Uncharted Waters 11: Kíli


Third Age 2980, spring

Where Lord Bard had shown uncharacteristic stubbornness and refused to be crowned a king, Bain displayed none of such obstinance. Only a few months after his father's death, Bain caved into his councillors' wishes and agreed to take the crown.

It was long overdue, Kíli thought; Dale had grown from a city into a kingdom many decades ago. Farmsteads far to the south along the River Running, as well as villages to the east, all the way to the banks of the Redwater, had recognised Dale's authority for long years now, paying taxes for the securities the rich city provided. It was high time for Dale to officially acknowledge them.

Bain was concerned about the well-being of his subjects, Kíli was sure of that; yet he didn't believe it was primarily for the benefit of his distant peoples that Bain had now ascended to plan for a coronation. The crowning of the first king, after all, was an occasion that required the presence of one's neighbours and allies, to legitimate the claim and deed. When invitations were sent, far and wide, and extensive preparations hinted at many days of ceremonies, Erebor began to suspect that Dale planned to exploit the crowning as yet another opportunity to strengthen the ties with their allies, a tactic very much in line with their excessive diplomatic efforts of the past decades.

It wasn't the way of Dwarves. They preferred to remain secluded, their lives untouched by the happenings outside of their halls. What little deals the Dwarves made tended to concern crafts and coins. They had little use for glass-thin peace treaties and unenforceable pledges of succour.

Even so, Erebor was not blind to the opportunities their immediate neighbours brought to their Mountain with such strategies. When Bain approached them with the plea to host the Ironfists during their stay in the north, Kíli had spoken in favour of the idea. Their distant cousins from the Rhûn Mountains had by now traded many caravans of sought-upon goods with Erebor; it could only deepen the trust and lower the fees were their business partners honoured with an invite.

Many Dwarves who sat at Thorin's council had voted for the idea; yet, it was only Kíli that earned the dubious honour of representing Erebor during the actual event, now that the delegations had arrived. Kíli despised every minute of it. In true Mannish fashion, the celebrations were lengthy and seldom to the point. Like today's hunt.

As much as Kíli craved the rush of a proper chase, he did not enjoy this one, reduced as he was to the very tail of the party on his short-legged pony, whilst the Men on their mighty horses caught or startled all the good game well before he could spot it.

On their return to Dale, the party stopped a mile shy of the city's gates. The men dismounted, washed mud from their leathers, scrubbed blood from their hands and adjusted their trophies; thus neatened, they would make for a more dignified entrance onto the streets, where a crowd was bound to greet them.

Kíli was brushing his pony's sweaty hide when the words of a boisterous conversation reached him. He glanced over his shoulder, at the group of Horse-lords from Rohan standing a short way back. They had been splashing water around and sharing their flasks with much exuberance for some time. Before, during the hunt, they had proved truly great riders, dominating the chase with their mighty steeds, and even Kíli through his sour disposition could not begrudge them the deserved merriment.

A pair of Gondorian nobles joined them now, and the Rohirrim switched to Westron.

"...heard he lets women rule in his stead," one of the riders was saying, voice clearly buoyed by all the ale in his bloodstream. "His sister to do his ledgers, his father's concubine to do his thinking for him."

As the group broke into ruckus laughter, Kíli went still. His hand reached for the sword at his side, and his eyes found Bain over the back of the pony, where the soon-to-be-King sat checking his arrows. He had come over some time ago, presumably to keep Kíli company, rightly guessing the Dwarf would be in a foul mood after a day like this. He was hidden from the Rohirrim's sight, but there was no doubt that their gaudy words had reached him.

Around them, the Dwarves of Kíli's party also halted, abandoning their tasks and surreptitiously reaching for their hilts. Kíli cast them an approving look and then nodded his support to Bain, ready to stand by his friend's side as he went to defend his family's honour. In response, Bain heaved a tired sigh.

"Aye, you have heard mostly right," he then called clearly, loud enough for the words to travel the distance and beat the residual laughter. He then set aside his quiver, his movements casual and calm as he rose to his feet and walked around Kíli's pony.

The Horse-lords immediately ceased their laughter, straightening to attention at Bain's sudden appearance. With undoubtedly churlish pleasure, Kíli watched the smiles sliding off their faces, cheeks and ears reddening, and worry settling in their eyes.

"And I could only recommend a similar arrangement to all of you," Bain continued. "Afterall, delegating the dreary tasks has left me with only the exciting duties of a ruler; like riding, sparring or hunting."

In the stunned silence that followed, the Rohirrim frozen in their bewilderment, Kíli risked leaving them out of his sight and glanced at Gimli. The Dwarf stood at the ready by Bain's other shoulder, now easing from his fighting stance. They exchanged an exasperated look; only Bain had the fortitude to spin an insult into a well-meant jab, should diplomacy call for it. Kíli saw the wisdom in it; it also made his disappointment at the lack of violence utterly childish.

One of the tall blonde Men stepped forward. "Forgive my men, my lord," he said and bowed his head low. "They are drunk, both from the good hunt and strong ale. Otherwise, they wouldn't have dared utter such words against their host. Doubt not that they will be punished accordingly."

Kíli recognised him as Théoden, the young First Marshall that led the delegation for his father, the King of Rohan. He looked suitably abashed now, clearly alarmed by the possible diplomatic repercussions, but they all knew he had been laughing with the rest of his men just a moment ago.

