Part 2: Chapter 8: There Beryl, Pearl and Opal Pale

Sona was there still, staring and flustered, now eyeing him from the side.

So Thorin rose gently, a good choice for his aching body.

Would she berate him once more? Now, he was tired.

Apologize. Just apologize. You've done enough to be sorry for.

Hopefully she had calmed. Hopefully she would stay. Hopefully she cared for h–– No! He almost laughed here, his beating heart, his wish. And she was ready to go the way she came, or stay if she wanted, not like some Pony startled by the wind. Such things as howling winds never troubled the Thief, not without a Troll or a Warg or an Orc pack mixed in. So it was from the start. He almost smiled then, remembering her stealthy steps through their camp the second time they met.

He was no howling wind. Nor was he a Troll or a Warg or an Orc. He wondered if he could be better company as he waited to see if she would indeed join him.

He motioned toward the soft chair he'd been warming, looking her over, cataloguing the bruises he could still see. There were far too many.

He took the hardwood bench nearest the chair.

And then she stepped in, a short smile took her face as she passed him, and then he watched her backside as she climbed atop the chair, her muscles so tight, round, he wanted–– His mouth opened in unwelcome response and just then she turned in her seat, a crease in her brow as she eyed him with a question left open––

She saw him look––!

His face felt the flush of the forge's fire––he shouldn't have stared–– friends don't ogle friends–– What did she think?

"Akmînruk zu," she whispered breathless, low, the Khuzdûl sultry from her chest.

Stop.

But he couldn't. And so he did not know what to say.

She sat and he waited. And this was no good.

"My apologies––"

"I'm sorry––"

They spoke as one!

Ē'ze. Biriz Akmâth'ule.

He broke into a smile, charmed by the grin she shared with him.

Why did she look like that?

But he continued, to clear the air. He had overstepped, and he needed her to know, whether she understood or not. "My apologies. I have not behaved toward you as I should."

And then he shut his mouth, watching her.

She waited a moment, still basking in a smile left over from the bloom. A question settled over her features, an invitation.

He was not about to explain. Mahal, let the fire last the forging.

In past conversations he'd given her cultural explanations, 'lessons' Balin would have called them. These were not always welcome, as he recalled the time he spoke to her of color––

But now? Now she clearly wanted to know.

And now, any explanation by him would be further trespass.

He had no place.

His Azog rush was a fool's move, and for it he was sorry, but that seemed obvious, one would think, one would hope.

But for her it was more, for part of him rushed for her.

Binumral'ame zê'biniski'ul'ê. And then how he spoke to her, his needs expressed aloud, his desperate pleas coming off as commands. He had no call.

Small comfort to his required silence: she would not understand, given that she did not return this bond.

How could she?

So he hoped his simple apology would suffice.

Once she realized he was finished speaking, she took a moment to think about it, watching him with her head tilted, her braid falling to the side.

Bifur had done it.

How did it feel? It looked heavy and soft, shining in the firelight. He wished it were loose ––how she'd let it down at dinners in the Elven City–– Now he would card his fingers through her curls––

Stop.

"I accept your apology and hope you accept mine in return." Her eyes held steady.

Relief passed over him: she held no grudge. But her cheeks darkened all the more. Why this blush, was it hard to apologize? Or was it… something else? What was with this futile hoping?

"Though, obviously, you don't have to."

He nodded, but I will, leaning ever so slightly forward, letting his eyes settle over her face as she looked back, basking in her gaze.

"I'm sorry for how I behaved this morning, I should not have yelled at you and kept interrupting every time you tried to speak."

Asti–– why not? You always muzzle me. I should have left the moment I found you well, and let you wash.

Then she stopped, stilling her lips with her teeth. Why did she do that?

"I definitely should not have forced an ending to our argument."

And how ––! a swift disrobing, the bloodied tunic pulled above her, her body torn and bruised––

"…You have just as much right to express your opinions and feelings as I do."

I have none, Asti–– He stared. It's a different world you come from.

She watched him through the veil of her long lashes.

He swallowed. I should be courteous, caring and fair and leave you to your way. I am yours to the limit of––He forced these thoughts down.

"No, I carry blame for that, too." He knew she would not let him take all blame, though she had none.

And yet his heart eased, realizing she prized his company in spite of his blunders. He tilted his head to draw closer, and watched her eyes skit over the braids as they fell over him, he watched her watch them fall, the art of her handiwork. Did she like what she saw? Had she liked how it felt? Her hands though, they fisted in her lap, and he wondered.

"I know how you detest conflict," here he would elaborate. "How it wounds your spirit." He smiled, though it hurt, so much he wished to share and understand. So much beyond reach. Her eyes would not leave his, and he wished time could stop. This was where he wanted to be, staring in her eyes. "I should not have pressed the argument, not when I knew all you wanted––all you needed––was cleansing from the violence––"

With that her eyes fell.

