I am not happy with how this chapter turned out, but I really couldn't stand looking at it any more. Hopefully it won't be as bad for you readers, since you only need to read it once while I've gone over it in what feels like 100 times. At least it's a long chapter that will surely make up for my lack of updates. Or not. Likely not. Sorry ...

My thanks goes out to those who reviewed, followed and favorited my little, slow-updating story. Much appreciated, and do keep it up! I really do enjoy reading comments and it's really interesting to hear what you all think. For this chapter, if you want to hear the song, I suggest looking for "Beren and Lúthien" by Caprice; it's closest to what I image.

Enjoy!

when Ravens Fly

Chapter XI: A letter

It was as if he had been dropped into a lake, plunged through the cold; sinking below the surface where all sound stilled to nothing. The gathered crowd faded, and from the corner of an eye he watched the woman quietly. Observing. Her bruised face, the black and blue flush across her skin, was now healed, and a softness previously absent had taken to her young features. With fingers clasped in front of her, eyes on the dancing puppets, she no longer looked to be mourning.

The sun burned hotly down on them from a cloudless sky.

Air heavy with sounds and smells in the Summer heat.

Fíli opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly clenched his jaw shut and remained silent; he had nothing to say – no reason to seek out a conversation with the minstrel, lest he wished to startle, perhaps even scare, her. Instead he continued his watch. He flexed his gloved hands, unsure where to put them until they limply fell to his sides.

Thin shoulders shook lightly in laughter as the performance came to a close, the puppets embracing in a grand display of affection; lips slanting upwards into a smile, and her eyes shone with gentle mirth. He lowered his gaze when long fingers brushed brown hair away from her face; head and body tilting slightly towards him yet she still paid him no mind.

With eyes downcast, the Dwarf now spotted fragments of runes running along the hem of the cloak, partly hidden beneath the dark instrument across her back. He knew those runes well – Khuzdul, taught to the Dwarves by Aüle, the Maker, himself – and again he wondered.

Dwarf-friend?

But his speculations were cut short.

The woman shifted and turned, once more setting off down the road and never once had she looked his way.

Spared no glance on the Dwarf lord next to her.

At her departure Fíli then quickly urged his brother to continue – for 'there was still much to see in the market', and 'surely they should not tarry!'. With his eyes fixed on the brown haired woman ahead, the Dwarf steered with purpose through the crowd.

"What is the meaning of this sudden haste?" Dwalin demanded, impatience seeping into his gruff tone, struggling to keep pace with the king's nephews while all the same pulling along the ponies. "Slow down, laddie. Where is the rush?"

This time Kíli knew what to look for; the dark-haired Dwarf followed Fíli's stare and his inquisitive gaze fell upon the green fabrics between large, broad-shouldered workmen. The woman ducked under barrels, and straightening once more without halting her pace. Her stride was with purpose and swiftness, a green arrow carving easily through the crowd.

The younger prince hurried to his brother's side, then answered their captain over his shoulder following a deep sigh. "A cloak, apparently! Fíli–," he implored, grasping the older Dwarf by the arm and pulled Fíli to a halt. "–stop for just one moment and consider your actions."

Fíli listened and heard the words, knowing well he could not explain to his brother. Not even to himself. It was almost as if some dark magic had been cast over him, stealing away his reason, but still he could not pry away his eyes from her frame. "I ..." He breathed. "I merely wish to speak with her."

"Which is very well fine and all," Kíli deadpanned. "But following after madly and paying no heed to anything else is the act of a reckless fool! If I did not know better I'd even say the act of a smitten fool," Kíli lowered his voice, bemusement and concern falling over his features when he leaned in closer. "You know well uncle will hear of our every step today, even if word is brought to him with the best intentions."

At those words Fíli blinked, befuddled.

Then, much to Kíli's surprise, he laughed. "It is very rare for you to be the voice of reason, dearest brother," he said. Fíli gave a nod, showing his understanding; it was shameful to display actions beneath his usual bearings, and there were many eyes in the crowd. One could never know who would be watching and – worse yet – to whom they reported back to about Erebor's crown prince. "I am sorry for behaving strangely."

He pulled a face, ashamed.

"Perhaps I really am smitten."

Kíli rolled his eyes, patting Fíli reassuringly on the shoulder before wrapping an arm around his neck. "I have my doubts. She is much too beardless."

Although Fíli had laughed and flippantly jested, a nagging feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It clenched his gut tightly, uncomfortably, until uncertainty filtered slowly but surely into his mind. His peculiar interest had not been the woman, but rather the fabric clasped around her neck; the story surely attached to it. Dwarves did not so easily part with items marked with their secret language; it was not only deemed inappropriate but rather to break an unspoken law.

