Clove trailed the Durin brothers, hands knotted in her skirts, as they joined their uncle in welcoming Erebor's newest citizens. A foolish anxiety had claimed her just that morning, and despite her best efforts to dismiss it as she tidied up her host-family's main room, it pestered her right out of Stígur and Steinur's cozy home and after the Durins.
What if a dwarrowmaid managed to capture Fíli's eye?
Kíli's, she rebuked herself, yet it was a losing argument. Her gaze was locked upon Fíli like Bombur with his favorite nut pie. It was maddening. She'd never have acted like this in Faerie. Folding her arms before her chest, she stamped one foot, the sound buried under the low rumble of dozens of heavy dwarf boots. She shuffled along in the Durins' wake as they exited through Erebor's mighty doors. Clove squinted at the brilliant flood of sunlight.
And there they were, Erebor's newest citizens. Lines of armed guards bearing spears, shields and swords bracketed the path leading to the gates, and dwarves of all shapes and sizes marched forward between them.
Why, there had to be a good three or four hundred newcomers, Clove thought with growing dismay. Erebor was big enough to lodge a thousand times this number, but there was no way the seven brownies remaining could hope to lend even the barest of assistance to so many. Even had the other nine not departed for Dale, sixteen would not change matters.
At first, she failed to distinguish the females from the males. Their builds were equally muscular, and Clove smoothed hands across her skirts to realize they also had beards. Beards! Though their facial hair was largely silkier and thinner than the males', Clove wondered with a sinking stomach how she could win Fíli's attention if a dwarf's idea of beauty included such an unheard-of thing.
Instantly, the pillow she'd been embroidering earlier appeared in her hands, and her needle set to work with quick, agitated precision. One of the females, a robust, curvy dwarrowmaid with gorgeous silver hair, broke from among the others and threw herself into Ríkin's arms. Clove's needle pierced the pillow and punctured her thumb. Was Ríkin married? Her sister would not respond well to this, she feared. Since the night Pepper had protected the warrior from the undead creature, Clove had caught Pepper following the dwarf with hungry eyes, an exact match for how Clove watched Fíli.
We're both doomed. She shook off the morose mood with difficulty and hurried back into Erebor. She had to warn Pepper.
OoOoOo
Ríkin's arms closed around Tíra as his sister overflowed with excitement. Behind her, their parents approached at a more sedate pace. His sire's chiseled features remained stern, but Ríkin detected the glint of humor within Dalkin's dark gray eyes. His mother openly beamed at all around her, Tova's face as expressive as her husband's was severe. The small bells she wove into her beautiful red beard chimed, only adding to the air of joy that always accompanied her.
'twas good to see them, and that was no exaggeration, though after his encounter with the Terror, he worried over their safety. Why, he grumbled to himself with a sideways glance at his king, did Thorin refuse to heed any reports of this newest threat?
Eikin joined them and then led the family away from Ríkin's post. The brothers had claimed an adjoining house for their parents and sister, and the brothers had discovered it clean the very next day. My invisible lassie, Ríkin had identified upon smelling a wisp of cinnamon upon the air.
By Durin's iron beard, she was difficult to pin down. She knew it not, but her one overt act of kindness had given him the information he needed to keep better tabs on her. Always, that cinnamon scent followed her. Though she never spoke and took pains not to be seen at work, he did not have his big nose for naught.
Ríkin's eyelids descended to half mast as an emotion too pale to label as satisfaction filled him. The beginnings of possessiveness that had been sown the night of his brush with the Terror had grown fast, that in spite of his normal suspicion of those not dwarf-kind. He ran a hand down one of the four braids in his beard. At first, he'd been right concerned that she might have a husband lurking about, but that worry was soon dismissed – nor did he have to worry about the young prince, it seemed – for the lass slept near Ríkin each night. His nose was certain of it.
