Part 1: Chapter 12: To Seek the Pale Enchanted Gold

"Did you see her," Dwalin asked when Thorin was back.

"Aye," Thorin muttered, eying his friend warily from the side. He was tired of talking.

"She was smiling quite favorably on you," Dwalin looked away across the bridged glen just off their rooms, two falls edging either side of it, trees rimming the land between the falls.

Thorin frowned back at him, disbelieving. Surely she did not look at him so?

"And you were smiling more than I've ever seen in one sitting. Even Lord Elrond saw it." Dwalin nodded, his eyes shining beyond their normal 'know-it-all' luster. "You need not deny it."

Thorin stared at him, unmoving, but not angry. His frown slowly dissolved.

"You need not say anything, as well you know." Dwalin clasped Thorin's shoulder and brought his head up against his brow in a friendly head-butt. "Just as much or little as you wish, I can take it." Dwalin let go.

Oh he was sorely tempted to give a litany of complaints. But he was not yet ready to say anything out loud, especially something he'd been refusing to articulate up to now, even to himself. He shook his head slightly and nodded toward his room. "I am tired, travel worn, and there's a bath in there waiting, I saw it before; do you know? They've given us rooms with running water, complete with faucets and drains, elaborate fixtures, the plumbing on a level with the Lonely Mountain's best, Dwalin." Thorin smiled, thinking of it. "A long, deep-seated bath. Mahal willing there's hot water, and I can let my mind relax."

Dwalin snorted, shaking his head with another meaning. "Mahal willing, more than just your mind."

The bath was already drawn, and hot, steam rising the way Thorin liked it. He wondered how the Elves knew, and felt a smidge of ease toward them, swallowing his surprise as he moved toward it, a long tub of porcelain, in black, with gold flowing lines whirling over the edges as a vine might. The room was lit with sundry candles and a torch above the tub. Seemed not all Elves were without compassion or hospitality. Someone had readied the water with soothing herbs, sage and rosemary. There were towels and soaps laid out on a ledge of the tub, and a vase filled with lavender near the bed. Thorin fetched his comb and his oils, set them next to the soaps. He then stripped as quickly as he could and settled into the heat of the bath, taking it in and sinking down until the water was up to his chin, nudging the bristles of his beard with the motion of his settling. And then he lay still, still as could be, for as long as it took, and the water stayed hot beyond the normal span, the tub seemed to somehow hold that heat. After a while, the heat managed to sooth the edge in his blood, and he undid his braids and washed his hair, combed it slowly out, spreading it through the water, then combing in his oils of cardamom and pine.

It felt like, somehow, for the good of this water, or whatever it was the Elves had put in it, he would be able to rest tonight.

Fíli met him just outside his chambers the next morning, looking as fresh as Thorin felt, that is until he noticed Fíli's face was full of the same question he had the evening before. This time Thorin didn't wait for it. "I did not ask, I will not ask, because I cannot ask, and you very well know why."

"Morning, N'adad. Did you enjoy dinner?" Fíli had one brow raised and a smirk to match it.

"Aye."

"From where I sat, so did Sona."

Thorin made no reply to that. Instead he opted to further answer Fíli's first question from the night before. "I spoke with her later. She said, without my asking, that she does not wish to join us, no matter what the Wizard does, or where he goes. She believes the Elves will see her home."

Fíli's smile dropped, but his eyes stayed on him.

He almost turned to leave but Thorin caught his arm, further holding his gaze. "I cannot change what is; you know this as well. I can only move forward."

"You think you can," Fíli said fast, and apparently without thought.

"Is that a smart remark, or a question, Inûdoy?"

"I did not come to argue, N'adad." Fíli moved closer, jaw relaxed, spine firm. "And you will answer only if you wish it. When do you think we will leave here, then?"

"Not just yet," Thorin said, gentling his grip on the lad's arm. "We all can use the rest. There is some time, some weeks we can––"

"You would stay so long among Elves?" He leaned further in, brows raised high.