Khuzdul was their language. It was only shared with great friends and confidants of the Dwarves; and it had not been such since the old ages and the Dark Elf Eöl. But so blatantly displayed on the cloak of a human minstrel? The notion felt foreign to him. Unlikely.

But was she a thief, openly flaunting the spoils?

He could not imagine that to be the truth.

Glancing up and out over the crowd, he was blessed with luck. The woman had, likewise, paused in her wanderings at a bread vendor, brow furrowed in thought as she regarded the wares. The brothers sauntered closer, disregarding Dwalin's huffs and mutterings behind them; Fíli was glad Kíli had easily and with little complaint decided to help him out in his endeavours. Be that they stemmed from smitten foolishness or mere curiosity ...

A group of guards entered the square in their patrol around the city; metal plates polished and bright, red cloaks billowing out after them in their matching strides. Spears stood out darkly against the cloudless sky, black teeth cutting blue, and the crowd parted easily around them.

Fíli allowed them to pass in front of them. Ahead, the minstrel looked up from the stall, when the stomping of feet caught her attention. Head lowered, she quickly shied away, and cowered partly in the shadows cast by the stall; her fingers tugged at her clothes, looking on edge.

But the guards continued their march.

Uncertainty rose in his mind at her behaviour. Perhaps ...

Fíli took another step closer, still keeping a distance to avoid suspicions but there was no more than ten yards between her and the Dwarven group by then. He could see the faint lines shadowing her brow; her fingers curled around her skirt.

A yelp tore through the din, angry and loud.

"Stop him! Stop the thief!" Almost as one, men and women turned towards the sound and froze mid work; Fíli first spotted a red-faced man, hands raised as he elbowed his way through the crowd, barking for someone to help him.

But then a much smaller frame, clutching a package in slim arms, slipped between two elderly women. The ladies shrieked in shock, pulling away, but the culprit was already further ahead in an attempt to escape the pursuer and secure the valuables.

The child – the thief – bolted past the brothers, with worn-down shoes skitting over the cobblestones in his frantic hurry to escape the vendor's understandable wrath. Perplexed, all they could do was watch as the nimble-fingered boy rushed past them, long before they had a chance to react. Much like the rest of the crowd, where none seemed eagerly keen to lend their aid and help.

In fact, the people in the square gave the thief a wide berth.

"Stop him!" The man cried out again, becoming increasingly agitated and desperate. "Get out of my way!"

Fíli looked ahead and saw the guards roused to duty; an armed pair elbowing their way though the onlooking crowd, barking orders, and headed straight towards the child. Their faces were grim with annoyance beneath fur-lined helmets. The young boy appeared unaware of his awaiting fate.

But then a green blur cut in front of the thief, swift, and he was caught roughly by the arm in a vice-like grip.

Whirling around, forcefully dragging him closer, the minstrel turned her back to the guards and lowered her head to the boy.

Even from the distance, Fíli's keen hearing picked up the words she hissed urgently. "There are other ways to earn money than to steal, boy," she lowly warned, eyes peering up towards the swiftly approaching vendor. The boy struggled against her hold, wriggling and cursing loudly, yet she appeared unfazed.

Huffing, breathing heavily and with a face flushed scarlet, the angered vendor halted; gaze darkened, his attention flickered from the boy to the woman, then back again before he raised his hand to strike. "You filthy little street rat–"

"I must apologize for his behavior, sir," the minstrel cut him off sharply, tone insisting and caused the man to falter in his actions. The raised hand was lowered slightly. She turned her body, almost as if to shield the child; she lowered her head, eyes downcast, all the while tugging the boy further behind her. "He should know better than to steal yet he never listens. I can promise you that he will be punished."

Fíli watched in bemusement while the woman, still firmly holding on to the child's wrist, pried the package from his grip with her free hand. The boy shot her a livid look. She pointedly ignored him, instead returning what was stolen to its rightful owner. "You think it enough to return what is already mine? I have lost valuable time running after this little miscreant!"

A flicker of a scowl marred her features, yet it soon disappeared when her gaze trailed towards the guards close by and watching silently. "Yes ... Of course, I understand." She rummaged through the pouch at her belt, a clinking of metals carving through the thrum of noises. "How much?" She inquired.

"Five gold coins," he hissed, eyes still trained on the boy. "That's what it's worth."

