Dearreader: Your review made me LOL because it reminded me unexpectedly of watching The Miracle of the Birth in 10th grade health class and the whole room just reeling in horror at the birth scene. Teacher gets up afterward, laughing maniacally at the traumatized class, and says "how many of you want to try that now?" Class meeps a collective no.

Erika Rexen: You really do remind me of Meisar, and not just because you have lots of red hair. Your anecdotes on birth are so sweet.

Rohobu: Three years! I know! It only took me THAT long to get here. Oh well, some say the best things are worth waiting for. Thorin if no one else deserves it.

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Thorin stood at the bow and watched Dale grow smaller as the barge made its way along the Anduin toward Laketown. The barge itself was Bard's quintessence, and his creation no doubt- a durable, reserved oaken vessel moderated by the banners of Dale raised at stern-side, and those of Laketown and Erebor raised above the bow side-by-side to give notice of its passengers. The only embellishments that gave it the distinction of being a vessel of Bard's domain were the sculpted bell and cart of the Dale's arms mounted atop the curved bow, flanked in the pastoral carved figures of farmers at harvest, merchants at market about the keel at each side. Fourteen of Bard's soldiers in their Dale livery and breastplates rowed a few steps down from where king and lord were standing at an awkward distance.

"You seem tense," Bard finally pronounced.

"Do I?" Thorin kept his eyes steady on the undulation of the water below, the oars turning in unison, Bard's soldiers at the rowing glancing up at him coolly. His own escort stared them down in return, silently crinkling eyes from beneath their helms at the men. At another instance, he might have been inclined to dress them down for unsightly decorum. Enmity was growing stale on his tongue like the beer Bard's men had offered about to the guests aboard the barge. The mood at least there was celebratory. His own could not afford to be until...

"You do. I could guess the cause, but I do not wish to intrude."

Thorin craned his head to consider Bard at length. His look was a fresher one than he had known. For the occasion he had donned an embroidered vest in muted burgundy, pearl-white cendal tunic and breeches of light suede, tucked into shined brown boots with longish upturned toes. A round fur cap was on his head but he wore no outer cloak, in spite of the wind coming off the lake below. In his own cloak though Thorin felt broiling.

"You have a look of the nobles of old, in the Dale of my boyhood," Thorin remarked. The colors were glaringly bright on the sombre lord he had come to know and mistrust and grudgingly ally himself to.

"My son is betrothed to a worthy lass. If I showed up looking as if I were attending a burial, people may get the wrong impression. You on the other hand could use a lighter accent once in awhile," Bard critiqued furtively. "Are you not about to celebrate a joyous event yourself?"

"She is quite near," Thorin said shortly. His face crinkled up defensively but inside something softened and wished an ear, even Bard's. "But not... laboring as they say. I was given leave."

"Very difficult to predict in any case," Bard agreed. He took a step closer to the rail beside Thorin and when he did not flinch, leaned over it casually beside him. "I remember. But I am nearer now to the birth of a grandchild, so you will forgive me if my memory is somewhat strained."

"I do not see your daughters, speaking of. Are they well?" Thorin inquired. The nicety much have been uncanny; Bard cocked his head in confusion, then smiled and nodded placidly.

"They joined their brother yesterday. You will see them at the feast. Though I think they will be disappointed not to see the queen. They are very fond of her."

"Aye, and she them," Thorin leaned on his arms, grumbling against himself. He glanced up at Bard and shied away twice before he spoke again. "Do you worry for a wife? In that time?"

"I would always worry," Bard chuckled uneasily. "It is not a pleasant task, for the woman. But afterward, it is the mother who has the most joy, I am certain."

"Your wife, she...?" Worry, and premature regret, tightened in his chest.

Bard smoothed a stray hair that had blown in the wind edgily to his head, behind his ear. "Delivered three healthy children and was the most happy with them, no matter how strenuous the birth. Our fourth was one who did not live. Nor did she afterward."

Thorin jabbed a quick, unhappy glance toward him.

"I apologize," said Bard. "I mean not to concern you any further. It was a time of cold and hunger, when the normal strength one needed was not there for her. Besides, I have heard the dwarves are hardier at childbed than some tall women. Scarcely can afford the expense of mortality, I ken."

"It would seem so," grumbled Thorin. "But I have not been about enough tall-women at childbed to know for certain."

"Nor have I much knowledge of dwarves at the same. But I have seen your wife's strength, and tenacity. It will serve her well. I think she will be fine, my king."

