Author's Note: I did not set out to make this a series. My hand slipped, and I developed an OC. I have no regrets. It makes me so happy to write in this universe that might have been, and so sad to remember that it never will. If you enjoy this world as much as I do, drop a review. Offer me a prompt. Join me on this adventure as I explore that fathers, brothers, leaders, and king that the Dwarves of Erebor could have been.
The halls of Erebor are finally full. There are times when Fíli misses the quiet awe of those first few days, but they are few and far between. He much prefers the low rumble of a hundred voices in the courts, the squeals and laughter of children running through the gates, the constant thrum echoing up from the mines, like the heartbeat of the mountain. And in the moments that it becomes too much even for him, at least he has the option to retreat to the inner sanctum of the fortress city and the company of his kin — though since the arrival of Kíli's half-Elfling, even those halls are rarely quiet.
He is leaving his mother's chambers when he is nearly bowled over by the child in question. At nine years old, Orodir is already tall enough to barrel head first into Fíli's chest, and running fast enough that the blow momentarily stuns them both.
"Woah there," Fíli says, first to recover. "Where's the dragon?" Orodir scuffs one boot against the floor.
"Sorry, gwanur en ada nîn," he murmurs, and makes to run off again. Fíli puts an arm up in his path. This petulant expression is not like his nephew.
"Speaking of dragons, where are the rest of those little beasts you call friends? Weren't you building a kite for the Durin's Day feasts?"
"Yes." Orodir pointedly avoids looking at him; it doesn't sound as though he is lying, but Fíli doesn't think he is telling the whole truth either. "They are at the gates, seeing if it will fly."
He waits a moment to see if Orodir will say more. When he doesn't, Fíli sighs, puts his arm down and steps to the side of the hall."Alright, go on then. But don't let your grandmother catch you running like that."
As he suspected, the suggestion of joining the other children only makes Orodir frown. "I was looking for ada," he finally says, and this time Fíli is certain that his nephew is not telling him everything.
"Kíli's on watch with the guard," he says, and Orodir's expression grows even more unhappy. "Come on, then, lad, what's wrong? Why don't you want to play with your friends?"
For a long moment, Orodir does not answer. Then, defeated, he looks up at Fíli, and simply tells him, "I do not think they are my friends."
Most of the time, Orodir reminds him so much of Kíli at that age that Fíli forgets the boy is only half Khazad, and so whenever his nephew meets his gaze with that too-wise expression in his green eyes that is so distinctly Elven, it never fails to send a chill up his spine. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long whistle. Maybe it would be easier to let Kíli be the one to deal with his troubled son, and not being a parent himself he has no idea if he will say the right thing, but Fíli wants to be the sort of uncle to Orodir that Thorin was to him, and Thorin would never have simply passed him off to someone else as if he were a burden.
He moves to a stone bench cut into the wall, and pats the space beside him, inviting Orodir to sit. The boy joins him somewhat reluctantly, swinging his feet nervously back and forth. His toes just barely brush the ground, and Fíli is reminded again how fast the boy is growing, at least physically.
"Do you want to tell me what happened, lad?" he asks. "It's alright if you don't, but I would like to help you if I can."
Orodir is silent for a long moment, then he tells Fíli, "I'm different than the others."
"Of course you're different," he says, trying to keep his tone light. "You're our princeling."
"That's not what I mean." Orodir chews his lip for a moment (a habit he picked up from Kíli) and reaches up to brush his pointed ears — and as soon as he does, shakes his head to knock his dark hair forward again, effectively covering the tips. "I look different. I'm too tall to fit in the little tunnels anymore but I'm too small to work a hammer. I'm too fast for them to keep up with me but if I slow down they laugh at me for walking. I'm still not even starting to grow a beard. And now they've noticed my stupid ears."
At loss for better words — his pointed ears do stand out amongst the Dwarves of Erebor, there's no use denying it — Fíli simply fills the silence by saying, "I thought you liked your ears?"
"They're enormous." Orodir reaches up reflexively again but stops before touching them this time. "So are nana's, but you can't tell as much, because her face is longer." He stretches his legs and kicks a stone across the path so that it clatters against the opposite wall. "I wish I looked more like ada."
"Come on, you look plenty like your da." Fíli knows that he isn't being particularly comforting, just saying what he is expected to say, and he racks his brain, trying to think what Thorin would tell him, because Thorin would have much better words.
And then, in thinking about his other kin, the answer comes to him. It's so obvious that he almost laughs, but as Thorin seems constantly determined to prove to them all, no one ever sounds wise while laughing.
"Say, Orodir," he says, nudging the sullen lad with his elbow to get his attention, "what color is your da's hair?"
"Black," Orodir answers, obviously confused. "What does that have to do with—?"
"And your grandmother?" Fíli prompts. "What about her?"
"Black."
"And Thorin?"
"Silver."
Fíli bites back a snort. "Before it got that way."
"Black."
"Hm." Fíli strokes his braids for a moment, trying to look thoughtful. "And what color is my hair?"
"Gold," Orodir answers dutifully. Then: "Oh."
"Exactly." He reaches out to ruffle his nephew's raven locks, and Orodir ducks out of the way with a laugh that Fíli echoes before he remembers that he is supposed to be serious. "We've all got something that makes us different. The trick is not letting anyone convince you that's a bad thing."
Orodir gives him a small but heartfelt smile. "Thank you," he says, hopping down off the bench. "That's good advice. I will try to remember it."
"You still want to go find your da?" Fíli asks, getting up himself. Orodir shakes his head. "Then come on. What do you say we head up to the training yards. I don't know much about hammers, but I'll teach you how to throw a knife. Unless you'd rather go play with your friends."
Orodir's eyes widen with excitement at the prospect and he shakes his head enthusiastically, sending his hair flying into his face. "No," he says, "I don't think there is enough wind to fly a kite today anyway."
He tucks the flyaway locks behind his ear, and makes no move to cover it.