"It is the purpose of this gathering to do away with such rumours and misgivings among the free folk of Middle-earth, so nothing but friendship remains to bind us," Bain declared in an answer. "I will forgive your men for their foolish words; this time."

His message was clear and clearly received, as Théoden bowed even lower and then turned to his men, snapping away orders in Rohirric.

Bain commanded to mount soon after. As he made to leave for his own horse, Kíli grabbed the Man's arm. "Are you sure you want to carry on to Dale with these shitstains? I could offer sanctuary at the Mountain instead," he said, keeping his voice low, though with a great deal of reluctance. He could be diplomatic, too. "A caravan has returned from the west; Bombur is hosting a private dinner to welcome the Lords of Erebor back. He'd be only pleased if I extended the invitation."

"As tempting as that offer sounds, I shudder at the wreath Sigrid would unleash should I abandon my duties as the host, to go hide in Erebor instead. No no, I shall rather suffer the company of these bloated fools."


By the time Kíli had bathed and changed, Bombur's dinner had long begun. He was the last to arrive; the hangers by the door were drowning under the heavy cloaks and finaries that the Lords of Erebor were quick to discard once they left the public eye behind the door. Sparing only a nod to the few dwarrows that shouted a greeting, Kíli spearheaded to the table and grabbed onto some scones. Bombur's meals were bountiful, but so were the appetites of these Dwarves. Only then, with food in hand, he went to greet Bofur and Dori, who had returned with the last caravan from beyond the Misty Mountains.

"And what of my mother, how long does she plan to stay in the west?" he asked.

"She intends to travel back with the next caravan," Dori answered. "Ered Luin asked for an unusual amount of subsidies, she opted to stay to oversee their just distribution."

Kíli nodded. "She warned me of her plans; she suspects the Council of having greedy fingers. It's reassuring to hear she expects to have them all straightened in only one season. On your way back, did you travel through the Shire?"

They smiled. "Bilbo is as fine and as queer as ever," Dori replied. "Claims to be busy writing his memoirs, although so far he had not allowed anyone to view a single page."

"As if we wouldn't know what's on them, anyway," Bofur grunted. "He was never one to be frugal with his stories. Next time he starts on the bowels of the Misty Mountains, or the tale of the singing spiders, I swear I'll take over and finish his story for him, word for word."

"That would be a very rude thing to do," Dori admonished.

Kíli's eyes swept over the rest of the room, noting the members of the original Company of Thorin Oakenshield, and their families. He nodded at Thorin when their eyes met, but it was the King's companion that caught Kíli's full attention.

Lady Hattie sat facing the fire at Thorin's side, both of them nursing a goblet of wine. In the ruckus of the room, they seemed to enjoy a bubble of silence. Kíli headed over.

"I offered Bain sanctuary in the Mountain this evening, but he refused," he said in lieu of a greeting. "You seemed to have made the wiser choice."

She smiled over the rim of her goblet. "Dale is full of people thinking themselves too important to be declined an audience. Most regrettably, they are often correct. A previous engagement with the fearsome Dwarves felt like the only escape."

"Bain refused my offer for fear of Lady Sigrid's wreath."

"As he should. Fortunately, I'm not as indispensable as Bain is."

"You have also trained your councillors to excuse your every whim and absence; a feat I have always marvelled at," Thorin added, and Kíli could only nod in agreement.

"A feat you've greatly envied, you meant to say," she said, her cheeky grin in its place. She carried on with a more serious face, "I wouldn't have left tonight had I not been sure that Bain has everything well in hand."

"Oh, that he indeed does," Kíli replied and watched them both straighten up in attention at his tone. He proceeded to regale them with the tale of the Rohirrim's insult.

Thorin let out a chuckle when Kíli finished. "Only Bard's son could dispose of the slight and turn it into his advantage. Be it anyone else, they would now be at war with Rohan." He turned his eyes towards the lady. "You have done a good job with the lad."

"He did turn out rather well, didn't he?" she replied humbly, though Kíli could see the fierce pride glinting in her eyes.

Thorin rose to his feet. "Alas, as much as I'd like to stay and enjoy your company, I have a pile of scrolls on my desk unaddressed that would give Balin a conniption were he to spot them there still in the morning. I must bid you goodnight."

"Take this with you," Hattie stopped him, lifting the half-empty bottle they had shared. "From the sound of it, you have direr need of wine tonight than us."

Thorin chuckled and left with the bottle in hand.

Kíli squinted at it, recognising the Eastfarthing label. It must have cost her a fortune to send old bottled wine all the way from Shire. Glass was inconvenient to caravan; so difficult that traders seldom bothered with vintage, when barrels of young wine could be easily transported by the dozen. However, if there was a merchant in Dale with coffers bursting enough to support unreasonable luxuries, it was Hattie. Kíli hummed approvingly at the value of the gift; it marked that she had not yet learnt to take an invitation to the Mountain for granted.

With Thorin gone, Kíli slid into the vacant chair. "He is right. Had it been me and not Bain, the insult would be answered with violence, and Erebor could now be at war with Rohan."

She laughed. "And how do you think Thorin himself would fare? The both of you would let your Dwarfish pride brandish swords and axes before the Rohirrim lad finished speaking."

"Yet, Bain's way was clearly the better response."

"That it was. It was a useful lesson to witness."

Kíli grunted in agreement.

He heard her twist in her seat, feeling her inquisitive eyes on him. He didn't turn to meet them, opting to watch the fire instead. "There seems to be this awfully thick cloud of gloomy mien about your head. What's troubling you?"

