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All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson. I only own my OC's and anything else you might now recognise.

A few hours after her encounter with Bilbo, Fheon started on a brisk walk to the dining hall. There, she was satisfied to see, were three large platters topped with fresh turkey meat. She assumed that a small group of dwarves had taken it upon themselves to hunt earlier in the morning, which they were right to do, because Fheon did not feel like doing anything for quite some time… even though several more activities would be inevitably expected of her. But her grumbling stomach won her over, and in the end she ate at the long table with the Company, deciding to get it over with.

She tugged a wing off one of the turkeys and bit into the juicy meat immediately. The oiled fats of it escaped her lips and slid down to her chin. She nonchalantly swiped it off with her sleeve before taking another bite of the turkey. In less than three minutes, she had finished the wing and tugged at a leg from one of three turkeys that was yet to be finished. The dwarves, it seemed, were just as ravenous for meat as she was. And so it was only when the food was finished when she felt all their eyes on her, as expected. She sighed inwardly and raised her head, sipping water from her canteen.

"How have you been, lass?" said Gloin, leaning forward. He sat across the table from her, but the table was wide, and his gesture made no difference with their proximity.

"How do you think?" she muttered in reply.

"You know what I mean."

Nevertheless, he trailed off into silence, giving way for Bifur's condolences, which were a series of grunts and very little words; though the look in his eyes said it all.

Fheon offered a small twitch of her lips. "Thank you, Bifur."

Then followed Nori, Dori, Dwalin, Bombur, and Ori, to which Fheon answered them all with the same two words, followed by their names. Beside her, Bilbo smiled reassuringly, which she returned with her own more reluctant version, for he had already voiced out his sympathies. If the dwarves noticed her repetitions, they did well not to show it. She, however, was able to discern the silence of four dwarves: Fili, Bofur, Oin, and Kili—the four who had been within the near vicinity when Elijah fell. They would not meet her eyes, which she had purposefully made detached, showing only little feeling, if any. It was Fili who finally mustered the courage to raise his eyes and look at her.

He said, "We would never have let him go off with Bain if we knew such a thing would happen, Fheon. He had been doing fine, even when the orcs attacked us." Though Fheon was surprised at the revelation, the only indication she allowed to show was the slight rise of her eyebrows. "He still had his sword, his bow, his arrows—everything…"

"I thought he would be fine…" Bofur said, now. "He was supposed to be fine!"

Yes, Fheon silently agreed. He was.

"We wanted to go back for him," said Kili, "but Tauriel said that if we did, we would die as well. And, well…"

He trailed off, and Fheon knew what he was supposed to say, so she continued for him: "You didn't want to die."

Her statement was met with silence, as none of the Company would meet her gaze now, except for Bilbo, but even she sensed an uncomfortable air around him.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" She shrugged, but her voice broke, and her indifference quickly slipped away after that. A crease appeared on her forehead as she stared at the dust motes in front of her. "That I hate you for leaving him? That I am utterly lost right now knowing that my brother is dead? That I'm proud that he saved a young man from death, but by doing so, sealed himself a terrible fate? Do you want me to break down here so you can comfort me and I won't be furious anymore?"

She was not crying, but she could have been, for all the anger that radiated from her, accompanied by an obvious, deep sadness.

"The Company goes first," she said with an edge of bitterness. "I used the boat to go to Lake-town, you know. And I searched and searched for a body—for anything. I thought I could gain something from going there, perhaps my strength, yet there was nothing there for me but ash and pain." She took a shuddering breath and, this time, raised her voice. "He was supposed to meet me here when it was safe, to share in your redeemed glory!" At this, several of the dwarves flinched. "Now he's…"

She shook her head and trailed off, her head becoming too much of a mess for her to be able to find the right word. It dawned on her that she had risen to her feet as she was speaking.

Slowly, almost sheepishly, she settled back down on the bench, just as Ori murmured, "Gone," finishing her statement.

Fheon nodded once before drifting into a melancholic silence.

It carried on like this for a minute or two; Fheon as quiet as the dwarves, and only partially aware of Bilbo's presence beside her. Then suddenly, the somber stillness of the room was broken by a gruff mutter. Nothing that Fheon or Bilbo could understand, for it was in Khuzdul, the dwarves' language. She raised her head; in curiosity, at first, but then this slowly turned to awe once she realized that the dwarves seemed to be praying. The tone they put into the mantra, as well as the way they swayed on their seats, made it obvious, though it could have easily been mistaken for one of their dwarvish songs.