At this she blanched, face turning pale before she, with eyes narrowed to thin slits, watched the boy; he at least had the decency to turn his gaze away to the ground. The corner of her lips twitched. Pulling out five pieces of gold, she quickly passed them over to the vendor with another apology. "I hope this will prove enough compensation."

He snorted, curling large fingers around the coins before pocketing them. "I'd like to see that little bastard smacked around so he can learn his lesson, but this will make do. But heed my warning – if I see him anywhere near my stall he can be sure to lose his bloody teeth!"

With one final glare towards the small thief, he stormed off back into the watching crowd. Shoving past those that were too slow to step aside. The rush of voices, eagerly discussing what had transpired, roared into life; all hushed, spoken in whispers to those nearby, but with many gossips it soon became deafening.

A long, quiet moment followed between the odd pair, where neither thief nor minstrel made a move. Fíli exchanged a look of confusion with his brother. Kíli merely shrugged his shoulders. But then she shook her head, brown curls rolling down her back, until she fastened her gaze on the child once more. "May I suggest you do not rush into a crowd mindlessly, unless you wish to be dragged off by the guards?"

The boy glared at her. "Who are you to tell me what I can and can't do?" He tore his arm away forcefully, and this time she allowed it; taking a step back, hands held placidly out from her sides, she regarded him with a raised brow.

Then she sighed.

"I believe a thanks is in order, although I fear it is very unlikely I shall receive one." The minstrel waved him away in resignation. "Be on your way then, and praise yourself lucky I won't except my gold back."

He did not need to be told twice, and soon the tattered and patched clothes slipped from sight; once more into the shadowed alleys, away from the guards and back into the dark world created from poverty. Fíli quietly commended the woman's actions, stroking his braided beard in thought, now knowing for certain she could not possibly have stolen the Dwarven cloak. Honorable. Stepping between a small child and a much larger, angered man to handle a precarious situation so calmly ...

Acted where all else had but watched.

No. He believed the rune-inscribed cloak to have fallen into her hands rightfully.

A token of appreciation?

His gaze lingered, mind deep in thought and his curiosity far from quenched.

The young thief had done wrong, but to have seen him be dragged off by the guards did not sit well with Fíli. Seldom children chose for themselves a life on the streets, but were rather forced into poverty by the cruel hand of fate; neglected or with family torn from them through war and famine. Worse yet, without a doubt the blame could very well fall on the Company of Thorin Oakenshield ...

To steal was to survive.

Brow slightly furrowed with ill humor, she glanced around; redness tinted her cheeks with the stares turned her way. Long, slender fingers fumbled with her belongings, then rigidly paused at her belt. Fíli saw her eyes widen in astonishment. Pinching her nose and gaze turned to the blue skies above, she sighed deeply.

Fíli noticed the missing pouch at her belt.

The princes and their reluctant guard continued their surreptitious pursuit, further until the mass of people and noise lessened; in the end they parted from the crowd, when the woman left the marketplace and instead took to the narrow streets.

Keeping a suitable distance, not wishing to overstep the boundaries of propriety – although, upon following her, such decorum was undoubtedly sullied by then – the Dwarves were led further into the residential areas of Dale. Through the winding streets, climbing soft hills, beneath the shadows cast from the roofs above. Twice the Dwarves had to shuffle back and out of sight, when she faltered as if lost to then take another road. Crows cawed hoarsely before settling in an apple tree. The shades of evening began to fall, turning the air cooler as the light of sun kissed the rooftops.

Finally, she came to a stop.

The young woman entered an open courtyard; vines crawled lazily over the walls, and a wooden signboard swayed upon creaking hinges from the archway leading to the small tavern. Fíli lingered outside, thoughtfully watching through the blooming foliage until she disappeared through the open door. A faint voice in the back of his mind told him – implored – for him to return to Erebor. Surely he had seen enough. Broken all rules of justifiable conduct. But then again ... they were there already. He sighed, throwing a brief glance to his brother.

Kíli, with a pensive frown marring his features, returned his gaze evenly.

The youngest Dwarf had allowed his brother's peculiar behavior without complaint. Eyes drawn in puzzled concern, yet nonetheless proving to be a reliable companion as the dark-haired Dwarf then shrugged. "We have come this far," he said. "Surely they serve ale in this establishment, and it will ease our journey home later. Especially so if you're paying, brother!"

Not giving his companions a chance to respond, Kíli strode purposely into the courtyard.

Fíli followed quickly behind, leaving Dwalin to resignedly handle the ponies.