Too much? He waited. It was all he could do, with how lost he felt. Still, it was good to be lost in her company.

And then she shrugged, a tiny motion, something she did when she was uneasy, as if she would let her cares slip into a wash-bucket by her side. "Also," she added, "I'm sorry about the hair thing." This part she rushed, clearly shamed by the knowledge Bofur shared.

He watched her hard swallow, knowing now she understood, remembering how good it felt.

Stop. Focus––

Bofur had explained to her. Thorin wondered what words he'd chosen. Suddenly his heart was racing as these thoughts progressed. Do you know what you do to me? No–– she didn't know that. But what had Bofur said? And how did she feel about this… new discovery, Mabakhnrukul? Clearly it made her uncomfortable, but in what way?

"I… I didn't know the rules… what it means in your culture."

Asti, you know now–– and?

Her knuckles where white, holding tightly to her braid, for grounding.

"I only meant to help you."

"Thief––" He wished she would stop.

"No, please let me finish." She shushed him with a chuckle, that sound–– and muzzled once more, how she did that! Even when he would excuse her––

He wished he could tell her he liked it. And ohhh, how much. But he was muzzled prior: Binumrâl. He wished she would stop hurting for not knowing their ways.

And then she laughed, oh that sound–– bells over the valley, Kethem 'udban'ul.

And she looked at him sideways, assessing, a bit of mischief remained from the laughter on her lips. "I know I just apologized for interrupting you, but please let me say this before I lose my nerve and run away."

You won't run. He leaned forward slightly before stopping himself. How do I know? Wait. Wait for her word. And how he waited, as if on the narrow cliff-walk he had not seen before turning the bend.

"I am also sorry about the flowers."

And soft air escaped him. What had he held onto?

The words she nearly spit, so rushed was she by nerves. Ah, Sona, Birashagimi––

But then her body eased just after she spoke, and she relaxed more fully in her seat, contentment spreading visibly with her relief.

He was grateful to see it, following her moves, watching gentleness carry over.

And yet he felt a slight dropping on the inside, as a welling of feeling pressed forward, one he was only just now finding. He had somehow stored up hope–– But he'd known she had not meant the flowers for courtship!

"I only meant the lavender to help you sleep better…"

Does she watch me sleep?

"I worry about you."

You do?

He looked at her again, holding still above the storm within, oh she was warm to look at, eyes alight upon the fire as she pulled her legs up tight to rest her head upon her knees, her feet basking in the firelight reflecting off her face, flickering in her eyes…

He kept going back to her eyes–– Meget'ul Amgât'ē––

Of course you do. As you care for all of us–– And yet, there is more, more than for the others: why do you pay me this extra attention? Have I become your closest friend in this world not your own? A tremor shifted deep within him at the prospect, like settling stone opening paths, revealing the treasure beyond.

"As for the other, I have no excuse for the flower crown."

That––

Aye, and I knew it. So why this denial to my core ––stemmed from hope–– when did that take seed?

And she shrugged again, that pouring movement she made, to slide away her edge. "I… I just wanted to make you laugh."

What? Why? He watched her more intently.

"You have a lovely laugh."

I… you… Oh blessed Mahal. Thorin's mind seemed to freeze on 'lovely'. He would not let it think any further, but how he wanted to know.

"I wish," she said, and how he waited to hear!

But then she stopped. A slight frown bloomed on her brow as she flexed her feet before the fire, the red polish almost gone now, except for the big toes, with specks of orange flashing on the nails in the light.

She shivered slightly, nuzzled cozily in the chair, enjoying the crackling flames that kept the night chill at bay, pressing her feet closer to the flames, there to warm them––He wished he could take them in his hands to warm them faster––

After a bit he knew she was not going to tell him what she wished. Blast it. So he leaned forward on the bench, bracing his aching chest with his arms above his knees, resting his head on his fisted knuckles. And he asked: "What do you wish, Thief?"

She stared at him for a single blazing moment, her mouth ajar, a feeling there he could not define, but before he knew it she was staring back in the fire, stuttering "Uhhh" before she fell silent once more.

He breathed in, holding frustration at bay. Wait, fool. Just. Wait.

"I wish that the closeness we seemed to have before the cliff, before Azog, and before I found..." She pointed to her name ring–– "…was still there."

Closeness…? How much did she want of it? She had no idea. Still there? It was only growing, for his part. And he needed control!

Ē'ze.

Azog–– Mahal, he intends to slay us all, and yet that is not the end of it:

Azog had a Commander, and that Commander wanted the artifact.

Kâmin zashar.

Ruination for all. The Great Threat, and these unwelcome feelings. Thorin's frustrations sank deeper, where he wished he could hide them.