It was unnerving to have her full attention, without the bright glint in her eyes that told you how ever-ready she was to be entertained by your actions. It wasn't condescending; Kíli had eventually learnt to trust that. It simply spoke of her stubbornness, and her determination to find good homour in whatever crossed her path. Obstinance, Kíli could understand; the cheerful direction she applied it for was altogether unnatural to him. But maybe it was more common among human lasses? He wouldn't know; he still marvelled at the fact he counted even one, this one, among his friends.

"For decades, Bain and I were the heirs, united in our fear of how we'll fare once the time comes to reign," he began softly, aware of the other dwarrows behind their backs, yet oddly unconcerned of their listening ears. They now seemed far away, as if their quiet corner by the fire gained distance from the rest of the room. "And now, Bain's wait has ended, and he has passed the first tests as well as could ever be expected."

He heard her moving, and when he turned to look, she was raising a second bottle, still corked, from the shadows on the other side of her armchair. Kíli went to protest; surely, opening one such bottle an evening was decadent enough; but she uncorked it before he found his voice. The deed done, Kíli let his objections die and gratefully took Thorin's abandoned goblet. He startled at the first sip; he didn't taste the sweet flavour of wine he'd expected, but the burn of his favourite spirit. He raised the cup at her in appreciation.

"I don't think Bain will be crossed with me, for blabbering out some horrible secret, when I tell you he's still terrified," she said then. "Trembling at the knees every morning, I'm sure, at the thought of making a blunder that day."

Killi hummed, acknowledging her attempts at consolation. They fell short, no matter how well-meant; Bain would be gaining more confidence every day, whilst Kíli waited with the old fear of the unknown. He didn't bemoan the natural order of things; he simply felt lonely.

His eyes rested on the mantle above the fireplace, where Bombur's clock stood. It was one of Himli's earlier creations, judging by the Shire styled finish. Her latest designs tended to have much more of a Dwarven flair to them. Bombur must have been among the first Hattie had given a clock to. Back then, she'd gifted a timepiece to everyone she'd worked with, demanding an attempt at punctuality in return. Kíli always found it rather ironic, given she was easily the most unreliable of them all.

Underneath the clock, the seven stars of Durin were carved into the mantle.

"Do you remember Már?" Kiri asked.

"Thorin's 'amadu-ê-nadan? I do."

Even after years of prying into their ancient secrets, it was still jarring to hear Khuzdul from her lips. She had, at last, adopted the correct accent, though it was perhaps more bizarre to hear such close imitation from someone who so clearly wasn't a Dwarf. "The intended mother of his child, yes. Though, they never managed to conceive."

"I remember," she confirmed and then fell silent again, patient.

"It was not Thorin's decision to try," Kíli revealed. "It was his idea, but he left the choice to me. He thought he was offering me an heir of Durin's blood, so I would be free to follow my heart. Back then, the whole Mountain thought it would lead me to a certain Elf- which is a story you've probably heard, as well."

She nodded and he carried on. "I asked him to try, to find a Dwarrowdame to sire an heir with. However, I didn't tell him I never intended for the son to become my heir. Instead, I was ready to renounce my claim to the throne the moment his son was born. It wasn't the freedom of heart that I sought; I simply saw a craven way out of this fate. I told Thorin to make it happen."

He finished his tale and they lapsed into silence. It was Harry who broke it some time later, uttering a weary sigh. "I have watched many leaders rise to power. Some have greedily seized it; but there were precious few who only reluctantly took the reins when they saw no better option. Who do you think I ended up liking better?"

"I am a coward," he said to that, baring his soul to her fully.

She chuckled. "You're a fool, that's what you are, if you think it's only bravery and self-assurance that hides behind the confident masks of rulers. Why don't you ask your uncle? I'm sure he'd have many doubts to open your eyes with."

It was his turn to scoff, the idea absolutely ridiculous.

"Males," she mumbled in derision. "All right then—if we're sharing secrets, it's only fair I offer one in return. Though it is not entirely mine to give, so you cannot go spreading it further."

He gave her a solemn nod, growing intrigued in an instant. Hattie rarely volunteered a peek into her past.

"Bard didn't kill the dragon. Harry did."

Whatever Kíli had expected, it wasn't this. He turned on his seat to face her fully, feeling his eyes widening.

She took in his incredulous stare and nodded. "Bard was ready to do it, would have most probably done it, but Harry was simply faster about it. He might have saved many lives back then, but in doing so, he forever condemned Bard to feel like a liar and an imposter every time someone hailed him the Dragonslayer. It was a shame Bard carried to his last breath."

She took a sip from her own goblet. "The dragon killing was the reason some people followed Bard out of Lake-town and to Dale. It was his fame for this feat that earned him the respect of Dale's neighbours. And the whole time, Bard knew it to be fake. His self-doubts went as deep as to make himself believe that Harry would have done a better job of ruling Dale. Imagine that, a dim-witted Easterling boy and yet, Bard so struggled with his confidence that he felt Harry should rightly lead instead of him."

"No wonder Bard always so fiercely defended your brother," Kíli said when she paused. "Dale's debt to him runs ever deeper."

