message.

This time, he was under their thumb.

Across the room, Fíli shot him a sympathetic look, no doubt having made the connection to their former coup, too. The fact that both of them, while looking a touch guilty, looked mostly proud, probably wasn't improving the overall mood of the council.

Taking his place at the head of the large malachite table was the Royal contingent. Thorin sat at the very head, with Bilbo on his left, and beside him was Fíli. All three of them were composed as they sat, and solemn. Dwalin, traditional advisor to the King, took his place, at Thorin's other side, but the seat beside him remained empty. It would have been the rightful place for the advisor to the Dohyar king—and had Uncle Frerin lived, Dwalin would have served at his side, instead, and Thorin's own advisor would have sat there. As it was, the seat would remain empty for years yet, until Fíli and Kíli took their place as Kings, and Nori stepped up to this table. Dwalin would likely remain on, in service of Fíli, at least until he had chosen and trained an apprentice. Kíli had a sneaking suspicion Dwalin already had his sharp grey eyes on a self-effacing young dwarrow for that role.

Good thing Regi didn't seem to have a clue, yet; after all, he was far too valuable to the Crown to let him run away now that he'd proven himself so competent.

Glóin and Balin filled out the Royal contingent as the Head of the Treasury, and of the Crown's government; respectively, and sat at Fíli's side. Balin's practiced demeanor gave nothing away as he gazed about the room coolly, while Glóin kept his habitual glower, looking prickly and annoyed.

Beyond those already in this room, no one else would be permitted in on this trial, either to observe, or participate.

Fíli, Kíli noted, couldn't seem to keep the shroud of solemnity he was struggling to hold, belying the tension vibrating through his limbs. He perched lightly in his chair, his composure rippling faintly like ice in the first warmth of spring. His older brother looked ready to jump up at any moment; though whether he intended to leap up in indignation or to pace, wasn't clear. Kíli wasn't sure Fíli knew, either, but his obvious fear for the outcome of this proceeding left a warmth expanding in Kíli's chest, even as his heart ached for Fíli, and the future.

The seat at the foot of the enormous table remained depressingly empty. Flanking the Royal contingent down either side of the table, sat the whole Formal Council; representatives of the seven major guilds beneath the mountain, holding under their combined purview a finger on almost every aspect of Dwarven life under the Mountain. Most of these powerful dwarves were approaching their second century; one or two of them were considerably past it, and within their individual hands lay massive amounts of political sway; influence that the Crown could never, even under ordinary circumstances, afford to dismiss entirely.

These, of course, were not even close to ordinary circumstances, and the whole of the Council made sure to remind the Throne of that. Every one of them dressed in their heavy formal robes, gleaming with embroidery and embellishments of incalculable worth. Seven heads sported hours of effort, with hair and beards woven into intricate designs, gleaming with precious metals and gems and adorned with signs of craft and station…

...and not a hint of warmth in a single one of their expressions.

So be it.

Accepting that he would find no allies here, Kíli shifted, subconsciously planting his feet more solidly against the stone, subtly straightening his shoulders and meeting their stares head-on.

Bylgja stared back at him. And slowly winked.

Well, almost no allies.

Master Svín, on the other hand, frowned, and Kíli only barely restrained himself from making a face at him.

The rest of the tabled Lords and Masters waited. Silent.

Kíli tightened his grip infinitesimally where it rested on the pommel of his ceremonial shortsword, but held his peace. These lords had nothing on his mum, after all. If he was to be forced from the throne, an almost un-heard of procedure in the long millennia of their history, let the hammer-fall, and its repercussions, be entirely theirs.

He stared at them.

They stared back. Which was entirely unfair, since there were seven of them, which made for far too many eyes to meet comfortably.

Surprisingly, it was Bilbo who broke first.

"Yes well, I think we can dispense with the preliminaries—" his uncle began, one foot tapping sternly, and his expression leaving no doubt he was ready to take charge of what, to him, had always seemed a group of cranky fauntlings—only to be halted by Thorin's warning hand on his arm as he leaned in to speak quietly into Bilbo's pointed ear.

