Part 1: Chapter 13: The Fire was Red, it Flaming Spread

Thorin kept his steps quick, never slowing his resolve, at first with no direction in mind. He needed walking, and he needed it now. He headed to the garden paths, and once there noticed Fíli with Kíli in one of the wider spaces, passing the wooden throw sword for the Dog to fetch. Sasha sprang and retrieved with barks and jumps, sometimes bowling the lad over, to lick him and hug him between the bouts of practice. Thorin kept far enough out to pass them unnoticed, leaving them at leisure and undisturbed in the games.

He headed farther into the gardens, mindful to remember the way back, when at the turn of a bend he came face to face with and old man in white. But not just any old man: without doubt this was the White Wizard. His intense scrutiny fell upon Thorin from just before and above him, as the Wizard stood on a balcony to the side of Thorin's path.

Thorin kept walking, stone mask in place, his eyes on the Wizard, who stared back without saying a word or raising an arm in greeting. Thorin saw no reason to prove himself more polite than the brooding Wizard glaring down at him with his raking eyes. Thorin kept walking, feeling a coldness in the way of the Wizard, a measuring assessment mixed with dismissal, unlike anything he felt around Tharkûn or the addled Radagast. This was a being he wanted nothing to do with. Moving his eyes away first, Thorin walked until he was past, not about to be kept from his way.

From there his thoughts wandered back to the mischievous Lady Arwen and the game she had played with color. As he looked about him, still clear of his way back and sure he would not get lost, he was reminded of the manner Lady Arwen had used to keep him from getting lost. His thoughts softened a little; she was far brighter than the white in the Wizard's robes. She had always seemed so… well? Helpful would have been the word until tonight. She had displayed a hint of friendly mischief, even while having the air of someone all-too-knowing. But was there malice? He hadn't seen that coming, not from her, and it was no wonder, as it didn't fit, no matter that he was not too overly fond of Elves, and no matter that she'd opted to play this game. It all made absolutely no sense.

And then he turned the corner, and a whiff of honeysuckle tickled his senses, and there under the gazebo stood the Lady Arwen Undômiel, staring back at the Man she had been with before as if he'd just given her the Moon. And Thorin remembered, that was the exiled Heir to the Throne of Gondor standing before her. Bending in, kissing her.

Aye, Nori had seen it correctly; these two shared a bond. Thorin stopped; all he could do was stare–– An Immortal, of one of the highest family of Elves left in Middle-earth, here sharing promises with the future King of Men? The Man, 'Aragorn son of Arathorn', Balin had called him, appeared young, having seen not more than thirty years, with a scruffy beard and the dusty worn leathers of a Ranger of the North. Lady Arwen wore a breezy pale Elven gown that blew and flowed about the Man where they were standing.

Thorin wondered if this union were in the Thief's 'books' as he stared at their lingering kiss.

And then she broke away, singing a bar of keening lyric, haunting and yet edged with an abundance of hope, best expressed by the smile in her words, and he caught a few of those words floating back on the breeze, "a promise lives within you now, a promise..." She stopped and pulled the young prince forward into another kiss, her hand on his heart. Thorin smiled then, wondering how long it would take before Lord Elrond caught wind of it, and how the Elf Lord as Doting Father would react to news such as this…

And that's when she saw him. The Man called Aragorn did not, as his back faced Thorin, and Thorin was far in the shadows on a third trail passing beneath them. The Lady looked into Thorin's eyes, in spite of the distance.

Why did you toy with us?

She seemed to see too much of Thorin's current unease, as her smile faded slowly from her face, before she shook her head, and a gentle aura seemed to flow from her, as though she would argue with him silently, toward a kindly understanding. She nodded her head toward Aragorn, smiling back at Thorin, knowingly, yet full of warmth, as though she would tell the Dwarf a secret, and then she was in his head––

––In his head? How did she get there––?

But it did not feel foul; it was a kind word: 'I am like you, cherishing one who is not my own kind.'

Thorin's eyes widened just as his heart eased. He knew then with certainty she had meant no ill-will, however poorly thought her plan had been. She had wanted to help them. He nodded back, a subtle acquiescence, and then turned on the path toward Sona's rooms, sure of his way.

