Part 1: Chapter 10: The Mountain Smoked Beneath the Moon

"We need to leave here before a month's out, to get to the Mountain in time," Balin said with quiet urgency as they made their way from Lord Elrond's library.

However reluctant Thorin felt at the thought––and the fact that he felt any reluctance at leaving an Elven City was entirely too unnerving––he had to agree with Balin. But instead he said nothing and they both kept walking. He took a turn to the left when Balin tapped his arm and nodded. "This way, laddie," and lead them to a high terrace overlooking a vast garden with little creeks and falls and mini islands decked in flowers set haphazardly in meandering tiny lakes, bridges weaving in and out among the slopes. Why this mess? How did they ever find their way? Leaning against a wide benched banister, they both pulled out their tobacco pouches and set to work preparing their pipes.

"The Elf Lord has summoned someone here since we arrived," Thorin muttered under his breath as he packed the bowl down and pulled out his light.

Balin frowned all the harder, already puffing, shrouding his face in a billow of smoke. "Who do you think he summoned, Thorin?"

"I sensed deeper plurality in his choice of 'we' as he spoke with Tharkûn, suggesting a number bigger than the two of them, as he questioned the wisdom of our business..."

"He has no say in our business," Balin said with a crisp settling of his jaw.

Agreed. "Tharkûn mentioned the danger of Dol Guldur; some threat he had heard from Radagast."

"What has this to do with us?"

"Nothing, and yet we should not lose the Wizard's company just because we are unwilling to wait within the time frame allowed." Thorin watched as Balin's eyes rose up to meet his, a smirk clearly beneath them.

"You're not in much of a hurry to get on with it, laddie." When Thorin opened his mouth to object, Balin raised his hand for silence. "You didn't answer my question before. Who do you think Lord Elrond has summoned?"

Thorin smiled, admiring his Advisor's command of the course of their conversation, directed deftly along with the barb onto matters of time management. Thorin opted to ignore the jibe and answer the question: "Past the Mountains, there is the Elven Queen to the South; some call her the Elf Witch, of terrible power. And, in addition, there is the woods to the North of her realm. The matter of the Necromancer within them could be of interest to Lord Thranduil." Thorin's lip curled on that name, brow sinking all the more. "Perhaps there are other Elves Lord Elrond deems wise enough to ask; I do not know their names."

Balin snickered, his lips lifting slightly as a spark returned to his eyes.

"Perhaps he means some other of the Istari." Thorin shrugged, expecting interference in any case.

But it did not matter. He would not be stopped.

And yet–– Leaving. That felt terribly impossible. He refused to think about why as his eyes roved the expansive sprawling maze of paths through the water-filled garden.

"Tharkûn will deflect them, whoever they may be," Balin nodded reassuringly.

Thorin raised a brow. "You should have seen his deflections during dinner––"

"Speaking of dinner," Balin interrupted, his face now entirely widened by smiles, "how was it with Sona for company?"

Thorin clamped his mouth shut and stared at Balin with his stone face firmly set.

After a while Balin simply winked, drew a long puff and looked away over the expanse.

They both stilled at the sight of two individuals slowly walking over the tallest arc bridge, stopping at its center, an Elf-maid: wait, that is Lady Arwen. And with her a young Man, barely bearded. She was laughing at something the Man said, and he smiled shyly back at her, bowing his eyes out of sight. Thorin glanced at Balin, feeling like they trespassed. His concern must have showed; the old Advisor simply angled his face back, winking once again as he shook his head. 'We were here first, laddie,' he signed. 'And she's an interesting one, that wee Elf-lass.'

"She's not so small, Balin."

"Aye, there's power in her, a hefty measure of it. But she shines like a child on Durin's Day with that one," Balin's voice was strangely teasing as he said those words, aiming his head back at the young man with the Elf-maid. "You won't tell me about dinner," Balin finally said, just as Lady Arwen and her young companion made their way off the bridge and out of sight.

Thorin would not fall for Balin's round-about prying. "Lord Elrond knew the blades we found, and shared their history."

Balin cocked his brow, interest waging a contest against dissatisfaction over his face.

"They belonged to King Turgon, Lord of the fallen city of Gondolin."

Balin pointed his pipe wand at Thorin's chest. "You're going to tell me about the history of some blades we found in the Troll Hoard, when you could be telling me about what really interested you at dinner? I saw you––"

"Stop it, Balin."

His Advisor pursed his lips in silence for a moment before nodding. "You'll need to come to terms soon enough." Then he smiled. "Let me know what those terms are, once you find them."

Thorin paced in the Hall before their rooms, entirely unable to sleep and unwilling to try. He found his steps leading back toward the dinning hall, up the stairs to the high table where they sat. Had that been just a few hours ago? Thorin shook his head.

What was he going to do? Durin's Day––They could not tarry long to make it on time. Why in Durin's name was he so conflicted? He remembered her hands on the guitar, nimble fingers weaving over strings with speed and grace, and wondered how they would feel in his hair, braiding––Just stop, he nearly hissed aloud, teeth clenched, trying to block thinking. He had thought enough for one day.