"I would." Thorin's face felt hot and he worked hard to hold still. "These are not so bad. Tharkûn wanted to speak with Lord Elrond over matters of our Quest, the journey there," he continued, "but also something concerning the old ruins of Dol Guldur. We will spend some time here."

Fíli only stared back, but Thorin felt the smile beneath it. After a moment the lad found his voice again. "I came to tell you Balin looks for you. He has some news to share." Fíli angled his head down the left path before them. "This way."

Balin stepped up when Thorin and Fíli crossed the bridge into the Falls Veranda, adjacent Lord Elrond's Library, surrounded by cascades of water from three sides, and a fall on the forth, beneath the bridge. Nori and Dwalin were with him. Nori had his arms crossed. He stood to the side looking distracted though Thorin better than to believe he was… "I know who he is. Nori found out." Balin nodded, looking past Dwalin at Nori, who was watching down the hall as if to see if they were followed.

Dwalin, between the two of them, nudged Nori's attention back to Thorin.

But Thorin paid them no mind, glared hard at Balin. "Who who is?"

"Ach," Balin shrugged at Thorin's impatience. "The one we saw with Lady Arwen. His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, known as Estel to the Elves. He is the last remaining Heir to the Throne of Gondor." Balin's eyes were wide, his brows to the skies. "It hasn't been said yet to Lord Elrond," now Balin winked, of all things. "But the two have been sweet on each other for a short while now."

At this Nori glanced from Dwalin to Balin, eyes wide and frowning at the same time. "Why's that information necessary to Thorin's business?" the Spy asked, brow arched at the possible impropriety of it.

"It offers insight, Nori, to things Thorin has interest in."

Now Thorin frowned. What in Mahal's name did that mean? "What things?" he asked. "I do not care what these two––"

"It's the idea that's important, laddie. Don't forget it."

"What idea?" Thorin was utterly confused, but none of the three would answer. Insight? Was that it? Then why not explain? "Go have breakfast," he waved them off. "I'll think a moment." Thorin was sure it would take longer than a moment to think this through, and that was only if he wanted to, and right now he had no intention...

They all stared on, averse to move.

"Go, go," he shushed them all out. "I will be along."

Balin and Nori and Dwalin each bowed and made their way, all wearing looks of mischief that sank clear down to their boots.

Thorin glanced to Fíli, who stood there, arms crossed, watching the three leave with one huge smile plastered over his face. "Do you know what they meant?"

Fíli took a moment to measure him, his face relaxing into a question. "I'll wait on the answer until I know you want it."

Days passed to weeks and restlessness was settling in. Nights he slept better than most places. His dreams were haunted by paths he would follow, a door he would pass, not knowing why, which was frightening by itself, except not here, and he was always lost, but always found the spot that Lady Arwen had marked out to him, and these dreams were much like his nightmares of the past, not that they were steeped in cries and battles and gore, but that they were so vivid, he could smell the honeysuckles blooming; he sometimes woke with the suspicion he had actually walked the halls. Each time he was relieved to find himself in bed, awake from rest and hungry for breakfast.

In the mornings he would spar with Dwalin.

But not this morning. Dwalin had not showed, and Thorin instead moved through the forms. It was just as well, being alone to clear his mind. And that's what he did most days… He did his best not to think about the Thief and what was to come.

On this morning he saw the Thief leave the breakfast area just as he was turning the bend, in one of her fitted tunic suits, gold fabric sheathing her, and a blue wrap draped over her shoulders and hair––gold and blue––streaming down behind her like a gentle fall of water. He stopped a moment, watching until she was out of sight.

Middays he would meet with his Sister's Sons, for the simple joy of watching Fíli and the Dog, Sasha, playing with the stick Fíli had whittled to the shape of his sword. Sasha was very good with it, bringing it back to him invariably without tiring. Rarely a day passed when Kíli didn't make some cheeky remark about the Thief's apparent preference for blues and golds, he'd wink and wag his eyebrows at Thorin, stressing this was something they had not been aware of prior to Imladris. Thorin would shrug and scoff, sometimes even laugh, which made Kíli's face beam wide with joy, and then Thorin would tell him the Thief could wear what she wanted and it held no meaning, but something tugged inside when he said it, and he really wasn't sure.