She shook her head. What would she deny?

And he couldn't help returning to a nagging thought: why did she like his laugh?

"I don't want to jeopardize what we have. What we… had."

Not possible. And yet, what… was that exactly?

Then she looked at him. Oh Mahal, how he needed assistance where there was none.

"Your friendship means so much to me… I don't want to lose it just because I'm an ignorant idiot."

No–– and her face dropped for shame. No!

My friendship is already yours!

And she was waiting, cringing waiting, for how he would respond. He gave her best what he thought she needed, gentle assurance, like the kind he gave Kíli at near misses when his Sister's Son began learning the bow: "While you may be ignorant of our ways, of things we have not shared, you are most certainly no idiot."

Her eyes returned to him, relief blooming in their depths.

She wanted his friendship, fiercely, so it seemed.

How this both moved him and stilled him at once.

I would give you everything you want. He swallowed. And nothing more.

"Do you want to see it?"

Wha–– see what?

Her hand glanced off the ring on her small finger, and understanding hit him–– the artifact. Quite a sudden, jarring change of topic, and it pulled him back in his seat.

Yet she drew closer, and in a flash she was off the cushioned chair and on the bench right next to him, tucking her feet beneath her, leaning closer, and fishing out his handkerchief from her waistband pocket. Mahal, she stored the artifact in it's folds––!

She set the bundle on her open palm, and, with a tight intake of air, she slowly unpacked it, keeping the cloth between her skin and the object she carried. Then, with her face full of disgust, she thrust it at him, meaning for him to take it in hand.

Still he saw reluctant hesitation in her eyes.

Why did she offer it? Surely not to give it. He did not want it.

But he would take it if it eased her way.

He reached his hand above it, and felt the power there.

How it attempted to pull, but could not find the lever within him, searching… searching… no chain to grasp, large or small. Still it tried.

Showing, sharing sound and vision. 'One Ring to rule them all' it whispered, chanting softly as he took it in hand, 'One Ring to bring them,' seductive like a black ink bath, 'and in the darkness bind them.' Looking through the gap where a finger should go, Thorin saw Azog. The Orc stood with a dark wavering formless Being, a ball of force with countless arms and fingers shaped like wisps of cloud–– It spoke. 'We grow in strength. We grow in numbers.'

Who? Thorin asked in thought.

But it was not in his head, Imhêd'ul Mahal.

Still it spoke to him, sharing Azog's reaction, a grimace, a welcome? 'Lead my armies.'

Who?

'Oakenshield.'

Never.

'War is coming. You lead. You lead.'

Aye, and not for you.

'Death will come to all.'

Thorin blinked and looked at the Thief as he still held the artifact. Her face looked a bit green, as though she felt ill while she watched him. And it. A prick of anger spiked through him, so he stilled to contain it, pulling his lips against his teeth to feel the bite.

He would calm her. "… so much fear and doubt over so small a thing." He drew it closer to his eyes, challenging the one beyond: "Such a little thing."

And with that he put it back on the handkerchief still spilled over the Thief's outstretched hand.

"That's it?" She asked, shocked, her face somehow paled at the words he had spoken. Her body shook with relief and yet she still appeared sick.

What? He looked at her, wondering. And he realized a wondrous thing: she trusted him, and he came through.

"Don't you…" She swallowed the rest of her question. But then she repeated, "don't you want to keep it? Aren't you drawn to it?"

"No." She was surprised it had no pull on him. But it did. "I feel its power, as anyone so near it would." He glanced up into Sona's eyes. Far better to look here. "But the Rings of Power hold little sway over Mahal's Children."

Her lips parted, and she looked a bit shocked, and once searching and angry, and then she rolled her eyes slightly and nodded understanding ––a tale worked beneath her brow he wished he knew–– and then she looked once more in his eyes.

He continued to explain. "They only magnify our natural tendencies for desiring gold and hoarding it, among other effects." Gold sickness–– the madness of his line. A gift of the Seventh Ring––

Adad'ē–– Where are you, do you bear it still?

"I bet Sauron was pissed when he realized that."

Sauron–– Pissed? Did her book say the Dark Lord drank so?

And she called him by name, casually, as though he were some footnote in an ancient history–– her books.

Not anymore; he lived. And he had no body. He was naught but clouds of tendrilled-cloying darkness weaving–– he couldn't drink a thimble of ale, much less get pissed.

Would the artifact bring his body back from the festering darkness?

Thorin focused on Sona's smile. It made him feel less lost.

"His perfect plan to control all the Peoples of Middle-earth ruined by one stubborn bunch." She partly smiled, a balm.

Aye, things never go as planned. He tried to smile back, but it was no good. And yet, the way she said that: she admired his People for their stubbornness. A thrill, like the deep humming of the Mountain, moved him quietly.

