Part 1: Chapter 11: In Hollow Halls Beneath the Fells

After the wind had taken the ash, Thorin stepped back from the ledge and waited for Sona to turn, watching strands of her hair lifting behind her in the breeze. A moment later she was walking, and he stepped in beside her, matching her stride. Her breathing eased into relaxed humming of a tune he had heard her honing before, as they turned on the path that led to the bath halls. Thorin's mind snapped to Arwen, remembering yet again where they were... Sona took the path toward her room, and he remained walking beside her, unwilling to break her musical contemplation, or the comfort she seemed to gain from it. The tune was lovely, though so utterly foreign to his ears, as were many of the tunes she sang. This one, however, felt closer to her, and he wondered–– no. What was he doing, walking toward her rooms?

He tugged at the pocket Fíli had only just sewn for him, extracting the rainbow blade; he had meant to return it, his thumb caressed the spine as they made their way.

The path followed a narrow lake, full of dark from the starlit sky. He knew it turned into a fall some distance ahead; the crashing water underscored the flute in her melody.

"What is this tune you hum?"

"Oh, uh," she startled, looking surprised at his question, and his brows knit together, wondering why. "Just a song I've been working on."

A song. One of your own. "Play it for us one evening soon?" he asked, smiling at her, feeling close because she had shared it, and he wondered––no. What, with these questions? Ease off. "Otherwise I fear for Bofur's jovial heart. He still begrudges your serenade to the Trolls."

She laughed, and the sound cracked over him like a summer thunderstorm. He froze; she'd laughed at his joke, and his heart swelled warm, in spite of the shock. "Someone had to save your skin," she quipped on her next breath, smiling like she'd just tripped Dwalin in a spar match.

Yes, Thief. You stole our lives back. And we thank you for it. He smiled slightly, looking in her eyes.

"And I will play it for the Company," she continued as her step slowed. "Once I finish it, that is." She stopped at a set of white columns gracing the entrance to her rooms, and turned to face him.

They were close, of a level, and at the end of the evening, and he was staring, unwilling to move. But there was nothing for it. "I meant to return this before now," he said, lifting his hand with her knife upon it. Her eyes widened with a spark of joy, and he couldn't stop his desire to add shine to her smile–– "I would not have you think me a Thief."

She laughed! "Oh goodness, no. I know how you feel about Thieves!"

Do you? Can you be so sure? What if I don't know?

"Besides, we have been very busy…"

Running, fighting, holding, dining, walking––

"…what with Orcs, and Elves, dinner parties, and midnight meetings…"

Is that what this is? He was warmer, thinking it.

"You've hardly had a chance to give it back."

A chance. What chance? What was this? Then she took the knife, her fingers over his palm, cool against his heat. Then they were gone. "Thank you," she said in the hollow between them.

"No…" He barely hesitated, weighing all of it. "Thank you." You came back. You saved our lives. You, Asti.

Now she looked away, chewing her lip–– his gaze had been too fierce. What was wrong with him? "It's a good knife, though somewhat crudely made," he said, and then he attempted a joke. "I could do without the Elven lines."

She choked down a laugh, and peeved humor spread over her face.

He could only stare. But that would not do. "The metal is new to me. Quite hard. And the rainbow wash is exquisite."

"It's heat treated titanium…"

Titani––

"One of the strongest metals in existence."

Stronger than mithril? I doubt that. But she smiled and he did not care to correct; he rather only wanted to watch her. She still held the blade aloft in her hand, filling the space between them. Without thinking why, he reached out to touch it once more, when her lips drew into the shape of a hard kiss, and he froze.

"David gave it…"

Binumral. Thorin pulled back. What was he thinking?

"…to me for my…"

He wasn't' thinking… and now she had stopped, her face crumpled in thought, looking toward the stars…

Would she find answer there?

Thorin let coldness sink inside him. He had held onto this blade, this gift…as grounding. No… more than that… And he felt vile for it. He should have known, or guessed…

"…Twenty-second? Twenty-third birthday?"

A mere babe. But she is no mere babe. Such is the span of life for people of Men. He swallowed, feeling lost.

This would not do. He backed off. "Goodnight––"

"How do you…" she interrupted, she always interrupted…"say 'thank you' in Dwarvish?"

Dwarvish? "Pardon?" he asked her, suddenly stopped from leaving.