"Jabbering like women," Dwalin stepped heavily between them. Bard's pair of guards standing back from king and lord glared tiredly at the swaggering dwarf. Dwalin had never been one to beg for excuse when he wanted through.

"Only of the great pride of fatherhood," Thorin explained. "The two of you might commiserate better."

"He sounds like a boar when he sleeps, good lad," Dwalin boasted upward at Bard, thumbs in the holsters of his wide, silver-laid belt. "Four months wi' a beard like a lion's face."

"A fine boy, I'm sure," Bard smiled down politely, to Dwalin's laconic, arrogant laugh. "He sounds much like his father."

"Takes after his mother too," Dwalin hastened to add. "Got 'er coloring. But my eyes, she says."

Bard patted Thorin's shoulder lightly. "Well then, if the queen is delivered of a boy, yours will surely be close playmates, more like brothers than not."

That made Dwalin grunt in approval and shunt Bard aside so he could replace him in the shoulder-patting. His whole arm slung itself around Thorin's shoulder, squeezing possessively.

"Oh aye. Shall be like us."

"I have seen the closeness of brothers amongst yours. I think it to be a surety," Bard smiled thinly. In his face panged the same memory as was writ across Thorin's. The two regarded each other with a sharp understanding, like a spoonful of vinegar and ash.

The guardsmen mannish and dwarf were suddenly scrambling to the side of the barge with such inertia the entire boat leaned.

"Halt! Halt! In the name of lord and king!" bellowed the guards. On the river a dwarvish lad was furiously paddling a small rowboat, repelled by the oarsmen, determining to come up to the side of the barge.

"Thorin, king under the mountain!" shouted the lad. The spears of Bard's men all pointed downward toward him at once, so menacingly he almost tumbled off the side of his vessel.

"Hark! What news do you bring?" Thorin called down.

"I am come from the mountain. You are summoned back to Erebor at once, majesty. The queen is in her labors."

"We're not far. Turn it about. We'll go back," Bard ordered swiftly. Thorin stood frozen at the rail, mouth agape. His heart crawled to near a stop and wrung itself, then lurched to beat madly.

"My liege, they gather in the great hall of Laketown as we speak. We'll be late," Percy, Bard's man, protested impatiently.

"There is far enough mead and wine to amuse them while they wait. Babes are less patient," Bard shot back, even less so.

"Lad, can that boat carry two?" Thorin called down to the dwarf.

"Aye, and faster rowing majesty if we both take an oar," answered the boy quickly. Thorin nodded a swift confirmation and sought a way off the barge, making small sounds of ineffective desperation for a moment as the guards and guests dwaddled about in confusion.

"Pull it to the stern there, boy," Bard instructed. "There is a ladder."

Dwalin followed Thorin's frantic pace toward the stern, grunting and huffing. "Fetch a step, one of ye. How're we to climb over this bloody rail?"

"No, it will go lighter with just us, both rowing," Thorin countered. Dwalin drew back, as if he had been struck by one of Bard's men across the cheek like a child.

"Ye can't go unguarded!" Dwalin half-snorted. "Alone? Nay!"

"We have requested an escort come from Dale, Mister Dwalin. They have agreed," the rowing dwarf stammered in response. Dwalin hissed at him and he nearly fell a second time into the water. The lad mustered himself. "They will meet us when we come to land again, with horses. To draw us by wagon is quicker than ponies."

"Aye, then that is what we must do," Thorin said, shrugging off his furs and cloak and leaving them in a pile upon the deck of the barge, pulling on his gloves again, mounting the ladder with the dexterity of a common deckhand.

"Thorin!" Dwalin groused a third time. "I'll have a oar me'self, two even. Better than this scrawny pip," he glared down at the dwarf in the boat, spitefully. Thorin settled into the boat, ignoring Dwalin's hysterics.

"Be my emissary, you and Balin, at the young master's celebration. You will represent me, and give the Men of the Lake our good tidings."

"Good tidings? Wi' them?" chuffed Dwalin.

"A gesture of duty and an order, Dwalin," Thorin retorted irritably. He moved his eyes to Bard with less of it. "And of our goodwill."

"I bid you good fortune in your return, Thorin Oakenshield, and the queen, and your child," Bard replied. Even when he smiled his mouth looked like a straight line, but his eyes were kind.

Thorin adjusted his gloved hand over the oar, gave the barge a final upward glance, Bard leaning over the rail with considerably more warmth than Dwalin was offering at the moment, though he could only see the top of the latter's head, shaking with disapproval.

"Thank you," Thorin said with a tilt of his head to the dragon-slayer. And pushed the oar through the water against the current, hard.

