Thorin, son of Thrain, stood at the edge of the medical tent, surveying the injured dwarves who had been able to make it all the way to this place of safety, away from the chaos of the battlefield. The Battle of Azanulbizar had ended, and the plain stretching out before the gates of Moria was now strewn with the dead and dying, just as this area was littered with those frantically fighting to avoid such a fate.

"Keep pressure on that for a few minutes and then bandage him up, we need to keep working as quickly as possible. I made another batch of salve; it's right on that table over there…"

Evangeline Took, who was leading a small troupe of dwarves versed in healing of various means and methods, called out orders to the others. It had been quickly proven that, despite her age, she was well accomplished in medicine, and they deferred to her knowledge and experience in mixing herbs and cures. She approached the dwarf as he entered. It took her only a moment to realize who he was, however, and she fought herself to continue walking towards him rather than to flee.

"If you would please sit down, I can tend to your wounds."

She offered, but he shook his head. Her eyes scanned his arms, but she could barely assess his injuries under the blood obscuring them. She hoped most of it was not his, yet she could spot an open gash along his left forearm. That, at least, had to be healed.

"Please… Let me bandage your arm." She begged him, her voice catching in the back of her throat. Evie didn't make eye contact, she couldn't… Her soft grey eyes were trained on the oak branch he still held as a badge of honor and at the blood soaking his left arm and his hands, anywhere but his face. She had never met any sort of royalty before, although she knew well enough to be deferential. Other warriors moaned nearby, the pain from their wounds outweighing their dwarven fortitude as they lay, waiting to be attended.

"Look to the others first. My wounds are not so severe."

He argued, his voice deep and rumbling as though it came from the very mountain they had just fought over. She flinched at the sound, her strange fear of him rising in her throat again and obstructing her words. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, the hobbit picked up her supplies and bit back her hesitation. You're here for a reason, Evie. Be brave.

"You… You are a leader of your people now. They would not see you injured. As their example, would you not have yourself healed so that the rest of the healing may begin?"

It was as if the words had come from someone else, not her. Evie's voice was high, much higher than usual (which made her sound like a small, fluttering creature when compared to the stable tenor of his voice), but the words were clear. She caught his grin out of the corner of her eye, and it surprised her.

"And what would a hobbit know of my people?"

He asked, and Evie had to force herself to breathe. She couldn't do this, not now. What would her father say? Where was her father?! No, that wasn't the right thing to think either. Just… Take care of one thing at a time. One step before another. She asked him to sit and set down the branch, and he didn't obey until she chanced a glance up at him and was caught in his bright blue eyes like a fly in a spider's web. She couldn't escape the look he gave her, the curiosity resting on the surface of deep pain and regret… As much as she knew she should look away, she couldn't bring herself to break the sudden and strange connection. She almost jumped as the heavy oak branch fell onto the table when he dropped it, just as she had bid him. He sat down next to his adopted shield, his eyes still upon her. The hobbit made a small noise in the back of her throat and looked down at his shoulder, trying to master her sudden and unexpected queasiness.

Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the dark fabric of his tunic, stained with blood, trying to remove it without so many words. Thorin understood, and her hands broke away from him as, with the gentle creak of leather, he detached his belt and shrugged off the tunic. His mithril armor glowed in the growing twilight, and for a moment she was dazzled by it. A prince indeed, she thought to herself. None of the other dwarves she had tended to were wearing such an item. He tried to yank it over his head, but couldn't restrain an involuntary growl of pain. Evie forgot her fear of him and immediately went to his aid, tugging the metal garment as he leaned forward. She pulled too hard, however, and the force of her action knocked her backwards as the mithril chainmail slid into her arms. Thorin fell down to her side, pulling the armor off her and casting it gently under the table with the quiet slink of the links falling upon themselves.

"Are you hurt?"

He asked, and she was surprised to see the genuine concern on his face. Word had already spread of his deeds on the battlefield that afternoon, his dismemberment of the Pale Orc and how he led the dwarves to victory… His every action spoke to the welfare of his people, but why bother with a foreign hobbit he didn't know and didn't seem to care to know?

"I… I'm fine."

She assured him, and he stood, offering her a sturdy hand to lift her up. His hand was much larger than hers, even though he was only a foot taller. It was strong despite being covered in cuts and bleeding across the forearm. The battle had been fierce, and as much as his oaken shield had saved him, it had also left splinters in his fingers and had not always fully deflected each attack. His arms, which had not been protected by the fine mithril of his kind, had come out of the battle bloody and battered.

"I'm supposed to be helping you, not the other way around."

She chided him, finding her courage. A smile flickered on his lips, although the sadness in his eyes never left. He had lost his grandfather on the battlefield, a man he had been close to, by the whispers she had heard. The great Thrór.