'twas outlandish, to be sure, having an invisible lassie he'd never clapped eyes upon sleeping somewhere in his room. That he'd not tripped over her hinted that she was beneath the bed, and the small bundle of belongings he'd found hidden in the corner seemed to confirm it. He hadn't touched her things or betrayed his knowledge in any fashion. The last thing he wanted was for her to choose another place to sleep. What if she ended up beneath Eikin's bed? Or Thekkin's? Both knew of his growing intent to claim her, so he didn't fret over that too much, but what if she ended up beneath the Durin whelp's bed?
Nay. He'd not allow that travesty to occur.
So instead, he watched and smelled the air like a hound on the hunt. There had to be a way to coax the elusive female into sight.
OoOoOo
Tíra's eyes near fell out of her skull as her brother escorted her into Erebor and past the two princes. Mahal. 'twas a miracle her jaw did not scrape along the ground in her wake. Dark hair, dark eyes and the most lively expression upon his face, the younger grabbed her attention and did not let go.
Perhaps this move to Erebor was not such a tragedy after all.
OoOoOo
Tova set down her travel bag upon the bed. Her sons had done well in selecting a home for herself, her mate and daughter, she'd thought upon walking through the front door. But then her eyes had seen more than she'd expected. Something was afoot, or she hadn't given birth to four children. Her sons, Mahal bless them, would never have pressed the clean linens upon the bed, or left fresh bread with a pot of churned butter on the table in the main room, or provided feather pillows on the chairs, or a slew of other things she noted throughout her new home.
The house bore evidence of a feminine hand in every direction she looked.
Had one of her sons married and failed to mentioned the fortuitous occasion to her? Arms strong from decades of working the bellows and the smithing hammer folded across her ample bosom, and she returned to the main room with blue eyes narrowed and lips curved into a smile her sons would have recognized in an instant had they remained. Her daughter, Tíra, jumped to her feet with such an expression of panic that Tova wondered what it was her daughter attempted to conceal.
She'd be finding out the answer to that later. For the moment, she directed her attention towards her husband.
"Tova, my jewel?" her Dalkin said, his gray eyes dancing though his voice was grave.
"Dalkin, my mithril mate, your sons are hiding something from us."
OoOoOo
Pepper stormed through her evening chores, more careful than ever to avoid detection. Her cheeks burned with mortification. She'd spent almost every night since that night watching him sleep, at times folding her arms upon the bed, kneeling there unable to tear away. Before, she slept beneath his bed in brownie fashion – or at least, the fashion of those who had endured Faerie. All of them had learned to hide when at their most vulnerable, and she hadn't been able to let go of that hard lesson. In Faerie, she'd sleep secreted away beneath a minotaur's bed, or a Cyclopes' or centaur's, and never the same place twice to avoid detection. Here, she hid away tucked beneath Ríkin's bed and had felt safer than at any time in her life.
But lately, she'd tossed and turned upon her pallet, unable to sleep for remembering the feel of being pressed against his strong chest. And he, taken! Ríkin did not engage in random displays of affection, so the female Clove had witnessed him greet mattered to him. Was she his betrothed?
Pepper finished icing the cake she had hidden from view with her innate shielding ability, the drain on her energy stores perversely satisfying. She was tempted to use Thekkin's dirk on the confection, over and over again, and leave the mess for the brothers to discover. Fists to hips, she glared at where Ríkin's brothers chatted in their native tongue by the fire.
That was when Ríkin walked through the door with the stunning, silver-haired dwarf miss at his side. The female touched his arm, smiling up at him…and Ríkin smiled back. Maybe, Pepper thought, she should use her dirk on him.
Snatching up the cake, she flew to his bedroom and deposited the whole thing upon his pillow, careful to keep it shielded.
Ha. Served him right. She'd been up all night preparing the other house for his family, only to discover her labors were all to his ladylove's benefit! Her nose turned up. He hadn't so much as done her the courtesy of lighting the candle. Feeling raw and ill-used, she gathered her belongings from under his bed, and stowed them beneath Thekkin's. She'd retrieve them once she had a destination. Pepper folded her arms across her chest and glowered, waiting for the brothers to retire and the female to leave so that she, Pepper, could depart unnoticed.