His eyes landed on the upright harp set in a glade below, just off the way from the lower tables within a tiny glen of moss and trees, and he went to it, hoping somehow that by playing he could ease his mind. Such actions had worked in the past, for other worries, so perhaps. He took the seat to the back of the harp and pulled the solid upright against his chest over his left shoulder, settling the instrument comfortingly in the crook near his neck. He shut his eyes to the pleasant feel of the weight against him, his hands spread over the strings, welcoming the call to music. To distraction. He savored the feel of the wind through his hair, touching the skin of his face and hands as he began to strum the chords of the song he'd been working on these past months, the one about Home, the Dragon and the Misty Mountains stretched out before them. Then he began to hum the tune, before settling into quietly singing the newest lyrics––

"Farewell we call to hearth and home,"

Life was full of partings. His heart felt heavy.

"The wind may blow and rain may fall,"

And most likely will. This was not helping.

"We must away ere break of day,"

No. They had time for one more night. Or one month. No more. His Company needed rest from running––

"Far over the world and Mountain tall."

––And Lord Elrond had good wine.

At a hint of lavender in the air he turned his head slightly.

She was there. "Asti," he hummed below his breath. She'd stumbled upon him playing, startling herself, startling him as she stood there awash in the partial light of the moon. Oh Mahal what she wore! He took a look at her through lidded eyes, this was a dream–– but no. She was there, he saw, he heard, he could very nearly feel, stilling the strings with his hands. She was clad in a blue silk shift of the finest weave, with a sheer gold robe flowing over it. Blue and gold. And her feet were bare. He focused with his eyes half shut, staring at the slender toes peeking beneath the soft silk bunched at her feet where she stopped so suddenly the gown chased ahead of her. A smile tugged his cheeks as he noticed her nails, all ten painted red.

He heard her gasp and his eyes widened partly, rising to meet hers.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

An apology for entering the glen? Surely this was open space for all? Her face grew darker with each fraction of a second she stood in silence. "I thought you were an Elf."

What? No. He looked her full on, wondering how she'd suddenly become so confused.

"No, I mean, I know you're not an Elf." He sensed her embarrassment growing upon itself. He watched, uncertain how to respond, how to put her at ease, at the same time trying to tame his smile. "What I meant was, I didn't realize you played."

But she was getting so exited he wished she would relax, and above all––

"If I'd known it was you…"

––Stay.

"…I would never have..." Her eyes, staring back at him, grew river rock round.

I wish you would…

All of a sudden she twirled and hurried back.

"That day you were thieving from me," he hailed low, hoping to stop her, "surely you saw my travel harp." His eyes eased when she wavered, delicately glancing at him over her bare shoulder draped in gold.

She sighed into the air toward him.

"Or were you too focused on my food to notice anything else?" he teased further, hoping she would smile. He bowed his head in welcome, hoping she would return. He watched her chew her lip, knowing she considered it, pulling the flesh of his bottom lip against his teeth, just to feel the hardness.

She looked at him then, from his face to his neck to his shoulder down his side to his hips, to the instrument in his embrace, with a look that he dared not call jealousy or desire––to his––no. It was the instrument; she loved Elven things.

Her eyes flashed to his as though she were suddenly embarrassed, just as her color darkened once again, and he wondered maybe she had been looking at his––Please don't leave. "Do you play?" He set the harp upright and moved to stand.

"No, no, please don't get up." Now she rushed in protest, nearly tripping on the edges of the robes tangling her feet.

He was up before she caught herself from falling. Exasperation filled her face as her gaze fell to the gold robes opening as she moved, revealing strength and grace in her form escaping the fabric. Soft skin, cleavage, how would it feel, his lips parted to breathe in the cool air. What in Mahal's name was wrong with him?

"I don't play." She adjusted the robes loosely about her.

His eyes glanced off her shoulder, to her neck, to her eyes. Please don't leave. He stopped before her, stifling the need to reach out and make sure she was steady. "So when you said you played nearly every stringed instrument..."

"This is one of the few I don't." She swallowed hard, looking nearly crimson in embarrassment, and he had no clear idea why. Surely she did not believe she had to know how to play every kind? Her eyes skipped from her right to her left and back, as though she searched for lost directions. "Why are you here?" she asked him quickly.

Why not? He flashed the question back at her, unsure what she truly wished to know. Rude, he thought, coming from one who was never rude. This surely meant something––she was greatly discomforted. And he glanced down, seeing a silver object nestled in her arms, and then back to her face, wondering what she was about, with no idea how to answer her pointed question.

"I mean... you're still in your travel clothes––"

What did she think of his travel clothes, filled with the dust and grime of their travels? He had no time beyond the hand washing for any such fine things… but a bath was coming. He smiled, looking forward to the heat, and then he was looking at her and wishing she'd–– he quashed the thought, suddenly hot enough. So he blinked, looking at how well she freshened up. She had discarded her own travel clothes for–– far better. His eyes roamed over the shape of her beneath the silken folds.

"… and so I assume you haven't gone to bed…"

Who can sleep?

"… and you and Elrond…"

Elves.

"…and Gandalf…"

Wizards.