"That's beside the point here," she impatiently waved his words aside. "I'm trying to demonstrate that no great ruler leads without self-doubts. We both know Bard was a good man, great man even, and yet throughout the decades of his reign, he believed his right to lead stood on false claims; on lies that he had given his oath never to reveal. A part of him didn't stop seeing himself as an imposter. Would you like proof of that? He was always careful to give the council of his advisors proper consideration, however inconvenient; yet he adamantly refused to be crowned, no matter the plethora of solid arguments they presented him over the years. Now, I still love that man something horrid and will gladly stay forever biased in my view of him, so you'll have to tell me; has your opinion of him and his rule diminished, given what you've just learnt?"

She reached over the distance between their chairs and lay a gentle hand on his cheek. It was a very Mannish gesture, too invasive for Dwarves; but Kíli had forgiven her worse transgressions over the years, so even now, he held still.

"When the time comes, you have my full confidence you'll fare just as fine as all the great rulers before you—you'll be shitting your pants, feeling woefully ill-prepared and insecure even when making the most trifle of decisions. And you'll look utterly magnificent at it."


It was two long days of frivolous entertainment later when the hosts and guests finally sat down to true negotiations. They gathered in the Great Hall upon Dale's hill, a forest of banners of all colours hanging over the heads of the visiting delegations. Talks of tolls and fees of passage were scheduled for the evening, and Kíli felt impatient to start; fancying himself owed a proper haggling after the innate chatter of the past days.

The coronation was still a whole week away, though Bain already presided over the gathering as the host, sitting in the high place of honour. Kíli nodded his greeting as their eyes met but when Bain's moved to welcome the next guest, Kíli's gaze lingered. In the brightly lit hall, the grey strains in his hair stood out and with a pang of a sudden reminder, Kíli thought there was now more separating him from his friend than just a crown. Bain was quickly growing old, and Kíli wondered how soon he would come to pay the price of befriending a short-lived Man.

"Would you have ever guessed that wee laddie could ever make for such an impressive sight? Just a short while ago, he was pissing himself fighting his first spiders."

Kíli turned to find Gimli also staring at Bain. "Time does fly faster for Men," he agreed, his tone reflecting his maudlin thoughts rather than Gimli's lighthearted jab. "We should brace ourselves against their swifter endings, if we indeed plan to spend so much time outside of the Mountain."

He startled when Gimli's hand came to clap his shoulder. "Quit your moaning; Bain is still far from his deathbed."

The evening started with introductions, and they were lengthy ones. Also often necessary; the Hall now housed delegations from what to Kíli seemed like the opposite corners of the known world. The dark-skinned Chayasír Easterlings sat just a few seats away from the pale envoy from Riverdell; the stocky Ironfist Dwarves from the Rhûn Mountains sat next to the taller Longbeards, Kíli's cousins from the Blue Mountains along the west coast. Dain came with his entourage from the Iron Hills, never one to miss an opportunity for ale and dining, and now sat opposite the wide-eyed group of Gondorian nobles.

Together at one table, they made for an impressive sight to behold.

"You should have told Thorin of your plans before today," Gimli whispered to Kíli, clearly growing bored with the proceedings. "This gathering would have been a good opportunity to announce them at large."

"And why should we do that?" Kíli hissed back. "Khazad-dûm is Dwarven business, and Dwarven business only."

"There are many miles to travel between Erebor and the Gates of Moria, and many peoples calling those lands their own. It would serve us well, to have them for allies, when we cross through with a host of Dwarves."

"Too much risk for a very little award."

"What risks do you speak of?"

"At the present, Moria lies undefended but for a few hordes of Orcs, whilst the people around its doors prosper. It is indeed a good time to reclaim the mines; and we might not be the fastest to arrive should the idea be planted into someone else's mind."

There was silence by his side, and then Gimli scoffed. "And who laid such paranoid ideas into your head? Though- why do I ask when I am already sure of the answer? Who else but Frerik would poison your thoughts so?"

Kíli frowned in annoyance, long tired of the old feud between his two friends. "Frerik has changed much in the years since he took over his father's responsibilities. He led many of our caravans east and learned his lessons along the way. You should see past his old mistakes—he closed down the fighting pits more than a decade ago—and try to respect him for the Dwarf he is now. Afterall, it is this Dwarf who will stay by your side for many months and years, rebuilding Khazad-dûm."

"Once a crook, always a crook," Gimli grumbled in response. "Are Frerik's whispers also the reason you haven't told Thorin of your plans yet? I thought you perhaps feared the King wouldn't give you his blessings."

"I have no doubt Thorin will sanction the quest. He had reclaimed his long-lost kingdom; he wouldn't begrudge me my attempt."

Kíli cut his words short as Bain rose from his seat at the head of the table, and the din of murmurs that had built up through the dragging introductions died. As the Lord of Dale bade the delegations to share the news of their homes, Kíli felt familiar eyes on him and turned to meet them—Legolas Greenleaf was looking at him across the room, three of his Elven guards by his side. Kíli bowed his head in greetings as the Elf did the same.

"Durin's beard- look who deigned to make an appearance today!"

Kíli followed Gimli's gaze, to the chair by Bain's far side. Its occupant had been hidden by the Man's bulk, but now, when the Lord of Dale had risen, Kíli spotted a shock of black hair and felt his eyes widening. Hattie sat bent over a book in her lap, seemingly unconcerned with the proceedings around her.