The security of place that had surrounded her wobbled. She'd have to seek another host-family. She could not serve Ríkin and his wife. The revolting idea sickened her to her core. If Etiquette had been observed, she would have gathered every candle in the house and dumped them upon the front stoop, signaling her imminent departure. As it was, she wondered what the point would be.
OoOoOo
Fíli's head lifted, and his eyes narrowed as they swept through his bedroom. He abandoned the chair one of the invisible Helpers had situated beside the fire, hands finding hips. Mahal aid us. He'd thought himself prepared for the arrival of the Nazgûl, either clad in black robes or moving among them invisibly, but with the Helpers in the mix, every bump in the night caused him to wonder which lurked nearby, Ringwraith or Helper.
He was tired from greeting the hundreds of emigrants that had arrived this day, and he frowned into his palm as he rubbed his face.
Were the Helpers truly what his brother claimed? Aleks, you chose the wrong time to make yourself scarce. Though his satyr friend hadn't had a choice in the matter, his knowledge of Faerie would have come in useful right about now, as would his satyr-sight, which allowed him to see the energy signatures around all living creatures, be they dwarf, man, or animal. Aleks would know wraith from Helper in an instant.
Fíli's fingers traveled down one of his braids. He was not alone in his room, though his eyes told him the opposite. Did these Helpers not appreciate a dwarf's need for solitude? Did they not comprehend privacy?
Fíli's lips parted to ask as much, little though he hoped for an answer, but Thorin's decree halted him. *Do nothing to reveal our Helpers to the Ringwraiths,* his uncle had signed to him weeks before. The order had been spread to all dwarves, though not the reason why.
Fíli's blond mustache hiked up with his lopsided grin. Though the Iron Hills dwarves that had remained in Erebor never said as much aloud, he often thought they must believe his uncle truly addled to issue such a decree. So long as they obey, he decided, the truth will out soon enough. The Nazgûl must depart someday.
OoOoOo
Clove hid in the shadows cast by the snapping fire in the fireplace against the heavy chest Prince Fíli used in lieu of dresser with drawers. Her knees drawn up before her, and one lock of sable hair twined about her finger, her gaze never left him. The way the firelight painted strands of Fíli's hair gold held her mesmerized.
She'd done something to alert him to her presence, but for the life of her, she did not know what. Too consumed with staring at his strong features, memorizing every expression in the hope of understanding the mind inside. Perhaps if she understood, this fascination plaguing her would relinquish its tight hold. Oh, she knew some things about him. She knew he loved his younger brother and respected his uncle. She knew the way his lips would quirk when his brother ribbed him for a perceived flaw. She knew how he adored pale beers and could not abide the taste of lamb. She knew that he cared for his people deeply and that the scent of pine always caused him to smile.
Why, she asked herself, was it this dwarf who moved her so and not the ever-cheerful Kíli? Kíli did not intimidate her as much. Fíli was the heir, for goodness sake. A number of dwarrowmaids had betrayed their interest in the handsome dwarf that day by their bright eyes and welcoming smiles. She'd wanted to scream, standing there watching as the dwarves feasted at the welcoming banquet Bombur had arranged. She'd finished four full knitting projects in her distress, all of them with Fíli in mind.
Clove dropped her face into her hands. She knew better than to linger. The brownies rotated the duty of tending to the Durins among them so that all had the privilege of contributing to the royal family's wellbeing. Today…had not been her day. Yet here she was, trapped within the prince's very bedchambers until he fell asleep or the door was opened for some reason or another. If Angelica found her here in the morning, would the other brownie remain silent?
Sighing, she folded her arms upon her knees, chin finding a home upon them. She stared at the prince, the deep ping of place convicting her every time her senses reached out to him, for more place rang back from the heir than the two dwarves she'd claimed as host-family, and their belongings, combined.