As they continued their chant, Fheon felt a strange sense of completeness settle over her, which was very misplaced because she was anything but. Ultimately, the dwarves' singing (for they were, in fact, singing and not praying) stopped, and then the feeling left her as quickly as it came.

Remaining chary, she opened her mouth to ask what had just happened, but Balin answered her question before she had even said it.

"A song from our people, as a peace offering from us to you—for the death of your brother," he said. "It is a prayer to Mahal, our maker, to give back to you the strength you have lost."

Fheon frowned and tried to comprehend the emotion that had settled over her: no longer a sense of totality, but something that made her limbs stronger and her mind sharper, as they had been before. However, it did not remove the dull ache in her heart, and throughout her day in the treasure hold looking for the Arkenstone, she was left wondering whether Mahal had made a mistake with his blessing, or if the dwarves had made a mistake with their prayer.

Late in the evening, Fheon lay wide awake in her bed. It had been hours since she'd decided to turn in—and she wanted to, thinking that perhaps Mahal's blessing would take full effect after a good night's sleep—but she found that it was pointless. Her legs were heavy with weariness from walking through mounds of gold all day, yet her eyelids were yet to grow the same; they felt as light as feathers.

Again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, she closed her eyes and focused all her attention on her heartbeat. She knew she'd fall asleep quicker without the distraction of useless ponderings. However, her usually persistent strategy was failing her the time she needed it the most.

Soon, a scowl had appeared on her mouth and her eyebrows scrunched together in impatience, albeit unconsciously. Thrice, she was able to relax her face but met with no success.

By that time, her eyes had already adjusted to the darkness of the room. She sighed in frustration and sat up. To her right, there was a bedside table; she reached across it and grabbed the box of matches, struck one of the sticks, and then lit the candle on the table. Even before the flame had grown considerably large, she pushed the table an arm's length away from her bed: an old habit that had returned because of her most recent nightmare. Satisfied that the table was at a safe enough distance, she stretched her arm out and grabbed the scabbard beneath her bed. She stared at the sheath for a moment, running her hands across leather surface, before grabbing the hilt and pulling the sword out.

The light from the candle bounced off the surface of the blade, but did nothing to add more lighting to the room. Fheon tilted her sword here and there and did not remove her eyes from the glittering blade. As she stared, she thought about Thorin, and how they were going to be able to protect him from something intangible—which was, to say, greed and selfishness.

She barely blinked, and before long, dark spots started dancing across her vision. The space between her eyes began to hurt, and she was forced to blink. She lied back down again, with her now-sheathed sword lying across her torso, and closed her eyes, swiftly searching for a position that suited her comfort.

Just as her mind was drifting into a hazy state, three knocks sounded on the door. The dull sound seemed to pierce through the still, humid air like a heated knife through butter.

Fheon allowed herself a sigh of exasperation before pulling herself onto her feet. She slipped her sword below her bed and walked to the door. As she was turning the knob, she was already arranging a passive-aggressive look to settle over her face. But the dwarf waiting in the hallway outside made her neither passive nor aggressive, only very much surprised.

"Good evening, Fheon," said Thorin. "Did I wake you?"

"Not really…" She frowned in confusion. "What brings you here at this hour?"

His voice dropped an octave and he leaned closer to her, as if they were sharing a secret. "Balin told me of the prayer they made for you earlier today," he said. "Such things rarely go as planned, so I wanted to check on you."

"Your concern is… flattering, but shouldn't you be asleep?"

"For some reason, falling asleep has become more difficult to do as of late, as I'm sure you would know." Her gaze hardened, while his did the very opposite. "May I come in?"

After a moment of hesitation and debating with herself, Fheon stepped aside and watched the King Under the Mountain walk into her room. He glanced around, but there was nothing to see, really, other than the candle on the bedside table, and her tunic and mail hauberk folded neatly at the foot of her bed. Her sword and belt remained on the floor beneath her bed, but from where he stood, Thorin was sure to have seen it by then. He said nothing about it, however, and remained at one side of the room while Fheon stood by the side of her bed, staring at the man with caution.

"Please tell me why you're here," she started slowly, "Else I might never ask you to leave."

Surprise flashed across his face, but was gone quickly enough. "Balin told me that you've been very… fragile as of late," he said, "because of Elijah's passing."

She said nothing.

"I understand that it's a very delicate topic to broach. He was your brother and the only family you had left. If I were to lose Dis in the same manner, I don't know what I would do with myself."

"But you haven't lost her, and you won't," she retorted plainly. "She's safe where she is and Smaug is dead. He won't be able to terrorize your people anymore."