Aware of her presence, Kíli now also became conscious of the attention she was garnering from the other participants. Prolonged glances were being thrown her way, followed by brows arching and stares exchanged between fellow delegates. Kíli suppressed a snicker. She did stand out—her practical leathers and hardy cottons were in their usual disarray, as if she'd just jumped from a racing horse, instead of dressing herself for a formal gathering where everyone else had donned their finest to impress. Kíli suspected it wasn't for her appearance that guests kept throwing her inquisitive glances, though. Her reputation must have preceded her, for one did not stay in Dale for more than a day without hearing a tale or two of the resident Easterling.

It wasn't the poorly hidden curiosity of the strangers that amused Kíli; he was smirking at the open astonishment on the faces of the few locals. Hattie had long made it a point to avoid any and all councils and gatherings. The whole of Dale and its neighbours were aware of how instrumental she was in creating the city policies; yet, unlike Sigrid who even now sat on Bain's right, Hattie somehow managed to participate without enduring any of the dreary steps of ruling that preceded a decision. What was even more astonishing, she slipped the public eye without receiving much scorn for it; exploiting the charms of a foreigner to their full extent, to excuse even the otherwise inexcusable breaches of conduct and traditions.

Therefore now, no matter how many foreign banners decorated the hall, or that the table seated as colourful a gathering of allies as no one but the Elves remembered, it was Hattie's presence that marked it a special occasion in Kíli's eyes.

"Ori told me she'll be leaving soon," Gimli murmured at Kíli's side.

"She's always leaving," Kíli noted distractedly, his mind and ears on the Ironfist that was now speaking.

"Ori says this time is different. She formally ended her apprenticeship—as if the poor Dwarf had ever been her true Master. More like a little nephew, if you ask me. She even said her goodbyes, which Ori tells me she'd never bothered with before."

Kíli's eyes returned to the Easterling. She appeared fully engrossed in her reading, eyes devotedly flicking as she skimmed the lines of her book, yet Kíli's gut had him convinced she was no less aware of the proceedings than any of the rest in attendance. As if to prove him right, she lifted her head then, gaze pointed and one eyebrow rising high. Kíli followed her glare to a group of Rohirrim just as their leader, the young Théoden, bowed his head, ears flushed red.

Kíli suppressed a chuckle at her brazen provocation. Still, his amusement didn't allay the apprehension that had begun to settle in his mind at Gimli's words.


Finding Hattie for a private word was difficult; doing so inconspicuously was outright impossible. Kíli forewent even attempting it, no matter how little he wished for attention, and the day after the gathering in Dale's Hall, he arrived at Bard's former residence in full sight of the morning crowd, asking for an audience.

The maid guided him to a sitting room in which Kíli had been received before; he also recognised the shut door the lass knocked at. It led to the Easterling's famous study, where none, not even the maids, could enter, unless they wanted to have their eyes ripped out and tongues cut off. At least that was how the tale went.

"She might not be in anymore, m'lord," the maid said after the second knock stayed unanswered, shooting him nervous glances over her shoulder.

"Would you not have taken notice, had she truly left?"

Her cheeks flushed. "She has slipped past us before, m'lord."

His eyebrows shot up at the admittance. He knew only too well how closely servants followed every move of their charges; evading their attention was no small feat. He got reminded of reading the reports of Nori's spies; and the numerous holes in them, when Hattie managed to give those men the slip, too.

"Allow me," Kíli told the maid. She obediently stepped away from the heavy set door.

His knock was far less delicate than that of the girl. He tilted his head at the strange echo he'd received—as if the sound didn't carry into the other room, but instead got immediately halted and reverberated back at him. Was there a second door just behind the wings of this one?

"It is Kíli," he called, noting the strange choked effect again.

There was no reaction. Kíli turned away and glanced at the nearby chairs, resigned to a wait, when the door suddenly burst open. Without the warning sound of approaching steps or the click of unlocking, Kíli was left fully startled, his arm reaching for a hilt and his feet fighting for balance mid-turn. "Bah!"

Hattie stood on the doorstep. "Kíli! What's the matter?"

The maid appeared unfazed, clearly well-used to such abruptness. She quickly curtsied and headed for the door. "I will fetch refreshments."

"Well?" Hattie asked.

Kíli never learned patience for small talk. "Ori tells me you are leaving."

She stared at him silently, the initial concern slipping from her face, twisting into exasperation. "You Dwarves are all horrible gossips, you know that? But it's no matter—I was planning to announce my departure in a day or two, anyway."

She beckoned him to the wide open windows and the pair of chairs partly facing the view. Kíli hesitated at first, and then marched to his seat. "You are not planning to come back."

"No, I'm not."

Kíli noted the gloomy wave that swept through him at her easy confirmation—he seemed to have grown attached to the little Easterling more than he'd known—and refocused on the reason why he'd come.

"I believe I know why, and I understand." He truly did—she had loved Bard dearly, and now, with the clarity of hindsight, he recognised she'd started to detach herself from Dale the moment the Lord of the City had passed away. She also felt fiercely proud of Bain, the affection easy to see in her eyes; Kíli was not surprised she had waited to see him crowned.

"I also know that you have done much for Dale and Erebor; and that you have grown to love many of their people as your own. Let me ask this, then—when Dale or Erebor calls for help, will you and your brother answer?"

She listened to his prepared speech with her head tilted, keeping to her thoughts even after he finished. With her sharp eyes intent on him, he faltered in the silence, and hastily searched for words to fill it with. "I do not ask as your friend; I would not disrespect you as much, begging out of friendship. I ask as an ally—for we have worked together well for many years, and we could-"

"You are concerned about the grave tidings the delegations talked of yesterday," she spoke at last, mercifully interrupting his blabberings.

