Fíli, Ori and Bilba are immediately escorted from the room full of the representatives of the gathered people of Middle Earth and taken to a wide, open garden filled with the song of birds and the delicate, tinkling splash of a fountain. Bilba's attention is, quite quickly, taken by three she-elves who approach and invite her to join them for tea. It is an invitation which she accepts with annoying alacrity for one who had, only a day ago, berated him for leaving her alone. He conveniently ignores the fact that he will still have Ori for company and that Bilba has probably missed female companionship. The whole thing, his bad temper, the possessive desire to keep what he knows close and the uncertainty that gnaws at his guts, boils down to his uncle. Fíli scowls. If Thor even really is his uncle. He is deeply hurt by the events of the last couple of days, having been treated so dismissively by the one who raised him, mostly ignored and sent away as little more than an inconvenience. He watches Bilba pause just long enough to mutter something to Ori and for a moment he thinks she will approach him too, but she just shoots him a small smile and darts away to join her new companions.
Fíli flops down, lying along the edge of the fountain and trailing his fingers through the cool, clear water. His mind is racing, full of doubts and questions that he needs answers to as he desperately tries to work out where he stands in the grand scheme of the world. Who is he really? Is he truly the son of Víli and Dís or did Thor just pull those names out of the air because Fíli asked? Is Thor really his uncle? Can he be his uncle and still be Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf of legend and mystery? He doesn't know, but every doubt he has ever stamped down on whispers in the back of his mind now. Every time he has tried to tell himself that Balin's use of the name had been a mistake there had been other evidence to the contrary in the way the others behave and how his uncle's name sounds incomplete from their lips, their lack of surprise or confusions when the elf twins had used the name Thorin. It all adds up to the idea that Thor is Thorin and Thorin cannot possibly be Fíli's uncle.
"Fíli?" Ori approaches him almost tentatively. The young dwarf cracks one eye open to look at his friend. Ori is standing a few paces away, his eyes downcast and his fingers playing with the hem of his cardigan. His hands are bare, Fíli realises, his ever-present scribe's gloves missing for the first time in decades and the seemingly permanent ink stains on his fingers from many hours of writing for whatever coin others would pay him are gone.
"What is it, Ori?" He asks, not intending to sound as short with his friend as he ends up doing. Ori's eyes turn away briefly and Fíli sits, a frown creasing his features.
"You didn't know, did you?" Ori mutters. "About Thorin, Thor? About Thor being Thorin. You didn't know?" Fíli stares for a moment, sitting abruptly so that he can look at his friend properly. They have covered this before, on the day before they left, and Fíli still has trouble believing the ever-mounting proof that his uncle isn't who he says he is.
"No," Fíli huffs. "I still don't- If he's Thorin he can't be my uncle, and if he's my uncle he can't be Thorin."
"Maybe it's not that simple," Ori suggests. "What if he's like Durin? Reborn every time he's needed?"
"Then he wouldn't hide who he is," Fíli shakes his head. "He would have told me." He glares at Ori who has turned away slightly, his gaze fixed on a small shrub of some sort that is covered in white flowers. "You knew," he accuses when Ori refuses to look him in the eye. "How? How could you know it when I didn't? How could you not tell me?"
"Nori explained what he knew last night, he ordered me not to tell you," Ori whispers. "He said he didn't know why Thorin didn't want you to know, only that it was important you didn't." Fíli feels bile rising in the back of his throat. All of his companions, including his closest friend, have been keeping this from him and treating him like a fool.
"You're my best friend," Fíli's voice is low, but the depth of his hurt is still clear. "You should have told me."
"Fíli-"
"I had a right to know!" He shouts. "You should have told me!"
Ori looks like he's going to say something else, make some excuse but Fíli doesn't want to hear it. There is nothing that Ori can say that can change the fact that he feels utterly abandoned, cut off from everyone he knows and loves and he's so very confused. He backs away and sees Ori's face fall, watches his friend reach out and darts from his grip, running almost without meaning to and unaware of where his feet are taking him or even the changing scenery. He just needs to be away, away from the people who have lied to him and kept so many secrets.