"That language you guys are always speaking when you don't think I'm paying attention."

How much are you paying attention? And why?

She drew a finger to her ear. "At least, I assume it's Dwarvish. It sounds like the Dwarf word for Moria, Khazad-dûm."

Oh Mahal, how she spoke it, all breath and vibration, it ran through him like molten gold to the casting forms. When had he ever felt so alive? But he stopped himself short, rather loosely fixated on the fact that she chewed her lip yet again. He pulled his own against his teeth, to feel the edge. And then she was focused on him, her long lashes partly closed, like an invitation. But, no. Quit with this.

"Did I say it right?"

He moved to open his mouth but nothing came. And then a look of worry clouded her face. This would not do. He attempted smiling, and it seemed to work, but he felt like he was hanging on climbing-rope traversing down a snow-filled mountain-side. Then he managed a short nod. And then his mind caught up to the fact that she knew some words in Khuzdûl… and spoke so casually, as though she moved without thought across a sacred shrine. But she did not mean offense. This he knew without doubt…

"Khuzdûl," he finally breathed out, wary of his own voice. "Where did you learn it?"

Her face crinkled in confusion.

"There is no 'Dwarvish'," he smiled at the term, somehow endearing coming from her. "We call it Khuzdûl," he said out loud. Out loud. Holy Mahal. What was he doing? Did she really want to know? "Our Language… it's sacred."

And now her face filled with color and she seemed to draw closer without moving, as if she asked for something, but she would not say it. "I don't actually know Khuzdûl. Just a few words from my…" she hesitated, her face twisting like she'd bitten on a sour nut…"readings."

The 'books'. Of course. But how did our sacred words wind up in a document not written by Dwarves? Even we rarely write them out in script… Balin would be appalled… And everyone glaring at Ori… Did Ori have something to do with this? Thorin wondered, still staring at her face, a face full of open questions.

And then he decided, and filled the space between her. He would give her what she asked. "Âkmînruk zu."

"What?" She didn't know this phrase. But then she understood and her eyes widened into the grandest of smiles. "Oh! Aack-min-rook-tsu. Thank you!"

Not bad. Thorin nodded, unable to hold back the smile clamoring for release. Balin would have my beard, or what I keep of it. Except he can't. Thorin smirked to himself. Such are the small benefits of being Heir. But he tarried too long–– "I shall try again to take my leave." He backed away once more. "Goodnight, Thief."

"Oh, wait, no." But she would not let him leave. "Hang on just one moment." She turned to her door, the gossamer silk swirling about her, the hint of lavender assailing him yet again. "Let me just get you your hanky or else you really will think I'm a Thief."

"But you are." A small chuckle escaped him. You are my Thief, with all you have stolen…

But then the door was open and her Dog was on the threshold, growling and twice as large as usual, teeth bared, with her hair standing on end, and Thorin's reality returned. What was he thinking this whole night? The Thief was no more his than the moon or stars, all equally beyond his reach.

"Sasha, no! Bad!" The Thief was there in a second, restraining her Dog, who clearly had forgotten about as much as Thorin had of their first encounter, which was––absolutely nothing. "Thorin is a friend."

What? Friend? When did that happen? The Dog calmed instantly, as though Óin had given her one of his relaxation tonics, and now the Thief dragged her back into the recesses of her room, leaving him alone in the hall, partially stunned. Did the Thief actually like him, beyond being polite?

"Better not come in!" she called out to him.

And that he laughed out loud, nearly coughing on his surprise, quashing thoughts of the intimacy sure to be found there, the bed, the sheets, her gracious form in flowing silks and lavender gliding through the room as she spoke freely––"I wouldn't dare dream it."

"Stay," he heard her order the Dog. And then she was back at the door with his hanky in hand, flushed and breathing hard, pulling the door shut behind her. He couldn't help glance down her throat at the darkening of her skin, and lower, at the rise and fall of her chest. Eyes up, Thorin, and just as fast he was looking back in her golden browns. Friend.

Her breath was a smile. "She's usually not that bad."

The Dog? You must be kidding–– Thorin's hand went to the wrist who had met Sasha's teeth, and he grimaced.