OoOoOo
Nutmeg watched from the shadows as her Bilbo chatted with Nori and Bofur over the remnants of the banquet. Too many dwarves studied her hobbit with beady-eyed suspicion, and Bilbo knew it. She muttered unflattering words about them to herself as she folded the small stack of Bilbo's handkerchiefs she'd washed that afternoon. Bilbo laughed with his friends, but her anger climbed. It was hard enough for him to remain positive with the things roaming about. He didn't need this, too.
A thought ended her angry griping, and she pursed her lips. Perhaps there was more she could do for Bilbo – that the brownies could do for them all – than they'd believed. Nibbling on a thumbnail, she directed her thoughts to fleshing out the new possibility.
OoOoOo
Ríkin bellowed as he shot from bed, sugary frosting and... By Durin, was this cake? He wiped a glob of it off his ear, inspecting it before dashing it to the ground. He knew the culprit, right enough. With another roar, he jerked the bed frame from the floor, one arm sweeping across the space beneath without success. His eyes narrowed upon noticing the lass's belongings missing.
His lips thinned. Right. He knew the signs of a displeased female – how not with his mother and Tíra to educate him in the matter from childhood? What he did not know was what had turned his helpful lassie into a spitting feline.
He stormed into the main room just as his brothers materialized from their bedrooms. Not a second later, their father burst through the front door with his old war ax in one hand, Ríkin's dam right behind him. Ríkin held up one hand to silence them all and scanned the room through slit eyes, nostrils flared with anger and, aye, the intent to sniff out the one responsible for his messy state.
"Yer wearing cake," his sire commented.
Ríkin threw him a scowl. "Aye? I'd not noticed." Then his frown transferred to his dam. She was smirking? He growled low in his throat, dismissing his mother's disloyal reaction. Folding arms before his chest, he asked his sire, "Close the door, if you would, Adad. Let none pass you."
Dalkin's brows climbed into his hairline, but he nudged his wife in the door before kicking it closed with one boot.
"Thekkin, tell them about our Helper, aye?" he murmured. Thekkin bobbed his head, and his fingers flew in iglishmêk. Ríkin noted interest that quickly escalated to astonishment upon his sire's and dam's faces, but his focus was directed elsewhere. Ríkin stalked through the room, drawing scents into his lungs. She was still here, he thought with a large measure of relief, for how would he straighten out this mess if he could not find her? "Best ye come out now, lassie, for I'll not be letting this pass."
Eikin signed him surreptitiously, *The king forbade us to address them directly.*
Aye, there was that, but he'd not be letting the lassie go. His temper was pricked, for unless he was mistaken, the cake he now wore had been made for him. And his family, of course. How it had ended up upon his bed, what events had gotten her dander up, he intended to ascertain. 'twas past time for a reckoning. He watched the space around him like a hawk, remembering the burst of speed she was capable of.
Ríkin had to speak with her – no help for it – but he'd confess the infraction to his king as soon as this was settled. He inhaled deeply, narrowing in upon her. Did she realize…? Aye, there she went. He lunged as he detected the barest fluttering of air and gained a fistful of invisible fabric. He had her now.
"If ye'll depart, the lassie and I must talk," he told the others.
His dam prodded his sire out the door, mirth written upon her round face, and his brothers retreated to their private chambers. The doors closed behind each party, shutting the lass in with him. The instant he had silence, he reeled the struggling lassie in, swiped a second lump of cake from his beard, and smashed it where he thought her head should be. Based upon her shriek, he'd aimed aright.
OoOoOo
Pepper sputtered, cake smeared over her nose and forehead. She stomped her foot upon his, then hopped up and down as her foot came out the loser. Unmannerly, uncouth—
She squawked as big hands grabbed her about the waist and lifted her from the ground as if she weighed nothing. Her rear end connected with the unyielding surface of the wooden table, then a pair of blue eyes – one milky like a cloud-dusted sunny day, the other dark as one of the dwarves' prized gems – lowered until they stared at her, almost as if he could see her.