Kíli knew Bilbo's heart was true, but this was the ultimate purpose of the Council, after all. The one and only time they did not bow, even in the slightest, to the throne; the one time the throne had no authority to intervene.

A counter-weight set on the fulcrum of Royal power.

There was always two, after all.

Balance.

The very heart of Dwarven life.

The councilors eyed Bilbo's growing annoyance, and faintly-discernible embarrassment at his break in composure, and were satisfied.

A mid-aged dwarrow, his thick brown hair still mostly winning the battle with the silver, leaned forward to lay the palms of his hands flat against the stone table; a deliberate movement, signaling the council's staging was done. All eyes turned to him as he prepared to speak, his icy eyes slowly surveying the room, as if taking in warriors, poised on a battlefield.

"Kíli, son of Dís," the hardened head of their Military Guild, Óilíg, finally spoke. His voice was mild, despite the rebuke he managed to convey in four such simple words as the formal Royal address.

"Do you know why you have been called to speak before this Council?"

Using silence to his advantage, Kíli took a second to breathe, and centred himself. This was it. For the briefest of seconds, he felt a faint, fleeting pressure on his hand, as if Tilda were there with him, and he felt inexplicably settled. Whatever happened here today, his friends and family had done their best to lay a path for him; he didn't have to simply cave to the wishes of dwarves who's main skill was always keeping an eye to their own best interests.

He wouldn't.

"I am here," he said, being sure to keep his oration slow and deliberate, "to assuage the concerns of the Council."

Nori's voice whispered in his head, years worth of lessons imprinted on his every thought.

Good. Succinct, without offering too much information. Make them come to you.

It seemed to be effective, because Poli, a dwarrow of prodigious wealth who now served as the Head of the vast Merchant's Guild, and all of the satellite guilds within it, following Glólin's death, spluttered at this decided response. "Assuage—! Do you not understand the gravity of your transgression?"

Kíli didn't allow himself to get annoyed at the stocky Master's calculated outrage. "Transgression? I have committed no transgression—" he tilted his head, slightly, as if to see the shrewd lord better. "Unless, I suppose, you count being a willing servant of Mahal's will in ridding our Kingdom of invaders."

More whispering broke out, as Council members hissed back and forth to each other, an indistinct babble to Kíli's ears, and several of those present glared at him, obviously wanting to take exception to that. One pair of eyes, in particular, bore down on him. Amber eyes, deceptively watery with age that belied a sharp intellect, stared at him as Stengrim, the ancient head of the Healer's Guild, raised his hand to speak.

Kíli found himself holding his breath; though a conservative traditionalist, Stengrim had accumulated much wisdom during his nearly four centuries, and he knew how to wield it as effectively as he would use a scalpel, or his favoured mace. His opinion would carry much weight.

"We have heard the rumors," he stated dryly, looking sour at the mention of this popular sentiment—and the very real problem it would pose for the Council, if they chose to go ahead with their plans. "The question, young Prince," he continued, "Is not whether Mahal favoured you, for I think that is...obvious. The real question of import here," and he leaned forward, allowing his bushy brows to drop over his piercing eyes only enough to focus that sharp gaze, not provide Kíli any relief from it, "Is when it was that you knew you were one of Mahal's consecrated servants? And why didn't you come forward to serve your people?" He sat back slowly, settling once more into a watchful pose, fingers steepled before him as he regarded the young prince before them.

"Let us dispense with the pretense—forgive me, the apparent miraculousness of your newfound abilities. There has been very little evidence to date that Mahal finds your family particularly worthy of his favour; as a matter of fact, I would say, the balance of evidence proves precisely the opposite." Stengrim held up his hand against the protest that arose from the head of the table, and raised his voice as he began to list. "Thrór, who was lost to gold madness so great, Mahal eventually set a dragon upon his kingdom; Thráin, captured and tortured until his mind was lost, beneath the dark eves of Dol Guldur; Frerin, cut down in the battle of Azanulbizar before he had reached a half-century...And finally, Thorin, King of Carven Stone, left to wander in squalid poverty for decades, who managed, it must be acknowledged, to provide an oft-leaking, and meager, roof over his people's heads, when we eventually staggered into the Blue Mountain encampment."