The soft echoing clip-clops of hooves against the cobblestones heralded their arrival, and soon after the three animals were led away by a young boy. The unusual guests had received a look of curiosity but, with a vivid flush, the lad scrambled to take the reins. Even with the mountain retaken, the common folks of Dale never truly had many workings with the Dwarves besides trading wares in the bustling marketplaces. Three of them suddenly standing outside the tavern was likely remarkably uncommon; most Dwarves preferred to return to Erebor before nightfall and to sleep among their own kind, rather than under an unfamiliar roof.

Taking a look at his surroundings, Fíli hesitated once more.

From the outside it looked pleasant enough; the door was open and fire-light, gleaming red, poured out into the waning gloom of the courtyard; clay pots holding flowers of sunset-orange dotted the exterior, and several unlit lanterns hung from the walls. The windows were dark, smudged and opaque when he attempted to peer inside. Many cheerful voices bustled to life from within, loudly, and he listened to the encouraging sound for a moment. There were other guests – he could be lost from view in the crowd, and the minstrel would never know he was there.

He went forward.

Upon stepping inside, they were greeted by a dimness that lay heavy over the room. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and Fíli discovered a big common-room with wooden tables and benches. What little light there was came from a blazing fire, veiled in pipe-smoke and as such cloaked the gathered in darkened grey. Shadowy figures were difficult to make out in the corners. The gathering was large and mixed; but they all appeared in high spirits despite the dingy settings, and to some extend it put Fíli's mind at ease.

His gaze danced over the gathered, attempting to make out the one they had followed there.

Some glanced their way, but most were preoccupied with their own business and spared little attention on the new arrivals. Fíli much preferred it as such, for without a doubt they would have stood out upon a closer inspection; he felt suddenly very aware of his golden buckles and silk cuffs. He pulled the travel cloak further around his figure. A plump woman, carrying a tray laden with mugs, made her way through the room towards them. "Welcome, good sirs," she greeted merrily and with a warm smile, easing the tray onto the counter before wiping her hands on the apron. "What may you be wanting?"

Kíli had taken charge and briskly asked for the tavern's best – and most expensive – supper, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

The three Dwarves took to a table pushed against the wall. Dwalin gruffly shooed the youngest brother off the outer seat, muttering about an advantageous view of the room and bandits out for gold. Or worse - the head of a prince. Fíli's shoulder brushed the wall as he shifted into place, back against the room, pushing the sword at his hip out of the way; his brother, with a look at their surroundings, settled next to him. "Well, this isn't too bad," he stated lightly. "See anything of interest?"

Fíli pointedly ignored the question though could not help casting another long look out over the room. No, he did not. He pulled the gloves off his hands, and ran his fingers thoughtfully across his beard before turning his eyes to the slow, dancing flame on the table. The candle dripped tendrils of wax, its light flickering with every soft gust of wind sweeping in through the door.

The room smelled heavily of pipe weed.

Three large mugs were placed in front of them, followed by a basket of freshly baked loaves; buttered and with thick slices of cheese generously added. "I'll bring the rest shortly," the matron said, once more vanishing into the throng of people without giving them a chance to voice their thanks. Kíli was first to raise his mug, and both Fíli and Dwalin soon mirrored his actions in a silent toast.

The ale was not unsatisfactory, although it appeared to have been watered down and nowhere near as potent as the Dwarven counterpart. It was not the worst, nor the best - while it would do little more than to start a prickle in his fingertips, it certainly would make do that evening. Fíli picked apart a bread roll on his plate, his thoughts elsewhere while his ears picked up the conversations around their table. Most spoke of a hard day's work, or a nagging wife and the harvest; he did not pay much attention to all this, though there were also talks of distant events and telling news of the world outside the borders of Rhovanion.

Soon they had finished both bread and ale, and it was just in time for the round woman to return. This time she brought a tray; burdened with roasted pork and vegetables, a bowl of potatoes, and a blueberry tart. Dwalin's mood improved some, even if he still could not fathom the reasoning behind their current whereabouts.

His sharp, attentive glare lessened.

"As long as we are back before they light the midnight flames," he had stated, nodding over his mug.

Too deep in thought, Fíli chugged his own drink and touched very little on his plate. The longer he sat there, mulling over his own actions, the less sense it all made to him. It was but a silly notion he had allowed to grow within his mind; growing until he finally believed it to be of importance. Yet now he was there and he felt the need to carry through.

Once more he scanned the hazy faces of the crowd, turned halfway in his seat and arm slung over the back-rest.

Never did his attention linger long.