"Sasha was David's, or rather, he was hers." There was a haunting in the darkness around her eyes, and he saw she was tired, leaning still, her breathing slowing, he could see her heartbeat through the pulse of her neck, and the scent of lavender touched him once more. He wished he could ease her burden, but that in turn seemed to cause a restlessness in his own heart. He knew what she wanted: she wanted home. He had no way to get her there, and if he could, if he knew… "She sometimes minds me," the Thief continued on about her Dog. "But only if she feels like it. And she's super protective of me because she knows I was important to David."

Ah, the key to the puzzle. Sasha is a worthy friend to keep you safe.

She leaned deeper into the wood, pulled by her exhaustion, canting her head up, eyes twinkling in reflection of the stars. "She's way too smart for her own good."

Is smart so bad? "She appears to get on with Fíli well enough."

"Yeah, I've never seen her take a shine––"

––take a shine?

"––to anyone else before. Which reminds me." She pressed herself away from the wall and he caught his breath as she took a step toward him. "Why do Fíli and Kíli, and Dwalin for that matter, all think I'm still traveling with you?

So it was true.

"Have you not told the Company that I'm not going any further?"

No. It felt like falling, but his feet held firm. He blinked, and shrugged down on his speeding heart to slow it by force of will, adjusting into his stone mask as best he could after having been so open. Why had he been so open? What was he thinking?

Oh right. He hadn't been thinking.

And yet she still stood here before him, waiting for an answer. "So you will not," he said, for time to think, bowing his head toward her in silent acceptance, keeping his eyes on hers for the simple fact that he could not look away.

"Well, no, of course not." Of course. He had been foolish to think–– And yet she looked so confused, tired and lost. "Why would you think that? And besides, I thought you didn't even want me along…"

Mahal save him from his past foolishness. But this was unexpected, as he had not thought to visit Elves on the course of his Quest, but Tharkûn had seen to it. Tharkûn. "Gandalf took you as a traveling companion," Thorin attempted a futile explanation, unsure why it mattered so much that she knew it. "He still journeys with us." He shrugged, hoping he could let silence fill the gaps. But that would not do. No matter how hard, he could not stop explaining. "I thought it would follow."

His gaze sank, and he noticed the flagstones reflected the light of the stars; there were little bits of diamond shards embedded along the paths to light the ways as darkness deepened toward dawn.

"Er, no. I'm staying." The words were hard to hear, and yet he heard a softness in them, something like a whisper of regret.

I know you wish for home.

"Elrond is going to help me get back to my…where I came from."

Is he?

She did that face again, the stone kiss, and a worried crease formed between her brows.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts and brace his confounded emotions, clasping his hands behind him as if he could stuff all feeling there. "I see." He resolved to give counsel as far as she allowed. "And what if Elves lack the ability to send you home?"

"I…oh," she stammered. Evidently the thought hadn't occurred to her; those 'books' must indeed hold the Elves in highest regard. "I don't know."

She was chewing on her lip again; he clamped his tongue still and looked away. "I guess… I guess I really could become a… what did Kíli call me? A traveling minstrel?"

Oh that was a practical thought. "Aye," he agreed, relaxing a bit, releasing his hold and pulling a hand over his mouth. "Your skills would open doors in any hall, and you would have pupils lined up past the gates."

He stole a glance at her and saw wide hollowed eyes staring past him, he knew the look; desolation of never seeing home again. He had seen it far too often, and he grieved for her. But there was something else he saw there beyond her sadness. A spark of adventure had perhaps touched her soul, and she was not altogether unhappy here, especially now, in this place she found beautiful, fostered among Elves, an idyllic people capable of all manner of wishes.

For some.

And then her eyes widened again with something else, and he leaned forward as if to catch her from falling, silly as that seemed. "I guess… I guess I can visit all the places of Middle Earth that David would have wanted to see and leave a bit of him there."

Aye. Surely. And this would mean travel. "If this is your course, Thief, you will need to visit Erebor once it is reclaimed." Tonight had been a dream. A good one, but no less unreal. It was his Quest that would fuel him forward. He let his spirit settle into this, relaxing his arm to his side. "For you will find no grander halls in all of Middle-earth." He stopped, as if on a ridge where there were two ways down. He would not leave her without a full welcome. "And David," he whispered her deceased husband's name as he slipped farther into the hall, feeling the syllables pass his throat, striving to be reverent, "He is welcome. He should be there, too."

Why did her eyes seem to grow bigger as he made distance between them? And when did the breeze go cold? He bowed quickly, it was time, and with a swift turn he was down the path and away

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\