Today felt different. Today when Kíli mentioned the colors, Thorin got quiet and Kíli stopped, abruptly changing the subject. "She thinks I like Elves, N'adad." Kíli frowned, shaking his head as if to say 'how could 'that' be? When everyone among them knew Kíli's curiosity toward Elves seemed heightened well beyond the average Dwarven norm to the point of annoyance. "She's always on me about my manners," he muttered with a sigh.

"Well," Thorin latched onto the opportunity to change the subject and work on Kíli's manners at the same time, "A certain amount of grace among our allies can be useful during negotiations."

"Who's negotiating?" Kíli asked, frowning all the harder.

Later on, Thorin walked, as was his usual habit. He'd been restless, with the impending need to move, and all he could do was walk, and he preferred to do it alone.

Afternoons he would meet with Balin overlooking the falls, where neither would say much beyond the movements of the Wizard, who was still bidding them wait.

On this afternoon Balin had more news. It seemed Nori had discovered the White Wizard had arrived earlier in the day. His white robes had been seen billowing up the high stairs toward Lord Elrond's Council Table.

Thorin took the news quietly, drawing a hand through his beard and frowning. The last thing he needed was another meddlesome Wizard in his business.

They needed to set out. Thorin had known this, and yet he delayed.

Each day evening would arrive, it never failed, and Thorin's Company was still in this Elven City. And then Thorin would think of how lovely it had been the night before, dining with the Thief, and he would opt to wait for her, escort her to dinner yet again if she were willing. What was one more night? And not a night passed where she had not said yes.

Sometimes it would be at the harp, and the Thief would be passing with her guitar from having played in the gardens. She would pause, linger, and talk of music, so easy in his company, almost as though she really liked it there, with him there. That confused him, so he did his best to ignore it, instead bringing up the subject of dinner.

Or sometimes it would be where he found her that first night. And when he saw her, he would ask her, hand extended, and she would take it. He felt shock every time.

On this evening, she did not pass through the gardens, so that's where he found himself, standing at the spot before the dining hall and waiting for her, feeling somewhat heavy, knowing the Company must leave, most likely before the week was out… maybe sooner. What would the White Wizard demand?

Thorin was fairly sure he did not want to find out.

He waited. Time passed. The people assembled. But the Thief did not show. He took his place alone, Lord Elrond and Tharkûn showing up shortly after, the last to arrive. Thorin kept looking toward where they came in, wondering why, if he were here, the White Wizard did not join them. He felt suddenly chilled, and wondered if something had happened to the Thief, hoping she was well. But what could have kept her? The dinner rang hollow, tasteless and dull, the colors paled from the many nights before, and the music toned flat, almost unbearable. He did his best to keep his head down and eat fast, wishing to leave as soon as politeness allowed.

And that is what he did. He left the table early, complaining of a headache he had acquired during the meal, and moved quickly. He wanted space behind a closed door, away from any and all people.

"N'adad."

Thorin stopped, shutting his eyes so hard he felt the blood pulse beneath them.

"I am sorry. It's my fault."

What cold possibly be Fíli's fault? But the worry in the lad's voice made his skin crawl. Thorin held his breath, turning slowly, full of wariness as well as concern and questions, with no idea of what Fíli spoke.

"I just asked Sona a question, at breakfast. Sounds quite lame, now that I think of it, but I remarked upon her choice of colors she's worn since she has been here in Imladris, the blues and the golds." Fíli stared at him eyes wide and sorry. "N'adad. I thought for sure she knew how well you two have been complementing each other since you have been here together…"

Thorin could not get his mouth closed from staring at his Sister's Son. Though he found the Thief lovely and he enjoyed her company, they were not together… no.

"Seems the choice of dress color had been decided for her after that first evening," Fíli continued, "with Lady Arwen bringing the clothes for her leisure." His face fell to the floor, worry and sorrow creasing his brow. "I fear she has stayed in her rooms after this discovery, for embarrassment, perhaps, of what you might think of her, or her motives…" Fíli stumbled his words, his mind wrestling with the possibilities.