Of course, that was only until his gaze swept over tresses of brown hair near the fire; he immediately straightened in his seat. There. The minstrel was perched on a chair, the black lute in her hands and a gentle half-smile on her lips. Another woman - younger, with golden hair braided and tray rested flat against her stomach – spoke quietly with her. Both laughed, and her nose crinkled. Flecks of light whirled in the depths of hazel orbs. A strange sense of relief flooded him, when he noticed how she had no eyes for the collection of local men gathered around them.

Fíli could not hear the words, but neither could he tear his eyes away and remained still. Not moving. Apprehensive. He had found her – however, what now? Clearing his throat he sharply elbowed his brother beneath the table. Mid-drink, the other Dwarf choked and spluttered, sending a cascade of ale across the table before regaining his composure. He shot a glower at the assailant. "What?"

With a smile of irreproachability at Dwalin – although the warrior looked like he would have absolutely nothing to do with their antics – Fíli's eyes flickered towards the fireplace. Kíli cocked an eyebrow, dabbing away at the spilled ale that dotted the table. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes in resignation, he proceeded to scratch his beard all the while pointing an inconspicuous finger in the minstrel's direction. The brown-haired Dwarf blinked twice, perplexed.

Sometimes his brother really tried his patience ...

Kíli turned to look, mouth falling open in understanding. "Oh." The baffled scowl turned into a wide grin. The brown-haired Dwarf looked at him sidelong, a worrisome gleam sparkling to life in the depths of his eyes. "Tell me, brother, how shall we proceed now?"

Fíli pondered the question, attention still on the minstrel as he chewed into the bread carefully.

The insides of his mouth felt dry, and he struggled to get even a word past his lips. "I– well, nothing?" He feebly suggested, knowing well how pitifully inadequate it sounded; voice low and rough in his throat as he once more found the whole situation uncomfortably awkward.

With a heavy sigh, Kíli rolled his eyes.

Then the younger Dwarf planted both hands flat against the table and pushed himself off the bench. Long before Fíli had the chance to voice a complaint, his brother approached the fireplace with purposeful steps.

Mouth agape, Fíli watched Kíli pressing his way to the two women's side through the gathered onlookers. He buried his head in his arms, letting out an inaudible groan as he cursed his brother's rashness - and obvious heedlessness towards an obviously uncomfortable situation! "Just end me ..." He muttered, arms muffling his embarrassment.

Dwalin grunted a response into his mug, half-heartedly.

He did not dare raise his head, despite the gnawing wrenches of bizarre curiosity in his stomach. Do not talk to her, he repeated again and again in his mind. Fíli sank further down into his seat, praying for the ground to swallow him whole right then and there. Of course Mahal did not then decide to spare one of his own creations; without mercy the Dwarf prince could do nothing but wait with baited breath.

The loud noises in the tavern room ruined any hope of picking out strings of conversation, though Fíli could not help but imagine his brother's voice laced with amusement weaving above the rest. He would stuff Kíli down one of the mining shafts into the darkness below the mountain for this ...

Claps and cheers of encouragement erupted from behind him. "A song! A song!"

A laugh – Fíli knew its owner without looking up, yet still he raised his head to peer over his shoulder. Kíli stood in the half-circle, immediately and naturally accepted in the middle; the fire blazed and flickered, making light and shadow dance across their faces while she rose from her seat.

The lute settled between her fingers already working nimbly to strum its strings.

Then she spoke above the racket, "What about, then?"

The minstrel allowed calls to roll in from the merry gathering. Courageous tales of battle; the creation of The World one whispy voice suggested; and several backed up a shout of "Ale!", while the young barmaid sighed about romance.

"What say you, master Dwarf?" Brown wisps of hair fell across her brow when she tilted her head to look at Kíli. She smiled pleasantly, though not entirely without a hint of civil professionalism; it did not seem like she had recognized Kíli from the lake shore weeks earlier – or perhaps found it not to matter. "You asked for a song – fairness calls for you to choose first, do you not agree?"

"In that case–" Fíli could hear the gleeful mirth heavy in his voice as the less than subtle hint was clear, "–we could all use a bit of romance in our lives, surely." Oh, how far down into the mines his brother would go for this ... So very, very far.

The sounds quieted except for a few, more hushed, conversations in the tavern corners, while the strumming continued for some moments more. "Very well," she said. "Then I know just the right one. There is no other tale of love that could rival that of Luthíen and Beren, and while I do not master its Elvish origins hopefully the translation to Westron will do it justice."

And so the minstrel began to tell her tales.