He nodded; not surprised she had so easily seen through his words. "The world grows darker. There is evil brewing in the south, and it will spill out of Mordor eventually. A war awaits us, be it still in the days of Thorin's reign, or mine."

"I agree," she said next, interrupting his line of arguments.

"Well, then- will you come when Erebor and Dale call for help?"

"No," she said. "Simply for the fact that no matter how loudly you call, no matter how many messengers you send, they won't be able to reach me where I'm going."

The finality in her tone was born out of certainty, not malice or a desire to justify her actions. Her voice was gentle, yet Kili still felt its impact with a brute, bitter force. He feared a dark future, and her words seemed to have brought it one bit closer; the world around him changing, the long-held securities falling apart in times when they would be doubly needed.

"But listen now, Kíli. Yesterday was hardly the first time we have heard of Sauron mustering forces behind the Mountains of Shadow," Harry spoke and Kíli nodded, mechanically. "We've been watching him for decades. Do you think we would leave it at that, watching and worrying? Or Bard—do you think Bard would leave his son unprepared?"

She leaned over, almost closing the gap between their chairs.

"The war is not coming; it has long arrived and it is being waged even now. The new trade routes, every single one of the caravans that come from the east—they bring not only exotic goods, but also an opportunity to show those tribes a different option, an alliance with us. For the past decade, Bard and I tried our very hardest for Dale to gather as many allies as possible, and to rob Sauron of his. What's more, my brother led a similar campaign in the west, from the Grey Havens. Remember the gathering yesterday—not for the dark news we have heard, but recall the attendance. Harry tells me that this very season, Círdan holds similar talks, with many traders from Umbar who have opened routes with the west coast. The free peoples have many new allies and Sauron lost a few of his. This is the first stage of your war, the stage that might very well decide the result. And I have given you all the help I could in this, Kíli."


The Ironfists might have come to witness the coronation, but the Dwarves certainly hadn't travelled all those long miles from the Rhûn Mountains empty handed. In the spirit of true Dwarven efficiency, even their diplomats brought along a caravan of goods, to make a profit out of their journey. And as always, when traders arrived from the east, they threw all of Erebor, and her craftsmen and guilds, into excited titters.

Kíli had little interest in it all and stayed well out of the commotion; he wasn't a smith to get intrigued by their strange metalwork, nor was he a jeweller to fawn over the unfamiliar hues of their gemstones. It then came as a surprise when the next morning on the sparring grounds, Kíli noticed an Ironfist merchant approaching, gaze intent on Kíli. He would have thought it a misunderstanding, had Frerik not marched on the stranger's side.

The Ironfist introduced himself as Khelgir, in the typical slurred Khuzdul that Kíli had come to expect from the Eastern Dwarves. He was a prime specimen of the Ironfists; shorter than Longbeards and stockier still, they enjoyed the interested eye of many Ereborian Dwarrowdams.

"I hear that you plan to retake Khazad-Dûm."

Kíli's eyes narrowed at the Ironfists. Then he turned, leveling his glare at Frerik. "What forbidden tales have you been telling?"

Frerik's shoulders might have dropped, maybe even in remorse, but his eyes stayed defiant. "Hear what he has to say, Kíli. Please."

Kíli glared at him some more, annoyed and displeased, almost enough to ignore his friend's counsel.

Almost. He shifted his eyes back to Khelgir. "And what would an Ironfist want with the home of Durin's Folk?"

"Khazad-Dûm is vast and Durin's Folk are now but a fraction of the numbers you had once boasted. I would offer some of my people to join your expedition."

"Why?"

"Our home lies just north of the Mountains of Ash, surrounded by tribes of Easterlings loyal to the Dark Lord. When the war truly breaks, we will be among the first to feel his wrath. The Ironfists are hardy and our halls are strong, but not all of my people were meant to fight in wars. I would have the rest seek refuge; preferably one where they could be of use with their crafts and tools and not depend on the charity of others."

"And why does a merchant come with such a plea, and not your King, or his representatives? Is it perhaps the thought of the mithril mines that sparked this idea?"

The wrinkles above Khelgir's beard shriveled into a frown. "Would we like to partake in the riches of our temporary home? Aye, we would. Could we do it at a rate that both the Longbeards and Ironfists would find appropriate and just? Aye, I believe we could."

Suppressing a tired sigh, Kíli looked around the busy sparring hall. His tunic stuck to his skin with cooling sweat and his limbs trembled under the strain of the mad drill he had felt compelled to put them through this morning. He doubted a wash would make him more enthused about this conversation, though; he might as well get it over with quickly.

"Let's talk somewhere else," he said and bade Khelgir towards the door.

When Frerik made to follow after the Ironfist, Kíli clasped his shoulder, halting his steps.

"Do not ever go behind my back again."

"I didn't like it myself one bit," the Dwarf replied. "Had I not seen the Rhûn Mountains for myself, I would never dare so. The Ironfists are a hardy people, it's true, but they have been blessed with many years of comfort in their Mountains. Not all of them are born with an axe in one hand, like Durin's Folk had been taught."

Kíli grunted in acknowledgement. Compassion was a thing Frerik only rarely bestowed, so Kíli was inclined to trust the direness inspiring the rare occurrence. He was hardly excited by the prospect of bringing others into his plans, and outside of his kin, nonetheless. However, Hattie wasn't the only one to agree that gathering allies was a way to win a war. How un-Dwarven of him; but when had that discouraged him from an idea before?