His stride picked up, and he had to almost laugh; that was, if he were not mistaken, the first truly touching encounter he had ever had with an Elf.

Everything was verging on lovely, except Sona hadn't come to dinner.

The first thing he heard was her voice calling the Dog. And the he rounded the next bend and saw her leaning across another veranda, calling louder and longer this time, "Saaaaashaaaaa!"

He almost didn't recognize her. She had changed, gone the gold and blue. Tonight she wore a burning red robe dipped in orange and pink on the sleeves and in the sash, her form aflame in new colors, with the wind blowing the airy fabric like a spark on the breeze.

"She is with Fíli," he said, swallowing hard.

She nearly jumped as she turned and a small sigh escaped her, and she looked at him with the biggest eyes, surprise and shock and recognition and… embarrassment…? all vied at once for her expression.

He took a step back, sorry he had startled her.

And her look of embarrassment seemed to take hold and shift into something like––suspicion, but no, that wasn't it. Thorin couldn't quite place it, but she surely felt awkward, looking as if she'd just got caught stealing some of Bombur's lemon cookies, likely still worried about expectations of colors prompted by Lady Arwen and her games.

Her eyes took him in as though she were hungry, and he wondered, had she gotten some dinner later? And her eyes strayed over his person, taking, from what he could tell, a detailed inventory of what he wore, from his shirt to his belt to below it, where she lingered and the color in her face increased, as if she were imagining––

No. Not possible.

Her head bobbed back up, her eyes meeting his with a question nagging the edges of them. He recalled their closeness in the dream, her body pressed to his, and he could barely think to address the question he thought was intended.

So he tried to answer an easy one. "He continues teaching her to fetch with practice swords," he said, surprised he could muster any measure of his voice. But he needed to find it, and quick. "She's quite intelligent. For a dog."

She gave him a look of disbelief, and Thorin felt confused. Surely she knew her Dog was smart, but maybe she hadn't expected him to say it.

He stepped closer, clasping his hands before glancing at her. Stop delaying, and get to it already. "You were not at supper." Every word felt like boots pulling from a muddy path, and he was desperate to get to the end of it.

She laughed, a hesitant giggle, and he stopped, spellbound, just to listen. And then she caught his eyes. "I wasn't hungry."

That–– was almost what she'd said in the dream. Thorin frowned a fraction before he laughed himself, struck by the echo of it, but this was so unlike how he'd imagined.

Just then they heard a growl, both sets of eyes widening at once, and Thorin's gaze fell to the binding of Sona's sash, where beneath it her stomach complained for lack of dinner. He gave her a questioning look but he already knew that she had gone without. He felt the sharpness of grief: this was his fault, because of assumptions she expected he may have thought––blue and gold––assumptions he had indeed made, however subconsciously, and he was sorry.

"The fire shades tonight?" he asked, nodding toward her robes, trying to rekindle a smile somewhere within himself to ease the ache. Come on, get to it. "Do you know, Dwarves love color? More than any other culture in Arda, we tend it outwardly," he began to explain.

And as each word came her eyes grew bigger and bigger, and he scrambled faster to clear this matter, to curb the anxiety he saw growing, for surely she needed to know it made no difference what shades she wore, aside from her own sentiment–– Not among Dwarves. All shades are free for any Dwarrow to wear. We crave color, every shade. Royalty holds no claim to any one or set, unlike many races of Men or Elves–– She had to know she was fully free to choose.

"Some Dwarrow wear multiple colors combined; others have favored shades chosen by ourselves or by our parents, for the love of how we set together, hair, skin, eyes, gemstones…" He looked from her dress to her.

And stopped cold, stilled, his heart racing against her upset features, her displeasure coming off in waves as her eyes sought every angle of escape along the paths around them. She couldn't hear this. She wouldn't––Didn't need these words. It wasn't working. She did not want to know. What was he thinking?

She wanted to run.

From him.

Because he never knew the right thing to say. It was best to say nothing.

His gaze dropped to her hands, and he wished himself still as one of these gray Elven statues, wishing for a fraction of their hardness. What was he thinking? Had he entirely lost his mind in this City of Elves and Crashing Water? Her hands were gripping one over the other, her fingers twisting the long golden ring she wore on her small finger. His eyes settled upon it, focusing on it, wishing to let her go. He knew. It was well past time for leaving, but still he resisted.