"…and Balin…"

Balin saw us. He saw––

"…all disappeared, and well…"

Well. And now her skin flushed yet again, and she was looking in his eyes with something like a question. But she did not ask it.

"I couldn't sleep." She said.

Thorin smiled on the inside; he was not alone, being restless. "You are not the only one who calms their mind with music." His eyes wandered back down to the closed silver vase she held embraced to her chest, and he wondered what it was. He had seen it before, peeking out of her pack when they settled in and out of camps. She carried it with a gentle force, care not to drop it quite evident, always packing it deep inside her other possessions to keep it safe. He looked at the silver gleam, the intricate black wash etchings; it was well wrought, but enigmatic; did it open? What what inside?

"This is what's left of my husband's ashes," she said, as though she heard his thoughts.

Revulsion pulsed through him. What was she doing with that here? But just as quickly he pressed this inner roiling down.

And she lifted her arms with it carefully upward and to him, offering for him to take it. She would hand him her husband's ashes? He did not understand, but she asked, and he felt the asking as he reached out for what she handed him, baffled, fighting for stillness.

He took it in his hands.

She sighed in relief. Yes, she needed this from him.

But why, exactly? His body hardened some as his eyes followed hers to the silver locked vase bearing her husband's remains. Never mind the remains. It is her custom. Look at the silver work. The silver. It was finely wrought, with tiny elegant hinges and a straight and steady inscription he realized was her husband's name. He let his fingers move over the script.

"David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor," she recited the inscription.

What did the names mean? He looked into her eyes for grounding. Who did they honor? Why did her people burn their Deceased? Why did she carry his ashes? How dare he even think to ask?

"What would you like to know?" She asked unflinchingly.

Could she truly read his mind? No. No no no. Not possible. And he would not ask. Instead he handed back the vase, bowing slightly. "It is well made."

A flash of surprise crossed over her face, but she was eased, he could feel it in her posture. "Thank you." She stepped away to the overlook, and he missed the contact of her gaze instantly. "I don't know what Dwarves do when someone dies…"

We lay them in Stone until the Wakening Day.

"… but I imagine it has something to do with the earth and some sort of burial."

Stone.

He watched her finger trail over David Ho'ard Jones Jun'yor's name.

"That's what David's family wanted."

Her voice was soft but he could feel the pain beneath.

"… but David always told me he liked aspects of my family's Hindu…"

Hindu?

"… tradition… specifically cremation."

Thorin wondered why but had no inclination to ever ask, pressing thoughts of the aftermath of Dragon's fire from his memory.

But this was hard.

Dwarves wanted a bonding to the stone on passing, as a memory until waking. They felt, if the body were burned, this left nothing for stone to remember, and that they will then be forgotten. We had taken the memory of our burned dead to the Blue Mountains, and within them is the Memory Hall, where the best sculptors we could find made likenesses of those we lost, to aid their way back…

She walked toward the edge of the glade to their left. He followed step for step, where trees opened a way through a tiny wooded nook near a gathering of falls, the crashing water spraying the air about them. He tried to focus on the sound of her voice, and not the subject of her loss… why did he feel loss, too? But the effort was entirely useless. He wished he could offer some comfort, but he could find no words, and he certainly could not give in to his desire to embrace her…

"Ever since then I've been traveling to David's favorite places to leave a bit of him behind…"

This is a strange custom, yet she saw beauty in it, and it brought her some manner of peace, and this soothed him somehow, to be of assistance to her here. He knew she needed company as he watched her describe this custom, her arms circling tight over the vase.

"… the Appalachian Trail, Zion's, Moab, Denali…"

Places of her world. Places they loved…

"…I've never met anybody who loved all aspects of nature more than him."

What did she mean, nature? The wind took her hair and combed through it and several strands flew up in the circling breeze. And she smiled.

Somehow he could forget when she smiled, and he felt a lifting in his heart.

"I was actually going to our favorite hiking spot to leave the last of his ashes."

Was that when she came here?

"He's long since moved onto his next life."

Next life?

"It is time for me to do the same."

Do what? Please don't say die...

And just then she looked at him. And he waited as she wished, nodding once to bring her ease. She was at once timid and shy, but open and clearly grateful.

And she was biting her lip again, and looking away, eyes glancing off the Elven statues posed all around them, looking more alive with her there… "I can't think of a more lovely place to leave a part of him."

The Lonely Mountain––

Fingers visibly shaking, she moved to open the vase and almost dropped it before his hands enveloped hers and the vase, holding them all secure, calming her tremors. He'd moved without thinking, and now his hands cradled hers above the vase. When would he ever use his brain? But her hands were soft and cool, and still shaking, and he could tell she needed him there, somehow, though he did not understand. He kept his hands over hers as she opened the vase beneath a circling breeze. It caught itself into the vase, lifting parts of the ash out into the air of the Elven City. Thorin did not see the ashes float away on the breeze. Not while he watched her eyes, full of wonder and hope, take in the whole of her surroundings

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

A/N: This was a big moment for Sona. Wonder what she thought? Find out in Jenny-Wren28's "On The Road To Find Out," listed in my favorites.

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