"You were more than happy of it when we got there," Dwalin rumbled threateningly.

"If you mean it was better than starving in the dirt, then yes," Poli agreed, distastefully. "Its charms, what little of them there were, certainly did not improve with time—or with Thorin Oakenshield's vaulted leadership, and remained a very poor substitute for the home lost to us."

"You had a roof over your head—"

"You forget," Fíli interjected, fist curled tightly on the table top as his eyes sparked in anger, though his tone was controlled. "King Thorin regained Erebor. It is due to his efforts and bravery that you have a place to rest your rather pompous ass." Beside him, Balin winced, and Kíli was fairly sure his brother was about to be assigned some rather tedious lessons on deportment, when this mess was over.

At the head seat, Thorin kept his expression stoic, not even a twitch of his brow, despite the simmering rage Kíli could feel, but of everyone in the room, Thorin, as King, had the least leeway to speak. He could only witness. The Council held all the power, and this was a trial for Kíli alone.

Svín smiled, an expression with absolutely no warmth. "Was it? I seem to recall it was due to the efforts of King Bard, and the Consort, that Smaug fell. Rulers who took action, while our own esteemed King was lost to...and now, help me remember, Highness," and here Svín brought a finger to his chin, as if in thought, but doing nothing to hide the predatory satisfaction of the moment. "Ah yes, it was gold madness, was it not? The line of Durin does seem to have accrued Mahal's attention, but I don't think it is the kind that is particularly...miraculous."

Ásbergur frowned, his dark brows furrowing so deeply, his large eyes were almost lost to view as he thought. For once, even his marking stick slowed over his notes. A few others shifted, uncomfortably, uneasy and yet moved by the Master Craftman's oily words.

Depressingly, a few were clearly satisfied by the mood, despite their nearly flawless expressions of neutrality.

"And now, we see the pattern of making decisions based on self-interest has started again, haven't we?" Svín concluded.

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Kíli retorted quietly, glaring at the self-satisfied prick seemingly bent on dishonouring his entire family. It was more than that, though; the council, or at least parts of it, seemed to be testing the limits of their comrades' appetites for chicanery, and gaining further control over the Throne.

"You should be ashamed of your selfishness, your Highness." Stengrim's unrelenting gaze never wavered as he murmured, in a soft voice that nevertheless was calculated to be heard in the near-silent room.

Despite himself, Kíli's gut twisted uncomfortably, but the wound inflicted was perhaps not so great as was intended, for Kíli had long since made his peace with his road. Unfortunately, the Council did make a point, though what they conveniently attributed to the vagaries of their Father's will, he knew to be the very real dangers of imbalance. He had seen, intimately, what had happened to a kingdom that had suffered under a single King, first when his grandfather's obsession had lead to the poor settlement squatting in the Blue Mountains...and then when it had eventually driven his Uncle himself to succumb to dragon sickness.

That was not a turmoil his people could afford for a third time. Fíli would not rule alone.

"You assume much of me, my Lord," Kíli rebuked, "and of our Father."

"And you assume that we are idiots," Óilíg retorted, banging his fist sharply on the arm of his chair for emphasis.

"That's because some of you are idiots," Bylgja snapped back, the platinum-haired dam glaring at Svín with undisguised disgust.

The table burst into angry muttering once more, many of the Council members sending nasty, triumphant little glares towards him, and Kíli didn't have to guess that at the end of the day, politically, most of these dwarves would prefer to deal with Fíli alone. One King was far less protected from their machinations, after all; the balance lost, and the wheels of the kingdom more easily steered where they would. Kíli grimaced angrily, but continued to hold his peace, with great difficulty, lest he say something to make it worse.

Svín, for his part, was too busy watching Kíli to take note of Bylgja's jab, waving it away impatiently without taking his eyes off of the unexpectedly calm prince standing before them.