"Now, lassie," her dwarf proclaimed, that stern face hard, his nostrils flared. "Perhaps ye would be so kind to tell me why it is I am wearing cake."
When he hadn't lit the candle? She made a scoffing sound. Not hardly.
The muscles along his jaw tensed. His hands left her waist, but before she collected herself to flee, those hands bracketed her face, assessing it like a blind man.
OoOoOo
Definitely not a dwarrowmaid, this lassie. She'd not the nose or beard for it, he thought, and her ears were long and pointed beyond an elf's. Their tips fair brushed even with the crown of her head.
He grunted as he considered his next move. For a dwarf content to let others do the talking, he was discomforted to be the one having to navigate this conversation. "The time for hiding is done. Show yourself," he said, regretting the words ere they were fully spoken. His mother never reacted well when his sire used that tone.
She growled. The face between his palms turned to the side and… By Durin! She bit him! Aye, he'd had enough. He roared his displeasure, and when she tried to break free, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She pounded his back with her puny fists. Like a spark ignited when hammer struck anvil, the absurdity of the situation hit him in full. Ríkin found his lips curling into a smirk. A laugh escaped him. Then another. In seconds, his chest shook with his chortles. He'd not had such fun in decades. Aye. That decided him once and for all. He was keeping her.
He ignored her wordless protests, located her ankles and swung her free, holding her upside down before him. The action unlocked her lips, and a veritable landslide of words erupted.
"You lout!" she screeched, invisible hands swatting at his ankles. "What is wrong with you?" A couple more lightning-quick slaps that did naught but entertain him. "Did no one teach you manners? You could – oh, I don't know – light the infernal candle, you big dolt, but no. You never leave out the saucer, you never signal a desire to speak to me or see me. I'm telling you, I should have removed the candles a long time ago, but was I smart enough to listen to my sisters?" Before he could decide if the question was one he should answer, she bellowed, "No! And hanging me upside down? You have some gall, demanding I break Etiquette. Break Etiquette? For this? For you?" The scoffing sound she made set his eyes to narrowing. "Why I ever bothered to protect you, I don't know. I must have been out of my mind…"
Mayhap getting her to speak hadn't been the wisest course of action.
OoOoOo
Pepper batted at the skirts dangling about her face, blocking her view of everything but the fool dwarf's unnaturally large, sock-clad feet, the words pouring from her lips without control. She left off the skirts and returned to whacking away at those faintly odorous targets. He'd not even donned the clean pair of socks she'd left out for him!
"What was I thinking, choosing you for host-family? I endured Faerie! I know better than to be swayed by a handsome face. But nooo. One sight of your fool self on the training field and what does idiot me do? I follow you home and select you to care for," she spat. These dwarves were driving her mad. Then muttering to herself, "And how do I get repaid? Fool dwarf brings her into my home. Then he has the nerve to take umbrage to a little cake—"
The world tilted for a second time as he turned her right side up. Blood rushed from her head, and her sight went hazy. He grunted, a sound she was growing tired of, and before her sight cleared, she found herself pressed tight to his chest, one large hand at the back of her skull. Lips came down on her chin, corrected, then claimed hers, and Pepper quite forgot what she'd been mad about.
OoOoOo
'twas one way to silence a riled female, and Ríkin figured he owed his sire thanks for providing demonstrations of its effectiveness during his growing years. The wee lassie – by Durin, he needed to learn her name – did not argue. Nay, quite the contrary. Her delicate arms came around his neck, and the lassie leaned in closer, returning his kiss with enthusiasm.
Mahal. The kiss seared him through, taking on a life of its own the instant she responded. Like whisky in a feminine package, she was, a heady fire addictive as the finest vintage.
She'd been jealous. He'd not made sense of most of her words, but that last, he'd understood full well. 'twas enough to make a dwarf shout in victory, it was. Or kiss the lass in question senseless.