He leaned closer, his braids shifting with him, and her eyes caught upon them, and he wondered yet again what she though of his hair.

Stop. She worried. "And what of you? You are of Men. Are you not drawn to it?"

"Yes, and no. I…" she glared at it, as if she could strangle it somehow by merely looking peeved. "I don't want to touch it. But I don't want anyone else to touch it, either. I hate it."

Thorin frowned, his stomach turning. The Thief never hated.

"I hate how it makes me feel."

So do I.

"I want to throw up every time I touch it."

Asti, Lu'anrân Ē'ze Biriz Akmâth'ule––

"And the worst part is it's as if it knows, and it's laughing at me, and it's just a stupid inanimate object except that it's not, and it's evil, and it must be destroyed."

At that she covered it with the handkerchief.

We could do that now, first, if you know the way–– but he did not say it. He stared briefly at his sister's embroidery stitches, trimmed along the edges.

"But not yet."

No?

"First Erebor. Then the Ring, like we planned."

Thorin looked deep in her eyes, at the certainty he saw there, reminding him of Fíli's just earlier. But he was not sure. "Are you certain?"

He saw her clench as she nodded. "Yes."

Did she have another idea? He let the question go unasked.

And her face went back to the artifact, where suddenly she looked horror-struck once more, "Oh! Oh no!" She hurriedly let the ring fall to the side of her tunic, tying it into a corner of fabric at the end, and then only the handkerchief remained between them. "I'm so sorry––" She held it out to him. "I can't believe I still haven't given this back to you. No wonder you still call me a Thief."

You stole my heart, Thief.

He stared at his Sister's fine stitches, not daring to look at Sona, for fear of what she would see reflecting from his eyes. This is but cloth, however dear. He reached back to her hand, and wrapped her fingers back around it, holding her cool hand briefly, coveting her touch.

"Keep it." You would steal my Sister's heart as well, as worthy Sister.

Shock spread over her features. "But… but I thought gifts were a no no."

A chill went down his spine. He smiled––Maybe they were–– She looked at his mouth now, his beard–– truly they were. But not impossible, no–– Is she? No.

She likes my laugh.

She wanted a friend as well as he. He leaned toward her. "Close friends may exchange gifts."

She leaned toward him in return.

"You gifted me lavender to aide my rest," he continued as they drew in. "I give you my handkerchief to ease your burden. It's no more than any true friend would do, and nothing improper." Dís would say he was forward. Right now he didn't care, staring into her happy smile. "Now you should rest." He hoped she could rest, that one of them could. "You are still injured and healing."

"So are you," she did not merely say this––when had she reached for him––? Her hand was near, her fingers thrummed three times upon his chest, over his heart, touching above it––

––Yours, Ē'ze, no matter what comes.

He wished she would keep thrumming. He wanted to grab that hand and pull her closer––

A strange smile graced her lips, lingering there with mischief in her eyes, and uncertainty.

What then? "Out with it. I promise whatever it is…" no–– do not overstep once again or promise what cannot be kept. "That is to say, you may ask me anything without fear."

"Well––" Blast it if she didn't bite her lip once more. "It's just that… based on that logic… what with us being such close friends and all…" She stopped––but she did not–– as her body moved closer and closer to him on the bench––her hand even more so.

What did she want? He hoped–– for what? He held, waiting.

The mischief within her expounded tenfold in the space of the distance she closed. "…technically.." she still came closer.

What was she doing? He held, still waiting, still hoping… for what? So close she moved.

"I did nothing wrong when I helped you with your hair this morning."

I know, you did not know, but––

Suddenly she grasped one of his warrior braids and gave it a teasing tug.

His breath stopped. She would do that, now, anytime she felt like?

What had he done...?

And without looking back she was gone the next instant, but then she hung in the doorway, stopped like a wave before falling. "Goodnight, Thorin," she said, voice edged with hesitation. Did she wonder if she overstepped once more? She still did not look.

For the best, not to see his shock, his ruin.

This was the way they would live. 'Find peace,' his Sister's Son had said. Where should he find it? But hers, her peace: this he could provide, absolving words, calming words. "Goodnight, Thief."

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

Khuzdûl:

Birashagimi – Sorry

Binumral'ame zê'biniski'ul'ê. – Mine without love I'm of miscast Ones.

Zê'biniski'ul'ê – I'm of miscast Ones.

Mabakhnrukul – that which is discovered, new discovery

Kethum Azsâlul'abbad – Bells of the (Mountain.)

'Udban – Greatest Valley

Kethem 'udban'ul – Bells of the valley, sublime.

Imhêd'ul Mahal – Blessing of Mahal

Meget'ul Amgât'ē – loadstone my desire, hnnnngh, he never says it out loud.

Lu'anrân – no grief