Histories and legends of long ago, of Elves and Men and the good and evil deeds of the Elden Days. She sang the tale of Tinúviel, a fair tale, though it was also sad. When the last tunes dimmed into nothing and the room fell silent, many were left with heavy hearts; for Lúthien's love for the mortal man Beren had not been without hardships and trials.

But, Fíli pondered, one cannot deny it certainly was beautiful.

He swirled the mug between his hands, first watching the golden-dark liquid splashing about in the bottom as he willed his wavering spirit into bravery. If she had not recognized the other Dwarf, standing mere feet from her, then surely she would not spare a second thought on him. Even if he risked another glance. Even if he foolishly had followed her halfway across town just because of an unusual cloak fastened around her shoulders. With more force than truly necessary he placed the ale back onto the wooden table, turned partially in his seat, and shot a glance towards the crowd.

The barmaid, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron, was sent off to fetch ale for the minstrel; the young woman strode swiftly past Fíli's table, pausing momentarily and offered to refill his tankard. With a shake of his head he declined, gaze focused on the green fabric illuminated by the dancing flames. Only the fabric, his mind insisted. Nothing else.

Laying the lute in her lap, giving her fingers a respite, the minstrel spoke of the fate of the Silmarils with a pair of elderly travelers. But only the Firstborns, wise in years, truly knew the fate of the three precious gems, and so they were left with naught but speculations.

Kíli leaned against the stones close by the fire, arms crossed and the contemplating look returned whilst he regarded her. As if feeling Fíli's gaze, his eyes flickered up and met his own; he could not help but wonder if perhaps his brother had played along – for entirely different reasons than what he wordlessly had assumed previously. He could not quite put it past his younger brother.

But before Fíli could truly entertain the idea, Kíli made his next move.

Unabashed.

Pointing towards their table; a short bow and a smile.

Kíli had invited the minstrel to join their company.

Ducking his head, pulling the mug close, he could feel a heat – not from the burning fire – spread across his face. Heavy, booted footsteps approached from behind him, followed by a much softer pair as the woman seemed to have accepted the offer; much to Fíli's chagrin. He should have said yes to a refill of ale when he had the chance.

"Allow me to introduce you to the company," Kíli said, clearing his throat to gain their attention.

Knowing well ignoring her presence would be considered rude, and his mother would have his hide for such behavior, Fíli wished he could continue observing the detailed lines running across the wood rather than face her. In the end he looked up; hazel orbs met blue for the briefest of moments. Brown curls, tousled tangles, left most of her face in shadow but her lips were pulled into a light smile. Just as he took in her appearance, her eyes swept with thinly-veiled interest over his attire – flickering to the longsword fastened to his belt - then further, to the second Dwarf seated at the table.

"My dearest brother Fíli, and our–," Kíli hesitated briefly, though not long enough for the minstrel to notice, "–uncle, Dwalin."

The latter, with his tendency to distrust, merely returned her gaze evenly; eyes narrowed beneath bushy eyebrows. Gloved fingers twitched uncomfortably close to the hilt of his axe, though the powerful warrior deemed her of little threat and did nothing more. His attentive stance – perched in his seat as if ready to pounce if she as much as blinked wrong – did not falter. "Good evening," she smiled, unfazed by the hostility to instead tilt her head in a short greeting.

Kíli shuffled off to gather a chair for his invited guest, leaving the remaining three in a stifling silence; she fumbled with the lute from one hand to another, while shifting her weight restively. His mouth twitched, yet his mind struggled to come up with anything worthwhile to say. Comment on her song? The peculiar wood her instrument was crafted from? The weather?

Dragging a chair from one of the other tables, Kíli returned once more.

With impeccable manners – and, quite frankly, very unlike his usual self – he offered the seat. "Here you go, Miss."

With another smile she sat down, folding her hands in her lap and quietly watched Kíli take the place next to Fíli. "It is very rare for Dwarves to visit this place," she commented airily. "Let alone offer to buy me a drink. What can I do for you, good sir?"

Blinking, Kíli tilted his head. "I merely repay you for a wonderful song."

"I see," she responded. "I shall gladly accept."

It did not take long for the barmaid to return, tray in hand. While she faltered briefly upon seeing the Dwarves, she quickly placed the pint of ale in front of the minstrel. "Enjoy!" Kíli paid, ordering another round for them as well; then he looked back to the woman at the end of the table, arms crossed over his chest.