"Here…"

She continued, gently pulling up the thin material of his undershirt so she could see how badly his arm had been damaged. She began to tend to it, cleaning the wound and then taking some of the salve she had made earlier and spreading it on the twisted, jagged cut running across his forearm. It was much deeper than she had realized, at first, and she was surprised he had gone so long without wrapping it. The dwarf made no noise as she cleaned his wound, while others had hissed in pain. Even as she meticulously tugged a few stuck splinters from his arm and hand, although he flinched as any living creature would, still he made no sound. Evie was not surprised – she guessed that he had spent years pretending to be strong and bold and invincible so his people would have someone to follow, someone to believe in… Why drop the façade now? Not to say that he wasn't just as heroic as the rumors suggested (his actions in the afternoon's battle surely spoke for themselves), but… Evie could see the bitter sadness in his eyes, the broken hurt of a child who had just lost his hero. And that was finally something, underneath all the armor and the bravery and the majesty… That was something she could understand.

She felt his eyes on her as she continued her work by wrapping a bandage around his bleeding forearm. She didn't know how to react to him, to the tightness she felt in her chest as her fingers danced carefully across his skin. She had never been put so on edge before, and the hobbit couldn't begin to explain it. Her cheeks flushed as she felt him lean towards her.

"What is that, around your neck?"

Her large, doe eyes glanced up at him, trapped by his deep blue ones just as surely as they had been the first time. She was silent for a moment before the spell was broken and she managed to pull the opal out from beneath the cloth at the top of her dress.

"It's.."

She stuttered, suddenly realizing that he had recognized it from even the glimmer he had chanced of the stone.

"An opal of Erebor."

He breathed, his voice full of simultaneous enchantment and mourning.

"Yes…" She replied, her eyes searching his face. His expression was the perfect picture of longing, of desire and destiny all tangled up into one profound image of desperate need.

"I heard it was beautiful…"

She shared anxiously, struck by the way he now looked off into the distance, as if he could see something she could not. She then realized she had upset him and bit the inside of her mouth as she watched the muscles of his jaw tighten in reaction to her words.

"You heard."

The dwarf prince repeated callously, growing instantly cold. It was as if the sun had been shining warmly upon her and now had passed behind a cloud, darkening the world. His mind was filled only with deadly fire and searing heat… Of trees like torches burning through the night, the only pyres their dead would be offered after their lives had been stolen along with their homeland.

"You know nothing of the dwarves, or of Erebor. Of my people and their suffering."

His tone was unchallengeable, and yet as Evangeline loosed the cuffs around his wrists with quivering fingers and set them down on the table next to him with a heavy thud and the clinking of steel on wood, she couldn't help but do exactly that. The look in his eyes, the bitter pride of his race and their terrible suffering… Yet that grief was not exclusive to him and she would not have him think so. She would never be able to explain why she fought with him then; maybe it was fatigue or simply her mounting bravery, but she did.

"This necklace was a present from my grandfather to my grandmother… Just after he sent it he… He was lost in the desolation of Smaug. I had not been born yet, it's true, and I have never been on an adventure before, not like this… But my father swore that he would come and help the dwarves," she paused, "Help your people take back Moria from the orcs. He knew he would most likely die in the battle, as hobbits are not fearsome warriors, but he came despite my family's wishes. And I came with him. My name is Evangeline Took and as much as I am not a part of your people and never will be, somehow our fates are tied together… And… And I'm not sure if I lost a father today just as surely as you lost your grandfather, because I have been too busy here to go and try to find him, but every moment he does not come here I fear he must have been lost..."

She trailed off, tears filling her large grey eyes. As soon as she had begun to speak, Evie had been unable to stop, and the words tumbled from her lips like an avalanche of painful emotion. She had tried not to think about it before, but now that she said the words, now that she heard them spoken, she was dreadfully certain her father had died on the battlefield, just as her mother had warned. The small hobbit tried to bite back her sudden weeping, but it was no use. She closed her eyes, feeling more hot tears spilling down her cheeks out of embarrassment – her fear buried under a wellspring of private agony. So here she was, crying uncontrollably in front of a dwarf prince who she could tell was already using all his strength to keep his own emotions in check.

Thorin closed his own eyes, taking a deep breath. Perhaps it was his own shame at what he now realized was a cruel and unfounded comment (but how could he have possibly known?), or simply everything he felt after the day's long, exhausting battle and the results of it – a victory, but at what cost? The carnage was immense, immeasurable, and he did not know how to pick up the pieces and start again. How to continue on, without Thrór, without Frerin… A part of him had been lost, and he feared he might never get it back.

Evangeline sputtered as she felt his hands on her face, his large, steady fingers brushing away her tears. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt him tuck a stray blonde curl behind her ear. His touch was gentle, his cautious fingers clearing her soft skin of the melancholy badge of her sentiment.

"I'm sorry."

He confessed, his voice low. Evangeline looked up at him, her eyes glossed over but producing no more tears; she had been shocked out of her grief by his advance. Her clouded grey eyes met the steely blue of his and profoundly recognized the same sentiment there. The hobbit's heart pounded in her chest almost as if it understood some secret she could not. Thorin's large, scarred hands were slow in leaving her face, his fingertips skimming off the edge of her jawline as he inched back.

"I know."

She whispered, her gaze locked with his for the third time.

It would not be the last.