He let go of Frerik's shoulder and led the two Dwarves somewhere private to talk.


[Harry]

Bard's study had changed very little since Bain had made it his own. Harry suspected it had more to do with Bain's frugality than lingering respect for his father's belongings; Bain had spent half of his adult life in army camps, he developed very little appreciation for things of beauty clattering his working space. The only notable change was the absence of pipe smoke. Where Harry had failed to cure his father of this annoying habit, Bain had never held to smoking. He was a rare exception among his peers, a feat Harry was inordinately proud of.

The two of them waited for their next appointment in silence. Harry brought her needlework; she still had this last piece to finish before her departure four days from now. She paused in the stitching, raising the handkerchief from her lap and throwing a critique eye over the near complete design.

She hummed, content; she was getting rather good, if she could say so herself. She had first picked up embroidering out of spite, to prove her family wrong about her supposed lack of patience needed to learn such craft. Now, it had become a habit to occupy her hands when she had some thinking to do.

"Show me," Bain interrupted her thoughts and she turned the handkerchief his way.

"I think I recognise this one," he said. "I believe it might be a barge."

She shot him a beaming smile. "Hold and behold, it is a barge!" The sails were a bit askew, as if the mast was just about to topple over, but it would have to do—she was not going to redo that whole part.

She squirmed on her chair as her insides twisted again, and she took another sip of her tea, breathing a weary sigh into her cup.

"Who is this piece for?" Bain asked next.

"Little Signy." She returned to her embroidering, a fond smile stretching her face. "Your father doted on that one something horrid."

"She was the first girl born into the family after a streak of nine boys; we all dote on her."

"And she's turning a right terror for it. That's why the barge—I thought I would remind her of this family's humble beginnings."

"What about the runes underneath? Are they magical?"

Harry chuckled. "Hardly. Just some Easterling gibberish; I probably didn't get half the symbols right. Though, I intend to tell Signy the runes will make the boat sail prettily if she's nice to her brothers and parents for long enough."

"You would deceive a child so, to make her behave?"

Harry shrugged. "I never claimed to be a good child-minder. It's you parents who keep leaving those little demons on my doorstep."

To that, Bain wisely said nothing.

"Will you actually be able to translate anything tonight?" he asked some time later.

Harry shrugged. "I'm awfully rusty, and my Chayasírric was weak to begin with, but I can easily pick up the gist from our guest's mind, if the need arises. If we have something to tell him back, the poor sod will simply have to try his best to decipher my blatherings. It was, after all, at his behest that we're foregoing official translators."

Bain grunted his agreement, although he sounded as apprehensive as she felt. They were meeting the Chayasírs' second in command, who had asked Bard for a private audience in an awfully secretive way. His other stipulation had been that only Harry would be present to translate. The whole thing was highly suspicious, but it could potentially turn rather informative. Until they ruled that potential out, they couldn't dismiss the request.

"What is with this squirming?" Bain asked and Harry realised she was once again twisting in her chair.

She smirked. "If you must know, my period started."

"As in-"

"It is my time of the month to bleed, yes."

Bain grimaced but managed a dignified nod before he fell pointedly silent.

Harry's smile grew. "It is a rather vicious one at that," she added, eyeing the rigid pose Bain was hiding his discomfort with. "Or maybe I forgot how bad they can get? After all, it's my first one in more than one hundred years."

"I do wish you would talk about such matters with the women in this family instead. Valar know there's enough of them."

"How could I? They hardly know enough about my true origins to ever explain myself properly."

Bain grunted noncommittally and fell silent. Harry observed him through the corner of her eye, a smile tugging at her lips, as she watched his curiosity battle with his sense of proprietary. Good; he had been awfully stiff lately, trying so hard to fit into his new role.

He broke at last, sending her a knowing glare, before he asked, "One hundred years? Is that normal for your kind?"

She laughed. "Oh no. I had a contraceptive device implanted, to stove off such pesky concerns. It was advertised to last for a lifetime, but it seems they haven't counted with immortal customers. You see—if I needed a sign that it was high time to return to the twenty-second century, this is certainly it. I now have a short month to get home, one way or another, because I'd rather die than suffer through another one of these. Quite literary."

"Surely, you're exaggerating."

"Oh Bain, I'm hardly the first woman to share this sentiment."

It was Bain's turn to squirm on his seat in discomfort, but he still listened with a carefully expressionless mask.

"You can bear children, then?" he asked next.

Harry saw the question coming. "I never claimed I couldn't. It is where I drew the line, though, because outliving my own children was a pain I refused to ever impart on myself, not even for the joy of having some in the first place."

She could see his eyes filling with pity, and she rolled her own at him in response. She was not interested in pity or sympathy, not for a sacrifice made so long ago that it was too stale to hurt. Instead, she turned to her favourite part of this topic. "My continued fertility actually proves how unnatural this business with my immortality is. You do know that when a woman gets older, her bleedings stop?"

Bain's mask slipped for a moment and his face flushed red, but he managed a quick nod.

"That's because as girls, we are born with only a limited number of eggs in our ovaries—eggs as the parts your seed needs to impregnate, in order to conceive. As they leave our bodies, one bleeding at a time, the number of eggs steadily diminishes, until completely depleted and the monthly bleeding stops. Are you with me still?"

He now turned to glaring at her, which she took as a confirmation.