"Though your tale was an unusual choice," he said in all seriousness. Fíli trailed a single finger along the rough, wooden edge of his seat; leaning back against the backrest he watched the room. The earlier loudness had stilled, and only a few remained by the fireplace. "A human and an Elf?" His wanderings stilled, and instead he proceeded to chip away tiny dry flakes while his gaze returned to the conversation. As she was preoccupied with Kíli, it gave Fíli the perfect opportunity to take in her features; prominent cheekbones, likely from a meager selection of food rather than natural beauty; a sun-touched nose and faint traces of healing across her upper lip. A thin, dull-looking knife hung at her belt. Shirt crumbled; tattered and patched sleeves.

Her fingers, idly fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt, were slender – nails short, clean – and well-kept.

"Did you not approve, sir?" She asked.

Kíli pulled his shoulders into a shrug. "I just believe one should never neglect the common folks; it is not only fair Elven maidens and heroic Men that through perilous journeys find a chance at love." The minstrel gave a thoughtful nod in understanding; taking a sip of ale, the edge rested against her mouth while the Dwarf continued. "If anything, upon my suggestion of a theme, should it not rather be one of my kin? A Dwarf and a fair maiden?"

"I fear I do not know tales of that kind," the woman smiled before lowering her tone of voice. A mischievous gleam sparked in her eye. "I find Dwarves much too unforthcoming in that area, and they tend to be reluctant to part with any such stories!" Fíli felt certain the lack of romantic gossips - let alone bold legends – of Dwarves and Men stemmed not from the their secretive ways of life, but rather the fact such encounters did not happen. He definitely did not doubt that the minstrel knew it as well. The barmaid returned, interrupting them momentarily while she placed foam-topped tankards in front of those lacking.

Another curious look was shot towards the minstrel before she disappeared into the throng of people once more.

"Rather than to entertain such a notion–," Fíli began without thought, startling even himself; she turned her gaze to him and he met it unwaveringly. He could feel Kíli watching him by his side. "–Unlikely as it is, I am much more interested in that cloak of yours." The minstrel's hands flashed to the green hemline, clutching it tightly between whitened knuckles, and worry marred her features. Immediately putting up his hands to placate her unease he smiled feebly, apologetically, at her.

The pleasant ease, previously displayed towards his brother, was nowhere to be seen as she regarded him cautiously.

"Was it a gift?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Fíli waited for her to elaborate, yet no further answer came. "You must have made good friends with them," he added with hesitation.

"It is very well made," Kíli added.

Stroking the material with a careful fondness, a small smile returned to her lips; as if recalling a memory. "I traveled from Anórien with a family of Dwarves. While we were passing through the Wold of Rohan bandits attacked us during the morning hours." Fíli recalled the blackened and bruised face; the cut, red and bloodied in sharp contrast to paleness. A shadow fell over her, however it vanished instantly and long before he could voice a question. "This cloak was a gift for saving them from a horrible fate, although I do not believe it is deserved."

This roused Dwalin to attention; the muscular warrior sat upright, dark eyes narrowing down on her, and she seemed to shrink further in on herself at the scrutiny. The thin chainmail beneath his tunic clinked with his every move. "Did you defeat the bandits? How many were there?"

"F–four," she squeaked in reply. "But I only took care of one on my own."

Dwalin grunted. "Thought as much."

"What happened then?" Fíli cut in, sending a pointed look towards the other Dwarf though he kept his tone level. He suppressed the urge to shake his head; honed in many a battle, of course a warrior could not see the feat of strength in defeating one opponent. But a woman alone against four? She should thank the Valar for sitting in front of them with so few bruises to show for it. Alive.

Her feet swished across the floor, back and forth as if to match her flickering eyes.

"I ..." She paused, swallowing, before lowering her gaze. "I killed one, and distracted the others long enough for my companions to reclaim their weapons."

Fíli realized how uncomfortable he was making her with his questions; he should not pry any further, but changing the subject abruptly felt equally offensive. "Is that how you received your injuries?" The confusion was clear on her face, and then he knew for certain; she did not recognize them from their brief encounter in May. "We have met once before," he explained, "My brother and I saw you at the lakeshore. You were looking out over Esgaroth, and your face was, well, pretty roughed up."

A faint crease appeared between her brows. The minstrel regarded them both, this time carefully, and her hazel orbs paused every so often; on the dark-blue tunic of rich fabrics, with golden threads richly embroidered along the hemlines; their weapons, beautiful scabbards and jeweled hilts. Khuzdul inscriptions ran along the scabbards' edges, snaking between engravings of wolf fangs and ivy leaves. They had been gifts from Dáin upon their much welcomed recovery after the Battle of Five Armies.

'Beating both Wargs and Elves!' the Lord of the Iron Hills had barked, nearly breaking Fíli's bones all over in an embrace.