His unrelenting gaze faltered, and he seemed to second guess himself after what she had said.

Slowly lowering herself to sit on the bed, she said, "If you're trying to ease the pain, Thorin… you'll have to do better than that."

He pursed his lips, taking slow steps towards her bed. Once he was close enough for her to be able to inhale the musky aroma surrounding him, he looked at her questioningly, and she nodded. He sat down beside her and the mattress sunk beneath his weight. When his arm grazed her shoulder, she moved a bit to give him more space, though some part of her wanted to stay as close as possible.

"If you would hear me," he murmured, "I would like to tell you about my brother, Frerin, who has also passed into the Halls of Mandos."

He had mentioned his younger brother to her only once before, saying that he had died at the Battle of Azanulbizar. Though Fheon knew that it was just another title for the war the dwarves fought with the orcs for Moria, she was yet to learn about 'Halls of Mandos'. She nodded anyway. Her previous drowsiness had disappeared, and she decided against telling Thorin off. The simple fact that he had listened to Balin's account of her "fragileness" only proved that the dragon sickness was yet to take root in deeper teritory. She would keep him from returning to the treasure room for as long as she could, even if it meant having to broach the topic of her brother… which, rightly said, was still a very sensitive subject.

"He was there when we were first driven into exile by Smaug," said Thorin. "And he was one of the few who were able to remain both optimistic and revengeful. It was an odd combination, but one, I think, Elijah would have understood if they had gained the opportunity to meet."

Fheon nodded in agreement.

"He was a bright man, but still very young in Dwarvish years. He was the one who suggested to me that we work in human villages to earn money for our people, so we could find a place to settle down in. Without him, I fear it would have taken me a year before thinking of the same idea."

Fheon's lip twitched. "It's not a difficult idea to think of."

Smiling slightly, Thorin made a gruff sound from the back of his throat. "In the Battle of Azanulbizar, Thrain led the first assault, and Frerin was there with him. But when Azog beheaded my grandfather Thror, they were weakened by the loss and driven into the woods near Lake Mirrormere. This was where Frerin died. Very few survived the war, and those who did not, we burned in funeral pyres."

"Including your brother."

"Including my brother."

For a while, they were both silent, until Fheon shook her head. "Frerin died a warrior's death," she said.

"And Elijah did not?" said Thorin. "Kili informed me of what you said this morning, that before he died, he saved a boy and took the penalty upon himself. Do you not think this to be the perfect death, to sacrifice yourself so that another may live?"

She did not answer him, but instead undid her braid and set to work on redoing it, just so she could do something with her hands. It was then that she realized just how long her hair had gotten, and debated on whether or not she should cut it a few inches shorter.

"Tell me about him," she muttered, "Frerin."

"What would you like to know?"

"His appearance, how he acted, how he thought, how he spoke—anything."

"Very well."

Thorin tilted his head to the side and was quiet for a moment, before saying, "His hair was the same color as Fili's, which he had inherited from our mother. Apart from that, he looked very much like me, as you would expect. But there were subtle differences that our kin noticed: he had a wider jaw, a larger nose, and a wilder mane. But despite all these, the women found him very attractive." His lip worked up in a smile. "He was much less disciplined than either I or Dis; he had a knack for getting himself in trouble. Once, during the night of his coming-of-age day, he was caught philandering with one of the women from the village."

Then he went quiet again, and Fheon could feel him staring at her, expecting her to say something. She did not.

He sighed, before continuing, "Surprisingly, however, he thought very maturely for someone who went looking for trouble almost every day. Whenever we asked him a simple question, be it about a brick or a worm, the river or a dry piece of clay, he would always wait for a minute and think deeply about it, and then answer us with another one of his newly-thought philosophies. One day, I watched him throw an apple towards the same woman he had philandered with, and I asked him why he had done so. He answered me that to throw an apple at someone was to symbolically declare one's love, and then, similarly, to catch it meant accepting that love. I never found out if he had made it up on his own or if he had read it from a book somewhere, but I've never forgotten it."

A thought occurred to Fheon, then; one that made her fingers falter in weaving her hair. She made sure Thorin did not notice and then, forcing an indifferent edge in her voice, she said, "Have you ever thrown an apple at someone, Thorin?"

"Yes," he answered, and her fingers faltered again, right before he added, "To my sister, Dis. She barely caught it—it hit her on the face—but it ended up in her hand all the same."

He chuckled at the memory, and Fheon allowed herself to listen to the soothing, rumbling sound that escaped his throat, before changing the topic. "Was Frerin a good swordsman?"