Thorin felt a sinking in his gut. What did she actually think? She hadn't come to dinner–– clearly because of him, because of what he might think, assumptions he might make, just as Fíli said. Thorin had made no assumptions, but he knew now, with this awful sinking feeling, that he had hoped, and these hopes were now evaporated, like water cast to steam from the Dragon's fire. What had he been thinking? That she meant something by it? That she was sending some cryptic message by wearing colors matching his preferences? Blues and golds, shades that became her so well? Well, now he knew she did not choose them. What foolhardy thought, to carry this faintest of hopes that this could be so. And it irked him, the depth of his grief, realizing this, and the uselessness of this unvoiced hope. How could he let himself dream this way, even if ever so quietly?

Nothing of use. That was the sum of it. And now, what now?

The Thief's mortification for that fact surely matched his own. She would assume he believed she was showing her favor–– for him. Nothing could be farther from truth. How utterly too much. But neither of them had caused this. He tried to sort his thoughts through the pain swelling in his head. What in Mahal's name had the Lady Arwen been thinking? How could she play such games?

"I had no idea," Fíli added softly, still wrapped in his worry. "I would never have––"

Thorin reached out and grasped his Sister's Son's arm, a calming grip. "Do not fret this, Fíli. It is not your fault." Thorin looked into Fíli's eyes, they were shining, the lad was clearly painfully moved, and the sinking in Thorin's stomach shifted to acid. "We've been the butt of an Elven joke." What more could he say? There was nothing for it but forward, and with that he let his Sister's Son go, turned on his heel and headed for the peace of his room as fast as his feet would take him.

He found the decanter of Cognac and his pipe and settled into the cushioned recliner by the fire, wishing to escape thoughts that hounded him, wishing he had seen her tonight, wishing his heart didn't feel like an anvil.

Someone knocked at his door, but he did not go to it. Instead he sank further into the cushioned chair, resolving to feel the pain this once, to accept the awkwardness of his futile hopes, hopes he had hidden so well from himself, fool Dwarf, now dashed.

The smoke trailed about him, the taste of Cognac a small balm, and the fire hypnotized, keeping the melancholy at bay, to a point. He had to find a way to tell her, to ease her embarrassment.

Because he knew she was mortified. She had skipped dinner to avoid him. He trailed a hand through his hair, agonizing over that thought.

He found himself chewing his lip like she did and forced himself to stop. It wasn't helping. He stared into the flame, the embers carving the wood into coal black shapes like Dragon scales.

Lady Arwen had done this with purpose. Of course she had, sneaky Elf. He had not thought her capable of malice. But was it malice? Or something else? Confound these accursed Elves. He could not understand them. Her purpose was writ all over the deed, but her motives remained unclear. That, and it seemed the Lady had a faulty knowledge regarding Dwarves and the use of color; she seemed to hold the Elven or Man held assumptions, that certain colors were heraldic... but this was beside the point, was it not?

They all, including his Dwarves, had seen the connection. No one had seen fit to make comment, as it seemed the Thief merely did as she wished, as was her right–– at least that was how Thorin thought, how any Dwarf would think–– but Elves and Men were no Dwarves and did not think as such.

Lady Arwen had toyed with them. All of them. But why? He had almost come to think of her as friend… Fool Dwarf.

He fought the bitterness down that welled inside him. Elves. Why in Mahal's name to they do anything? Or sometimes nothing? But he knew well, he did not need to be angry at Elves. He merely needed to lower his expectations; even when they seemed to have it, their sense of compassion was… strange. And to think, what thoughts crossed the mind of the Thief as a result of this orchestration by the Lady? The Elf played just as well with her feelings, throwing them together this way without a word of warning. Clearly the Thief would feel badly if she thought for a second Thorin would draw the wrong conclusion and assume by her color choices that she favored him. What level of discomfort this revelation must have caused the Thief, to have kept her from dinner…

How was he to fix this?

Right now he did not want to move, because the motion caused his head to hurt.