"Oh! Indeed, my Lord, my apologies." She bowed her head. Heat flashed across her cheeks, a scarlet flush evident of her embarrassment. "Forgive me, for I am terrible at remembering faces – and there have been so many here in Dale."

"We only recognized you due to the cloak," Kíli grinned in an attempt to ease her mortification, peering from the corner of his eye at Fíli. "My brother noticed our script on it, and it made quite the impression on him. In fact, he could hardly keep the cloak out of his mind these past few weeks!"

"I was merely curious," Fíli groused in indignation. "We do not easily part with such items, and it made me wonder."

The corners of her mouth tilted up, timid above the tankard once more pressed to her lips. When she had finished her drink, she allowed her restless fingers to drum lightly against the table. "I remember now. 'If you consider going out to fish for gems from the beast's belly, I would suggest you did not, lad',"she recited with a smile. She might not remember faces – but words she unquestionably did. With every little detail vividly clear as the day they were spoken.

Fíli choked back a laugh.

Kíli, on the other hand, blanched.

"I had not taken a closer look before rashly speaking." He scratched his stubble beard, looking sheepish. "But at least the warning was true enough. You likely know well the vileness of dragons; their breath can turn you to cinders, and their blood will melt the flesh from bones. So really, it is not a good place to go swimming. Even if one can find precious gems in the lakebed."

The woman mulled over his words. "I have no interest in such things, nor the gold it could bring with it - especially not after a winged serpent has laid upon it." Shaking her head and allowing curls to tumble down, an almost unnoticeable shiver ran down her body.

Fíli's stomach turned to ice; his uncle's maddened lust for gold, the delusional paranoia that in the end drove a wedge through the Company – almost bringing with it the end of poor, helpful Bilbo. Yes, he knew all too well the sickness clouding sound minds. A wise man would turn his back on such gold.

"The hour is late," stated Dwalin, disturbing the silence. "We best leave soon if we are to reach the mountain before the midnight flames. The road will be difficult in this lacking light."

When Fíli looked out through the grimy windows he was met with darkness; during their stay in the warmth of the tavern, the sun had set over the western spurs and night time har claimed the streets of Dale. They would have to travel carefully lest injuring the ponies – or themselves for that matter.

Kíli opened his mouth to speak, likely to disagree, but Fíli placed a placanting hand on his shoulder. "Maybe it is best we return. We have lingered longer than we should have; uncle will be awaiting our return. He most likely has for the last couple of hours."

Fíli had never anticipated for his odd curiosity to bring them to where they were now.

He fished coins out from his pouch and gestured the barmaid over. The blonde girl immediately accepted the payment, cleared their table, and then left to find some change. Meanwhile Fíli stood to leave, more roughly than not pulling his brother up with him. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss, and your song was very beautiful. Even if there were no Dwarves in it," Kíli rushed to say before giving a bow. "May our roads cross again."

With a smile, she nodded. "I would like that."

She hesitated.

"My Lords ... This might just well be impudent of me, but perhaps I could ask a favor of you?"

"Certainly!" Kíli responded without pause.

"I cannot enter the mountain myself, but I would like to send a message to my companions inside. There has been no word since we parted ways, and I pray they have settled well. If I were to write a quick letter could you bring it for me?" She wrung her hands in the skirt. "If it is not too much trouble ..."

Fíli exhaled sharply. "It is not. Very well, I shall personally see to it that your letter reaches its destination."

Upon his words, her face lighted up and she gave him a bright smile of gratitude. "Thank you! I shall write it immediately," she said. Hastily looking around, it did not take long before the barmaid was sent away on yet another errand; this time for ink and parchment.

Her long, brown hair fell in front of her face while she scribbled away. Her handwriting, slanting, scrawled, was rushed and unpracticed, and it was a testament to how little she used the written word. The quill scratched roughly against the parchment, loud even in the noises of the tavern, for neither she nor the Dwarves spoke.

They sent Dwalin ahead to prepare the ponies, and the older Dwarf left without a single complaint. He was restless and eager to return to Erebor. And sooner the better if one was to ask him. Not that they did, of course, for the frown was answer enough.

Fíli waited quietly, patiently, and despite his curiosity made sure not to read the contents of the letter. It was personal – and not for his eyes to see. She had told them the names of her acquaintances; the blacksmith, Frár, and his family. His kind wife and lovely children. The way she spoke of them told him much; and she truly held them in high regard and he expected to do the same when meeting them.

He could not help but steal one small glance when she signed the letter, though ...

Ranel.