"Abdication," he said, the word delivered at exactly the right pace to avoid sounding too practiced, lest he remind the uncertain that they were all political creatures who regularly indulged in theater. "Is the obvious course of action."

Around the table, Stengrim and Óilíg seemed relaxed. Poli was leaning forward, eyes darting around the room, considering, while Hjórtur was clearly calculating the costs of such a move, his attention focused inwards as he tallied.

Ásbergur made hurried notations on his pad, lips moving soundlessly, his frown deepening as he pondered.

Bylgja looked mutinous.

"There is no proof that the prince Kíli had any inclination of these abilities prior to—" Dwalin protested hotly.

Beside him, Hjórtur, head of all of Erebor's many money-lenders and changers, over-seer of the vast Banking Guild, finally spoke. "I think," he began, obviously choosing his words with some care, "Once the balance of evidence is weighed, we must conclude that the Line of Durin is afflicted by serious moral flaws. Lapses in judgment that continue to cost the Kingdom."

"Some believe what happened was a blessing of Mahal," Kíli pointed out, keeping his tone neutral and watching the councilors carefully as he said it. "I would say it is difficult to demand my abdication like a common criminal when the balance of my crimes is being either too stupid to realise I was blessed with the Cantor's gift prior to Lady Tilda's capture, and the subsequent invasion of our mountain, or that our Father, in his wisdom, felt there was something in the kingdom of his creations that was not to be taken by evil hands, and chose to arm me as his weapon for the occasion."

"Yes, and what was this trinket, I wonder?" Óilíg broke in, leaning forward like a wolf scenting the air. "I for one, would like to see this tiny cause of all this ruckus. Why doesn't the Prince produce it for us, to examine?"

"You forget yourself, Councilor," Thorin cut in, coldly closing down that line of discussion, before it got out of hand. "Dealing with the threats to this Mountain is my affair, and that of the Throne."

"For now," Óilíg agreed, settling back once more.

"Anyway, I don't think anyone here is stating his Highness is stupid," Poli suggested, a nasty smirk on his face. "And I certainly don't think you are a warrior worthy of Mahal himself."

Keeping his voice bland, Kíli settled back on his heels, and replied, "The right place and time, only, my Lords, I'm sure."

"The populace believes so," Bylgja agreed, allowing her lips to turn up in a tiny smile as she stared around the table. "That cannot be dismissed because the Councilors wish to." She turned to stare at the others around the table, each in turn. "The People will not stand for his Highness's abdication. While you sat, and continue to sit, on vaulted seats, you forget that the Prince fought a dragon; regained our Kingdom. And he did this as part of a ridiculously small company. What is that, if not Mahal's blessing?"

"The truth must be ascertained," Ásbergur stated calmly. "And the costs of action weighed. Does inaction impede the Kingdom? Does action confer benefit?"

"Of course we will discern the truth," Svín soothed, trying to ignore Bylgja trying to bore holes in his skull with her eyes.

"And yet, you call this council without the presence of perhaps the only dwarrow who could give us true insight," Dwalin rumbled, looking pointedly at the empty seat at the other end of the polished table; a seat that should be occupied by the resting Master Bifur.

"How unfortunate that our Cantor is still recuperating from his grievous ordeal," Stengrim agreed. "If this issue where any less urgent, we would, of course, have been able to wait for the Master's recovery...it could take quite some time. The Healers tell me he endured much, and they have kept him sleeping—for his own comfort, of course."

"We are back to the original issue," Óilíg looked around the table with quick eyes, taking in who was with him, and whom he felt he could sway, not doubt. "Abdication," he drew out the word, giving it authority and weight with the power of his voice alone, and Kíli's heart began to sink. Somehow, the Lords seemed to think they could manage the aftermath of this mess, and the weight of the populations expectations wasn't enough to deter them.

"I respectfully disagree, my Lord."

All heads swiveled at the unexpected interruption as the massive doors slid open on their oiled tracks, and Kíli turned, startled at the feeling of mischief and nervous determination pouring off his wife as she strode into the room.

What on earth did she have planned?

.o. .o.