His heart pounds in his chest, his breath is sharp and increasingly hard to catch and still he runs. He runs until he finds himself ankle deep in a pool at the base of a waterfall and that is where he stops. He lets his legs give way and sinks to his knees, heedless of the cold water soaking through his boots and trousers. He has no idea how long he stays that way, chest heaving, pulse racing, sweat drying on his skin and clothes. He dimly sees the blazing orange of the sunset turn the waterfall into a fiery cascade and registers the numbness of his legs and the chill that seeps gradually upwards as the silvery light of the rising moon begins to make itself known. With the loss of the burning light of the sun so too does the burn of betrayal begin to cool. It does not become forgiveness, nor does it become acceptance. It grows cold, almost icy, a chill in his veins of resentment and loneliness.
He gets to his feet, stumbling at the lack of feeling in them from so long kneeling in the cool water. He pauses at the edge of the pool to empty his water filled boots and makes his way back to the guest quarters slowly, feeling the exhaustion from his own emotional turmoil and his flight keenly. By the time he gets back his trousers have dried, although his boots are still wet, and he walks past the shared common room quietly, not expecting to find anyone there and so surprised when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and stops his progress.
"Where have you been?" His uncle demands.
"Exploring," Fíli shrugs and doesn't expand on his activities like he usually would.
"You were supposed to stay with Ori," Thor continues. "I would rather you were not alone at any time and kept to this wing otherwise."
"What does it matter to you?" Fíli asks. "Given the revelations of the last couple of days I'd think you would be relieved if I hadn't come back, no need to explain why you've been lying to me my whole life." For a moment Thor's face is so open that Fíli can see the devastation in his expression, then it slides back to the regal stillness of Thorin and the younger is no longer certain of what he had seen. "Did Kíli know?" He demands. "Did Kíli know you'd been lying to us?"
"I am your uncle, Fíli," is the reply in a more gentle tone. "I have never lied about that. I had planned to tell you together, when you were older and ready for what it meant. Kíli never knew."
"Good," Fíli breathes, "I need to rest."
He pulls away from his uncle, trudging down the corridor without looking back until he finds his room and barricading himself inside against the voices of Dwalin and Thorin as they move slowly past, their footsteps halting at the door and followed by a loud sigh before continuing on again. Fíli strips out of his clothes and sodden boots and clambers onto the too large bed, flopping back against the pillows and relieved that sleep comes to him almost instantly, regardless of his too busy thoughts. By some blessing of Mahal his dreams are peaceful and nothing that he would remember upon his awakening.
He wakes the next day with that nagging feeling in his gut which usually bothers him most when he has done something he knows he should not have, something that would disappoint his uncle. An afternoon of distraught thought has been quite ample to show him that nothing is as he believed and that he needs answers, at least a few of them, for his own peace of mind if nothing else. After he has whatever answers the others will give him he can work out where to go from here. Thor has guided him all of his life, cared for him and loved him and Fíli has no wish to believe that has only ever been a deception. Thor was rarely forthcoming with answers, however, and now that he seems to have taken on the mantle of Thorin Fíli suspects he will be even less so.
He has risen late, he realises, later than he has ever done, even on rest days, and there is no sign of his friends who he really owes apologies to for his behaviour and causing them concern. They are not at fault for the secrets Thorin has kept or for abiding by his wishes. He wanders aimlessly, first in search of breakfast which he pilfers from the kitchens while the cook is distracted with preparations for the evening meal, and then he makes his way into the gardens. Even with his exertions the day before he is restless, itching with energy that boils and rumbles just under the surface of his skin. He needs to do something, and he has no idea what.
"Lost?" A half familiar voice asks and one of the twins hops off a nearby roof, his softly shod feet making no sound as he lands, and Fíli hides a twitch of envy.
"Bored," he replies. "Where is everyone?"
"In the meeting of course," the elf says, Elladan Fíli thinks from the slightly more grey shade of his eyes.
"You're not," Fíli points out. "Are they keeping secrets from you as well?" There's something satisfying about that thought.
"Trying to," Elladan shrugs. "Our father knows it is an exercise in futility at this point, but he tries all the same. Elrohir is the bigger liability anyway, he never did get the hang of thinking before he speaks."