After a while his heart slowed, and he realized she had not left. She still stood there, he had no idea why. He kept his eye on the ring, waiting for her to move off, it would happen any second, and then he could catch his breath and make his way. Fool Dwarf.

He needed to pack.

Yet still she stood there, and his eyes rested in the worn gold of her ring, and he thought nothing, as it was better than anything else. Then she stopped turning it. He was sure she would go when she lifted her arm to him, brining the ring closer for him to see. "My Dad gave it to me for my birthday."

Her 'Adad–– He had good taste, he thought, watching her thumb stretch over the underside of it, imagining how that would feel over–– Stop. This is no use.

"It used to fit on my index finger back then."

He focused again on the ring, and her voice, slowing and calming.

"But took up nearly all the space up to my first knuckle. My mother thought he was nuts for giving it to me…"

––Her 'Amad's jesting banter calmed her even from afar––

"'What does and eight-year-old need with a ring like that?'"

She knew: to hold until now, to recall her words, because her Nathith would need her now, while she was lost.

"But he said he had to get it for me as soon as he saw it…"

––Your Adad loves you still. Neither knows what has befallen, if you are well, or––

"…that I was meant to have it."

––lost, like my own 'Adad. I wish I knew––

"I love it."

His eyes stayed fixed on the ring, as grounding. That is a precious metal, to be in your possession, cherished so.

"Always made me feel fancy and gown up as a little girl."

Asti. Their pride beyond measure.

"And now it reminds me that my Dad loves me. And my Mom."

How could they not? He stepped back to the rail, to look at her whole, a flame in the garden to waken his blood. Even he––

"Because if she didn't really want me to have it my Dad never would have bought…"

Fire take you, Son of Durin! He could not forget the Dragon. This was folly and almost goodbye; why did he think these things, and when would it stop?

She had stopped. She stared at him staring at her, and the color crept up her neck, slower than before, but clear as sparking water at midday. What had he done, he wondered? Could she read his thoughts? Feel for what he craved?

"I'm sorry…"

Sorry? No––

"I'm rambling…"

Your voice. Don't stop.

"I must be boring you." No. "I'm … sorry."

"Bored?" Impossible. "No, Thief." Go easy, say little. "I rather enjoy your tales."

"Oh." She blinked in surprise, leaving Thorin to wonder why. And did she not know what she did to him, just by blinking?

Unwilling to call it a night, he mustered nerve to venture a question, a safe one. "May I examine the ring?" He could barely find his voice. What was he still doing here?

After the briefest consideration, a shy smile appeared at the edge of her lips, and she set her fingers around the ring and twisted back and forth until she had it off. There she held it a moment, looking at it oddly, almost as though she would ask a question. Instead she placed it in his hesitant hand as he'd waited, unsure whether his request had crossed some line.

The gold was soft; a fine pure grade. He could feel her warmth in it, still lingering. There was a script, or runes, he let his fingers pass over them. "What runes are these?" he asked, his curiosity won over.

"It's a script for a language my mother's side of the family speaks, called Hindi."

––Hindi, from Hindu tradition... It was angular, strong and lovely all at once.

"And their meaning?" He was betting on Song, quite sure she'd never spent a day of her life without it––

"Gold."

What? He looked at her, caught by his surprise. Was she joking? She smiled––O Mahal that smile; but there was no jest in it. "Your father gifted you a gold ring––engraved with the word gold upon it?"

Her eyes agreed as she almost burst from laughing, somehow holding it in as her eyes dropped to his lips––she looked almost dreamy there, as if... No.

Stop the nonsense. There was something more to this. He studied her, returning her ring, coming to a second guess as he let it go. "How do you say gold in Hindi?"

He didn't think it possible, but her face beamed all the more. "Sona."

Sona––

"The Hindi word for gold is Sona."

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

A/N: The Hindi script on Sona's ring: सोना

Big thanks goes out to Jenny-Wren28; it's been a pleasure collaborating with you on these stories. Writing is typically a lonely experience. This has not been lonely. I've loved being your Beta in "On The Road To Find Out," hashing canon, fleshing story details, digging deeper, and having you as my Beta here in "Biriz Akmâth." Thank you, Buhel.

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