One kiss chased another. Ríkin pulled back, panting, only when he knew danger lurked in continuing. His heart pounded in his chest as he held her to him. The spicy scent of cinnamon warmed his every breath. 'twas beyond baffling, this development, for he'd not even managed to clap eye upon the female yet. Was she blond? Brunette? He'd not planned to kiss her, but the fear of her vanishing and his joy in her display of temper had goaded him past bearing.
Ríkin could not regret his impulsive act. The lassie fit in his arms quite well, to his mind. He growled in satisfaction.
Now, he thought, his lips twisting at the peculiar sight he made holding an armful of air, 'twas time for some answers. Locating her nose with the pad of his thumb, he tapped it once. In a low rumble, he said, "Etiquette? Candles? I know naught of such things. I've asked ye to show yourself dozens of times."
"Asked?" she echoed with a bite to her voice. "You call that asking?"
Her head lifted, its weight no longer resting upon his beard. He frowned, not liking that. He freed up one hand to press it back where it belonged.
"Will you stop?" she asked, her voice thick with exasperation. "I'm not a child's doll."
"Nay, ye'd be a sight more biddable if ye were," he said. At her gasp, Ríkin hid a grin and waggled a finger under her nose. "I'll not argue with an invisible lassie."
"Well, you're not going to see this brownie until you follow proper Etiquette," she snapped, batting his hand away.
Brownie, his mind pounced, saving the label. He squeeze her hard, careful not to hurt her. "'tis your choice, fer sure, lassie. But you'll not be getting down until I've seen your face."
The brownie promptly grabbed a hunk of cake from his beard and smashed it upon his face.
'twas war, it was.
OoOoOo
Tova smirked, one hand jingling the bells of her beard as she heard the high-pitched squeal followed by feminine laughter originating from her sons' home. Though muffled by two stone walls, the joy she heard gratified her.
*Invisible lasses?* her husband signed, a grouchy look of disapproval upon his face. *The Lonely Mountain is overrun with outsiders.*
Tova sighed, her blue eyes darting heavenward out of her mate's sight. Mahal bless him, he was a loyal mate and wonderful father, but like his Ironfist sire, he viewed new events or people with narrow-eyed suspicion. Truly, she'd thought her second son had inherited that same obstinate refusal to bend. That the unknown female had penetrated his prejudices made her want to dance a jig.
Tova made her way to where her Dalkin sat and dropped onto his lap, chuckling as he caught her to the peal of small bells. Arms around his neck, she murmured, "That sound you hear, my mithril-headed mate, is of your stodgy son laughing like a loon."
Dalkin collected her closer, his beard twitching as he grumbled some doubtless unflattering words beneath his breath.
She tweaked the side of his beard before settling her head upon his chest. To be sure, the idea of her son settling upon a foreign maiden shocked her, but she wanted little ones scurrying beneath her feet. Little ones she didn't have to carry, she corrected herself with a second smirk. Before this day, she'd have pinned her hopes upon Eikin or Tíra.
Still, her husband had a point. They knew nothing of these Helpers. Come morning, that would have to change.
OoOoOo
Pepper wrestled with the dwarf, unable to stop laughing. The serious, no-nonsense junior captain had engaged in a cake fight. He'd tickled her.
"Ríkin," she protested around more breathless giggles, "you don't play fair." Their struggle had spread the cake and frosting until it covered them both from head to toe with sticky streaks. Ríkin had laughed, a deep, barrel-roll of a laugh that had twisted her belly into knots.
Pepper tried to blow a hank of sugar-clumped hair from her face, her body folded over and dangling from the arm he had about her lower belly. She propped herself up using his knees and craned around to look up at him. Then she sniggered. "You," she managed. "You look ridiculous."
"Aye." Her dwarf looked decidedly disgruntled. "While I see naught of you, not even the frosting I left upon yer face."
"It's good to be a brownie," she sang back, trying to no avail to straighten. Her innards ached from all the laughter.