"I heard that," the other twin appears. "Now will you be silent before Ada hears you as well?" His blue eyes run over Fíli for a moment and the two seem to have a silent conversation. "If you can keep quiet you can join us," he offers, then tilts his head. "Are dwarves capable of silence?"
"We're capable of a lot of things that elves aren't," Fíli grins. The twins exchange a look and Fíli suspects he has unknowingly issued them with a challenge.
"Growing to a proper height not being one of them," Elladan observes, crouching so that he can give Fíli a step up the wall, although Fíli would probably be able to work out a way to the top without the help. Exerting himself that way seems pointless, however, when the elf has offered the help and there is a sort of satisfaction at the surprise on his face at Fíli's weight.
The roof they have climbed onto is a gentle incline that falls short of the height of the courtyard where the meeting is being held by enough that Fíli can stand, the top of his head hidden by potted plants that have been evenly placed around the open edge and partially obscure his view. The twins sit with their legs stretched in front of them, their backs against the wall and their heads tilted back with the appearance of being completely at ease and with no desire to see what is happening. Fíli, meanwhile, cannot hide his own curiosity as he takes in what he can. The chairs have been placed in a horseshoe, the open end in the same direction as the open end of the courtyard, two Men stand there arguing, one with hair as golden as Fíli's and the other with silver streaked chestnut hair and a cruel scar that cuts through one eye. The subject of their argument escapes Fíli completely, though he catches phrases such as "you were responsible" and "wizards are slippery" among the other accusations. He turns his gaze away from the Men, eyes skimming over several elves with hair as pale as the midwinter sun and expressions equally as cold, several other Men with hair the colour of wheat fields separate these elves from Fíli's own party. Dwalin and Nori stand beside each other behind Thorin, who is watching with a haughty expression that looks far too natural on his usually kind face. Balin leans in to say something softly, his words lost in the noise of the Men, while Ori scribbles furiously with his pen. Fíli feels a flare of envy at the realisation that Ori has been invited to take part, evidently as a record keeper.
"Enough!" Gandalf stands from his place between Fíli's companions and another party of dwarrow. "The matter of who is to blame for this betrayal is one we could argue over until the end of days. Rohan and Isengard have long been friends, perhaps they should have seen the changes in the White Wizard, but the eyes of Men grow dull and fade long before those of dwarf or elf and neither of those races noticed anything amiss. Nor, indeed, did Radagast or myself, who should, perhaps, have been the first to see it. The simple fact is; we are betrayed and before we try to retrieve that which was stolen, perhaps it would be best to know how."
The Men separate and return to the empty seats where their fellows have been watching the argument with barely restrained hostility. Fíli waits.
"Lord Frerin," Thorin speaks, "perhaps you can enlighten us? The Jewel has been under your guardianship."
Another dwarf inclines his head and stands. His braids are blond, streaked through with hints of red that speaks of Firebeard ancestry and silver which speaks to his age. His eyes are dark in a way that reminds Fíli of his lost brother and his thick beard is braided with intricately shaped clasps of gold and ruby holding them in place. Though he is obviously not armed he moves more as a warrior than as one accustomed to sitting for long periods, his hands seeming to seek the pommel of a sword that is not at his hip to rest against.
"Truthfully," he says, "we aren't entirely sure how it was achieved." There are some murmurs among the others. "As all here know, the Jewel is bonded to the elder line of Durin and only Durin's heir may touch it." Fíli sees Gandalf shift uncomfortably, obviously aware of something the others are not.
"A pretty myth," one of the pale elves cuts in, this one with a crown of wood that he somehow makes look more regal than all the gold in the world. "And evidently just that. Perhaps, as I argued when it was first revealed, it should have been left in the care of the Woodland Realm."
"You know as well as I that the choice was the Jewel's and not ours, yours or anyone else's," Thorin retorts. "We have discussed this many times, Thranduil, the answer will never change."
"And so you perpetuate the idea that the Jewel is bonded to Durin's line and enlist the aid of Halflings to keep the tale that the heir will one day return alive."
"They prefer to be called Hobbits," Ori mutters and then shrinks under the polar gaze of the elf king.