"I was born with a regular stock of eggs which should have lasted me through only some six, maybe seven decades. Then, at almost eighteen, I was turned immortal, my body frozen in its then-state. It's been functioning as that of a normal eighteen-year-old since then—having regular periods, month after month, yet when I had my ovaries checked some decades later, the supply of eggs fitted that of a teenager. My ovaries have been releasing eggs month after month for long years, and still, the number stays the same. Where do the eggs come from? My body certainly can't produce them. So is it magic that creates them? Is it some circle through which my body constantly evolves and reverts to? I believe that one day, the answer to this could help me solve this immortal predicament. Saved by my own ovaries; doesn't that sound wonderful?"

She had to stop then; her snickers couldn't be suppressed any longer and she burst into loud guffaws, openly laughing at Bain's horrified face.

"Sometimes, you make the thought of your departure a bit easier to bear," Bain muttered, miffed, as he only now realised she'd stretched his mortification for her own entertainment.

She let the chuckles die out, though she took her time about it. Her smile turned fond then. "I only have four days left to make myself utterly unbearable, dear Bain, but I'll do my best."

His irritation disappeared, eyes turning as tender as hers. "I would claim such feat impossible, but you have long taught me never to bet against your pigheadedness."

They held their gaze, perfect understanding warming the silence between them among all the other unsaid feelings, until Bain quickly averted his eyes, taking in a shaky breath.

"Do you know whether you'll travel again?" he asked a moment later.

His question was vague, but she easily puzzled it out. Would she travel in her dreams again, after she woke from this one? "Most probably, but not right away. I miss my friends; I plan to enjoy some time with them, before I embark on another hefty adventure like this. I also feel travel weary, for lack of a better expression."

It was indeed an insufficient description. Horrible fatigue settled into her bones at the mere thought of the goodbyes she'd soon be making; she couldn't imagine growing so emotionally invested in a new place soon after. "On the other hand, I'm already curious about where the next dream would lead me. Would it be to Arda again? The same place, the same time? Or an entirely different plane of existence? And would the same laws for crossing universes apply there? I could see myself popping into another dream for a bit, just to find out."

A bell went off from behind the door. Their appointment finally arrived.

Harry watched as Bain visibly steeled himself. He turned to her with a questioning eyebrow, and she nodded—she was ready, too.

The Easterling warrior barely glanced at Harry in her corner of the study, his eyes intent on the Lord of the City behind the desk. Bain beckoned him to take the chair across and sat down himself. The man remained standing.

Bain sent her a questioning look over their guest's shoulders. The Easterling started talking then, and she focused on his words.

"Something about a message," she translated when the man paused. "I believe he's saying he has a message for you."

They watched as the Easterling reached into his tunic, down to his belt. He then whipped his arm back, a dagger flying out of his hand, aimed unerringly at Bain's heart.

The blade hadn't flown more than halfway across the desk before it froze mid-air. Harry let it drop onto the surface even as she sent an Impedimenta at the Easterling, freezing his movements. Levitating a pitcher, she let it crash into the back of his skull, rendering him unconscious. She slid a chair under his collapsing body and tied his wrists and ankles to it with curtain holders.

"I expected treachery," she said then, glancing at Bain. "But I thought it would be aimed at his own people, his chieftain perhaps; not you."

Bain collapsed back into his chair from which he had half-risen. "And to think he requested you for a translator! He must have thought you'd be easy to overcome when he makes his escape."

Harry smirked in response, busy gathering her embroidery out of her lap and placing it all into its basket, careful of the threads so they wouldn't get tangled.

"Will you look into his mind now?"

She nodded, already getting up. Jolting the Easterling awake with a weak Acceleration Charm, pinpointed straight at his heart, she made eye contact the moment his eyes shot wide open. She easily delved behind them.

She was met with a pleasant haze, peacefully rolling over the Easterling's thoughts, muting them all, apart from one. A string of words, of commands, reverberated through the emptied mind, filling all of the man's conscious thoughts.

She hastily pulled out of his mind, and then sat down, stiff and frozen on her chair, as the Easterling started thrashing in his bindings in front of her. Unwittingly, her right hand reached up, covering her mouth where her lips parted.

The feel of his mind was eerily familiar, the effects precise in their details. No matter how impossible it was to encounter such a spell here in Middle-earth, Harry had no doubts—she was staring at an Imperiused man.


AN:

Two more chapters, both from Harry's POV, and we're done with this second arc. I'm looking for a beta-reader; anyone interested? My sister has new challenges to fill her life with; I couldn't be happier for her, but it does leave you with many mistakes in the text that I'd be forever blind to.

This chapter's recommendation is a Harry Potter time-travelling story: The Second String by Eider_Down.

I've recently reread it and I'm still in awe. It connects to this update in two aspects: firstly, devouring such high-quality texts always motivates me to be a better writer myself; Eider_Down's writing is inspiringly wonderful. Secondly, the fic contains some of the best portrayals of friendships I've read in fanfiction; Harry's and Dumbledore's in particular. The story takes a while to lead you there, the first half raises my hackles a bit actually; but then it blossoms into such a rich cast of characters, wholesome arcs and clever plots, and into a Harry that is so satisfying to follow.

(Although the fic contains a M/M relationship, I would not easily categorise it as slash—it misses all the other characteristic features of the genre. If I remember correctly, Eider_Down once commented they wouldn't know how to write a straight relationship, with them being gay; and that's simply it. I'd encourage you not to miss out on this excellent adventure just because you usually avoid this tag.)