II

The sun was setting fast behind them. He could see the ethereal glow through the facade before they had raced forth across the bridge into the city, guards parting when they saw the crown. Otherwise his tunic was soaked, his breeches disarrayed, his hair windblown. But it mattered as little as Dwalin's complaints. Dwarves had gathered in knots together through the hall, eating and commiserating, more peering down from all the rails and walkways above, below, and to all sides. Candles were kindling at all of the carts and stalls.

The news must have spread he thought with some lighter assurance. There was a sense of sprightliness and warm anticipation everywhere, embracing him. It slowed his heart from its furious beats, spurred by running in his heavy clothes and the sharpest nerves he had known in years. His back and rear ached from the jostling and bouncing of the hard wood seat under him in the back of the covered wagon that raced back along the road to Erebor, drawn by two surefooted horses and heralds ahead blasting horns to clear the road. He strode into the foyer with a cramp in his arse, wincing, as the gathered dwarves there gasped in unison and came forward from their stands.

"Long live the king! Long live the House of Durin!"

"Mahal's blessing my king! To the heir!"

"To the heir!"

Their words melted together, melodious if raucous in that dwarven way. He could smell the ale and burning wicks on the air, wading through the sea of outreached arms and echoing cries of fealty and blessing. His feckless squire tried to sway them aside until the hall sentries restored the king's path. Meisar's Blacklock guard, Oliada, met him at the stairs and kept pace better than the poor squire, as he leapt them by twos and threes.

Dis was already waiting outside of the door to their quarters, her arms crossed.

"You're late, brother."

There was quiet from the other side of the door, just women's voices quibbling as soft as a nest of pigeons roosting.

He squared his sister by the shoulders and leaned heavy to catch his breath. "Is she... the baby?"

Dis said nothing; she opened the chamber door, nodded him inside. He crossed the antechamber full of serving girls and nursemaids quibbling, attending to linens and potions at herb and pestel. They were smiling, all.

Surely then...

Eda fell at his feet and clasped her hands upward. "Forgive, my king. I had no idea. She was... I could never have expected! Oh forgive me, have me flogged if you wish I-"

"Nay," Thorin shook his head in disapproval, raising Eda by the chin. "Have you delivered my child safe and true? That is all I must know."

"Yes, my king," Eda replied, unsteady to rise on her old knees.

Thorin kissed the old healer on her forehead. "Then Mahal give you all blessings. Thank you."

He went into the next room to find Meisar sitting up in their bed hedged closely by her ladies, cradling a small bundle wrapped handsomely in velvets and linen.

"The king!" trilled Emli. "He's here. He's come!" Emli knelt before him and took his ringed finger to kiss jubilantly. "Mahal has blessed my liege with-"

"Emli, a moment for us, alone, perhaps," Meisar suggested gently. Her smile peered to him with tired joy over the squalling bundle. Eda jerked her head toward the door, urging the gathered dwarrowdams out of the chamber.

"I am sorry," the words caught in his throat and croaked out as soon as they were gone. "Meisar, forgive me."

"What ever are you so anguished for, Thorin? Come here. Come and see."

In Meisar's arms lay a large, robust and lividly wailing baby boy, his head capped in thick dark curls.

"Come Thorin, and see your son."

"My son?" His voice and heart caught in his throat, damming at his chest. My son. My...

"Aye, 'tis a boy, Thorin. A little prince," Meisar cooed. Thorin took a moment to arrive at her bedside, unsteady feet following the line of rug that led to the bed. The nursemaids and attendants parted, bowed and were shooed out the door by Aroin and the stouter maid, Bertha.

"Are you well, mizimel?" he peeled off the gloves and cupped a warmer hand under her chin, studied her face. He pushed back the flap of swaddling that concealed the baby against his mother's chest, looked upon his face for the first time.

His lips refused to come together, the bottom only tapping at the top and grasping as his jaw shuddered. Eyes fixed unblinking at the serene, if scrunched face that rested in the velvet and linen swaddling. He eased himself slowly to his knees.

"Thorin, you look as if you will be faint. Come up, and sit here beside me. See him."

Still kneeling and his knees water underneath his frame, he kissed her on her temple and pulled back her hand, finding the palm marked and creased in bloody crescents. He closed her fist and kissed it, easing himself as it were, to his knees as they buckled beneath him, holding her hand tight to the press of his lips, exhaling hard through his nose. Eventually, he sat on the edge of the bed facing her. She tugged her hand loose from his, slid it beneath the swaddled babe, emitting whimpers in little pips and balanced the other at his rump as she placed the bundle into Thorin's arms. The child's eyes opened and gazed upward at him from the warmth of his linens.