"If we might continue," Lord Frerin interrupts. "Much as I relish the thought of not sharing this failure of Durin's folk it is a tale I would rather complete without the commentary of others so that we can solve the problem."
"Forgive us," Thranduil sneers, "please continue to catalogue your failures." Fíli hears a soft huff from one of the twins but ignores it in favour of controlling his own reaction to the cruel words and stamping down on the hot spike of hate for the disparaging words of the elf king. To his credit Lord Frerin doesn't seem to react, even if Thorin scowls.
"I'm so glad the potential doom of the world is a source of amusement for you," the dwarf arches an eyebrow and receives a level stare in return. "The White Wizard has been an increasingly frequent visitor since I took stewardship after the untimely death of my father. He was always full of questions, questions about the Jewel, about the sword, about Durin's Bane and how he defeated it. Ever more questions about his line and the loss to all our kind with its passing. As so many of the answers belong to our kind alone, he was frequently frustrated by the end of each visit from lack of information."
"You should have told me of them," Gandalf says. Frerin shrugs.
"We thought it simply an attempt to learn more about us, even if his tone and attitude left much to be desired and was worse than that of any elf we've ever had the misfortune to deal with." That gains some chuckles from the Men as well as the dwarrow present. "A little under ten years ago he stopped visiting. We found out after the Jewel was taken that he had finally succeeded in putting one of our older librarians under the enchantment of his voice. It probably took all those long years of his visits to break through our natural hard-headedness. He must have gained whatever information he had been searching for as the visits ceased, but unaware of his control of the dwarf in question we assumed that he had admitted defeat and thought no more of it." This is met with nods and murmurs of agreement from even Thranduil.
"It was taken nearly five weeks ago," Gandalf prompts. "I received the raven with the information and who had taken it, but not how. I would have sent him back with the question, but my focus was more on gathering my companions and going after it than in getting answers and so I sent him to fetch them."
"We let him in," Frerin admits, "he has always been welcome, and we had no reason not to. The gate guards cannot be certain if he was alone or if there was another with him. They recounted his arrival with no consistency on that point, correcting themselves often when they used a plural rather than a singular and just as often the other way around too. Several who saw him arrive spoke of a small figure, about of a height with Thorin, but slight and hooded, who followed with shuffling steps as though of a great age. In the next moment, when questioned more closely, they had no idea there had been an accomplice at all." Gandalf and Thorin exchange looks.
"Is there a chance the shuffling gait of his accomplice could have been caused by chains?" Thorin asks, his face strangely intent. Frerin pauses.
"One witness thought she heard chains when the White Wizard passed her, but she did not see his accomplice," Frerin admits. "She was one of the guards in the throne room at the time of the incident, and we found her near death. She was the only survivor of whatever had occurred, though it created enough noise to draw our attention, and we assumed it to be merely an hallucination due to how close she came to greeting our maker."
"It does not do to get your hopes up too high, Thorin," Gandalf says. "There may yet be another explanation." Fíli sees the near desperate hope that had covered Thorin's face fall away and he wonders what they could possibly be referring to. "Continue."
"There isn't much more to tell," Frerin shrugs. "We tracked them to the Western Gate, which may be impossible to open from the outside but is easy enough to do from within if you know how. The Watcher in the lake outside, however, has rendered it unusable for us, at least. The wizard had no trouble getting past it." He shifts his attention to Thranduil, though Fíli cannot see his face. "What think you of our failures now, Woodland King?" He snarls.
"Calm yourself, Lord Frerin," one of the Men says. "Even Thranduil must agree that your people did nothing his would not have done. We all believed Saruman to be a friend."
"Perhaps we should adjourn for the day," Elrond suggests, "before tempers are permitted to fray more than they already have."
"Time to go," Elrohir breathes. "Come along, young dwarf, let us go to the practice ring and you can show us if you are any good with those two swords of yours. Better they do not suspect we were here."
Fíli finds himself spirited down paths and through corridors with one elf in front and one behind and his thoughts whirling with everything he has heard. At least he knows what they are following now. It would seem that Saruman the White has betrayed them and stolen the Arkenstone, the Jewel of Durin.