"Yes, he was," said Thorin. "He was considerably effective with an axe, but even more so with a sword. Before we were run out of Erebor, we forged him a sword that suited his hands perfectly. He was not as large as me or Dis, and he was quick to think, which made it easy for him to defeat even ten enemies by himself."

Fheon snorted lightly. "I assume he always carried a shield with him, if he was so reckless as to charge into the fray with no ally."

"Aye, a shield did him good many a time."

Thorin chuckled for the second time that night, and again Fheon listened. Her body hummed in response, a coil started in her stomach, and she had to fight the urge to smile, as if his amusement was contagious. Though with much difficulty, she succeeded in remaining composed. They drifted into a companionable silence; one, after a while, she was tempted to break.

"What is to become of us, Thorin?" she asked shortly after. There were two meanings to her question, and similarly, two answers. One was of much more sentiment, and the other was respectable. She did not know which answer she wanted from him more.

Eventually, however, he answered the more respectable question: "Others are sure to have heard of Smaug's death. They will come here and look for the mountain's wealth, like the spineless greed-driven people they are. It will take a few months for their wills to be broken, but it can and will be done."

Fheon saw a glimpse of the sickness return to his eyes, along with a fire of hatred. Then he hesitated. "And you… you will return to The Shire and reclaim your position there as a Ranger, I suppose. Of course, I would not mind if you stayed here until we have finished handling those who would oppose us… or if you would never leave at all."

Hearing this, Fheon raised her head and found a most earnest look on his face.

"You have a place here, Fheon," he said. "You've earned the favor of the dwarves as well as my trust. With you by our side, no one would dare compete with us. Once my kin return here, with the knowledge of having heard of you, your tale will be passed on by our finest bards. I would not accept anything less, not after everything you've done for me… for us."

There came a pause, and Fheon noticed two of his fingers had settled over her knuckles, stroking them.

Suddenly, it became difficult for her to think straight. Her acute senses became highly aware of his scent, the warmth radiating off him. There was a tugging sensation in her stomach, and her chest hurt, but not painfully. Yet at the back of her mind, there was a constant nagging of doubt. Thorin wanted her to stay, and that she could do… but in the state she was in, she could not be sure whether she wanted to stay with him and the dwarves for the rest of her life. What would Hiram think? No, for this, she needed time to think—and preferably not sitting so close to a dwarf she had mixed feelings about.

It was a miracle she'd been able to decide at all. Mustering up her courage, and tearing her eyes away from his face to look at his hand.

"Thorin," she murmured softly, "I think it's time for you to leave." Before she dared to steal a glance of what emotion he could have felt, she stood up and walked to the door, opening it for him; only then was she able to look at him again.

The look on his face was a mixture of surprise, anger, and acceptance. Fheon thought it was only fair for him to feel such things, and therefore felt a small sense of fear start clawing at her. She bit the inside of her cheek and forced a look of casual impassiveness, but not coldly.

Patiently, she waited as Thorin gathered his wits, before he nodded once and said, "Of course."

He stood and walked to stand once more in the hallway outside, albeit hesitantly. Fheon found that she could not bring herself to close the door, for he was still halfway inside the threshold and it would be vulgar of her to close the door at his face. So she waited—for five heartbeats, then fifteen, then thirty.

When it became apparent that he was not going to make a move, she was just about to ask him politely to step out when his hand came up and brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Her emotions betrayed her.

Surprise flashed across her face as her breath hitched in her throat. His hand was warm, his touch as light as a feather as his finger danced past her cheek and to the side if her jaw, where it stayed. In a single step, he was close enough for their noses to practically be touching; his breath fanned over her face, his hair and beard tickled her by just touching her skin, and his chest was a mere inch from hers. His gaze was as soft as she had ever seen them and his lips so close to touching hers. She could not help but to look at them, watch them move as he spoke.

"Please," Thorin breathed, "Consider my offer."

"I will," she replied in a whisper. "Truly."

And as his air wafted over her, her breaths did the same. They had the same effect on him as his did for her, it seemed, though it brought her little relief.

Their lips were only an inch away, now, and when she finally was able to raise her eyes, she found that he was staring down just as she had been before. He moved forward slightly, and his lip literally grazed hers.

But this was when she brought a hand up and placed it on his chest, gently pushing him away. He did not object, thankfully, and complied with a slight smile on his face. Fheon continued staring at his mouth, and then looked up to meet his eyes.

"Good night, Thorin," she said.

"Good night, Fheon," he replied in kind.

And then finally, before he could do so much as hold her gaze for a second longer, she closed the door.

Ehehehehe :)

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