"You can unwrap him. It's warm enough," she assured him. "I've counted ten little fingers and ten wee toes, but you can for good measure if you wish."

The fire in the hearth emitted a reassuring heat. Laying him on the bed between them, Thorin took the child from his cap and swaddling. He was pink-cheeked like Meisar was at the moment, a stout boy with a grumpy little face, except that he had her set, heart-shaped mouth and thoughtful brow-line. The eyes were his own though, startlingly blue when they were not squeezed shut. He touched the line of black, wispy beard that outlined his jaw, followed it with a cautious tip of finger to where it tapered at the cheeks a bit, and met the abundant black hair on his head in front of his ears in longer, finer fluff. His limbs were pale and sturdy, little hands in fists, and delightfully chubby feet.

"What say you then?"

He kissed the baby on his tufted face and he made an agreeable rumbling sound, pink mouth opening and closing, finally yawning wide. "He is perfect."

"Aye, he is. Look at him. Look at his eyes. He is of your House," Meisar tapped his nose playfully so his eyes would spring open again. They were not startlingly sapphire, nor pale and ethereal like Dis's. There went hints of grey in them, like Thorin's, wide and curious and pure without any of the weight his bore. And may they never know...

"Little jewel, more precious than any," she sighed. "The crown of Meisar's head was damp and sharp with sweat; he rested his face into her scalp, kissing a joyous, uneven rhythm.

"He is you, carried in you, brought into this world by you," Thorin retorted huskily, taking her hand and opening the bloodied palm again, kissing it, tasting iron. "And this... it could not have been an easy thing, to bring him into the world."

"Yes but he does have your eyes."

The pop of fireworks dipped down into the mountain and thundered from the ceiling down in muffled beats.

"All over the mountain they are celebrating. It has made them quite jubilant, this," Thorin choked back the lump in his throat.

"Do they know it is a prince yet?" Meisar asked. She leaned, heavy and tired, back against Thorin's shoulder, the babe held sturdily in her arms with Thorin's hand instinctively cradled beneath the swaddled rump. He could feel the flutter of legs underneath, and Meisar's drawn sigh, her eyes sliding closed for an instant, forehead tilted to welcome a kiss.

The second burst masked the small peep she made, and Thorin tasted the tears before he opened his eyes to her again. Her joy was so quiet, and mine... like a dammed river.

"There has been no announcement quite yet, but soon, and I think the ruckus will come much louder then." One of the pops ricocheted and burst loudly. The babe awoke and began to wail.

"Oh my sweetling. He is wonderful, Thorin." Her tears spilled and his followed. "I have waited all my life for him."

And I, and I...

"Yes," Thorin squeezed her shoulder tight to brace his own sob against. Meisar soothed the child against her breast, her hand beneath his capped head anchoring to offer more kisses, wetting the babe's little face with her tears, and Thorin watering her scalp with his.

"Let me..." Thorin half-gasped, tugging the swaddling at his feet, a wordless plea.

Meisar acquiesced with silent serenity returning, held her hand beneath his head as she transferred him to Thorin's arms. He rocked the squalling babe, kissed his curled little hands and his broad, handsome little nose. The rumble of fireworks kept on, and the child kept wailing, but the sound was mellifluous. No pipe or fiddle or drum could compare to that song.

"We will have our own celebration here," Thorin chuckled gently. "Though with no less joy."

She surprised him with her calm, her glow, even a little hint of amusement in spite of the strain delivering must have wrought on her, once the tears had passed but for a moment. The exertion had not quite faded from her cheeks. He had expected languor, even wretched exhaustion, but she was entirely serene.

"I should never have gone this day," he whispered, hoarse with regret. Meisar cupped the side of the baby's face in her hand and ran her thumb down the line of his beard from ear to jaw, massaging the fluff and his cries down to a whimper again.

"You are here, and in good time. I did not think the baby would come today either," Meisar assured. "But here we are, and there is nothing to be sorry for. There never will be, ever again, my love."

"No, I don't suppose there will be." I have looked into this child's eyes and know it now.

"He was so eager to see his father," Meisar sighed happily into Thorin's shoulder. "I told him you had gone above into the world, that you were a king with many duties, that he ought wait for you. But they are strong-willed, just like us."

Thorin's bearded kiss made his son's face scrunch back from a wee rest. "He knew I loathed whitefish so."