Instead he shut his mind to everything, and stared into the story the fire told, dancing over the wood, consuming it slowly. Soon he was spent and shut his eyes from the red glow.

––He was in her doorstep. What nerve to be in her doorstep! But he did not care. He needed to explain. And, well, her door was open. And there she stood, in blue and gold, brushing out her hair with long flowing strokes as any knots were long since combed out. She looked at herself, and he could tell she didn't see what he saw; she didn't see she was spellbinding, or that she stole the air along with everything else. No, she was bored and thinking of other things, other places, other people. Home, maybe even. But that he didn't want to think about. He only wanted to look at her, having momentarily forgotten why he came.

And just then she looked through the mirror, directly at him. She dropped her hairbrush, swirling round like a wave over rocks, stopping to face him with a force of estimation he did not expect, almost as though she were hungry to see him. It was good, then, that he came so quickly, barely dressed–– barely dressed? What was he doing wandering about in nothing but his shirt and his breeches? And how had he gotten here unseen, and better yet, with no memory of having moved from his chair by the fire? Never mind, she's looking at you, and she likes what she sees. And she'd dropped her hairbrush, he recalled, as he noticed her eyes lingering over the flesh he had exposed on his collarbone. He couldn't stop himself. He went for her––

––hairbrush, kneeling just there, right next to her bare feet, the red of her painted toes shining off the light, the color glossed and vibrant, pulling out the gold in her skin. He reached for the brush, and swept his fingers over the sole of her instep, gently, how he wanted to kiss the tender sides of that gracefully curved foot... He heard her breath go sharp, and he looked up at her, caught her eye in his own and held fast, don't you do it, do not look away––

He kept his eyes nailed to hers as he rose slowly, not backing off even a hairbreadth from her presence. He wanted more within it, and he knew by her eyes that she wanted him there. So he stayed as close as he was.

And remembered why he came. "You were not at supper." He leaned closer, toward her ear, not touching, but only after he spoke. He took a breath, settling in the scent of lavender about her.

And then his body followed forward as he wrapped himself around her. "I wasn't hungh…" she began to reply, her breath stopping at his movement, while he dropped the brush on the table behind them, the clunk of it causing her to jump ever so slightly against him, closer still. Solid, so near his heart, hers beating, faster. He would envelop her, except, no, cannot. He stayed put, as close as she'd have him, and they were touching now. Soft and firm at once, he wanted to bury his face in the hair by her neck, and kiss her there to hear her sigh again. "You were missed," he whispered in her ear instead, looking longingly at the span of skin beneath it.

"You…?" she asked, swallowing, as if she couldn't imagine it.

"Hmmm." Can you not see it? He nodded slightly, as close as he could get to her cheek without touching.

And then his eyes dropped down to the nightdress she wore, blue with gold trim, the gold trim lying gently over her skin, clear and perfect, he wanted to touch her––

––so his fingers went to the gold trim, and he pressed along it, to her collarbone beneath, along the ridge, feeling her foundation to the bone, so close to where her heart beat––

He wanted kiss her, but all he could do was breathe. And then he remembered what he'd come to say, how he desperately needed her to know it. "Blue suits you. As does the gold. No one, by deed or word, can change the truth."

And then he couldn't help bridge the gap further, tracing his nose along her cheek toward her lips until he was––

Back in the chair, less soft than it had felt before. His pipe was still lit; the fire still burning, yet he felt a chill in the air, knowing very well it was her absence. What in Mahal's name was that? He had never dreamed such a vivid dream in his all his life, including the worst of his most realistic post battle nightmares. This felt achingly real, clear down to … the scent of lavender? He could still smell it. But then his eye caught the vase near his bed, and he shook his head.

And he climbed quickly out of the chair, now fully awake, and thank Mahal his headache was gone. He needed to walk, to cool. And then he had to find her, to tell her this was no reason to fret. They should pay no mind to an Elf that would play with them. He could not leave it like this, not after all these days, not with goodbye just around the corner. Maybe he could share with her something of how Dwarves consider color. And he was in the hall before he could think anymore

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\