He muttered something, and she found herself hauled into his arms, one arm beneath her bent knees. She picked a hunk of frosting from his beard and plopped it into her mouth, humming to herself in pleasure. In Faerie, there'd been no time for sweets. But jocularity and play? They were what had kept Pepper and many of the brownies alive, staving off despair. She'd missed such silliness in the busy weeks she'd been in Erebor.
Pepper threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Ríkin."
He peered down at her through his good eye. "Yer a peculiar lassie."
OoOoOo
A fist pounded upon the front door, and Ríkin scowled at the interruption. His brothers moseyed back into the room. Iron-haired Thekkin smiled at Ríkin's disheveled appearance, and Eikin stared with mounting disbelief at the cake particles splattering walls, table, and floor.
With a warning look that he'd not welcome their comments, Ríkin deposited the lassie in Thekkin's arms. "Hold her." He marched to the door with ill grace.
Then a glimmer of satisfaction. Interruption or not, he'd won that round, for twined about two fingers, he'd managed to filch strands of her hair. He glanced at the digits, purring inside to see the pale red strands there. A redhead. Ríkin smirked to himself, inordinately pleased. His dam had often lamented being the sole member of the family without the gray hair that was their sire's heritage. She'd get a right kick out of this development.
Upon opening the door, his good mood disappeared. One of his guards stood at attention, a pinched look upon his bearded face. "Aye?" Ríkin demanded.
"Orcs," Gráim informed him, handing him a missive. That the warrior struggled not to gape at Ríkin's unkempt appearance would have been amusing had the circumstances not been so serious.
Ríkin scanned the missive quickly. Orcs had dared to raid one of Dale's small farming settlements, murdering the people and torching their barns and houses. He growled to himself. The handful of farming settlements had scarce been constructed, and now this. The Lord of Dale asked for the dwarves of Erebor to aid in hunting the foul beasts down. The king said aye, and Dwalin had asked Ríkin to spear Erebor's efforts. Ríkin heartily agreed with both king and captain. By Durin, he'd not have orcs attacking people in their domain. His hand crushed the parchment. "Gather Litar and Fraeg's dwarves. Tell the stables we'll be needing ponies. We ride."
Gráim saluted and rushed off.
Closing the door, Ríkin said, "Orcs." He lifted the fingers with the tell-tale strands of red. "I'll be having your name now, lassie," he said as he collected his gear. 'twas on the tip of his tongue to also demand she show herself, but he'd no time for an argument. That would have to await his return. His eyes gleamed. Truth be told, he looked forward to their next bout. There would be kisses, there would, and laughter. Both which had been absent from his life and unmissed. Until now.
Thekkin grappled as if he'd lost something, but before Ríkin's temper escaped him at the thought of her using this moment to flee, small hands helped him buckle his sword belt into place.
"Pepper," she told him, her invisible hands next offering up his daggers one at a time.
'twas a fitting name with her temper. Brusquely, he informed them, "Like as not, I'll be gone for a fist of days at the least." If orcs had breeched their patrols this far, he'd need to scour the countryside to be certain there were no others. Gruffly, he told the lassie, "I expect yer things back in my room when I return, aye?"
"Your room?" Eikin echoed. His younger brother's grin flashed.
Thekkin glowered, disapproval written upon his face. "Yer room?"
Ríkin scowled in insult. "Naught happened. The lassie sleeps beneath my bed."
"You knew?" she demanded.
Obviously. Leaning closer to where he knew she stood, he asked, "Why?"
"Why do I sleep there?" A tentative wee voice.
He nodded shortly.
"Can we discuss this later?"
Ríkin responded with a lifted brow.
"You're like a dog with a bone, Ríkin," she said sourly, earning a snort from Eikin. "Oh, do be quiet, Eikin."
Eikin flashed Ríkin a second grin. Ríkin folded his arms before him, gaze not wavering from the brownie's location. He was pressed for time, but he refused to let the matter drop even when she urged him into his heavy coat.
"Fine," she said at last. Her hands shooed his away to seal the buttons on his coat. "It's safe."
He scratched at an itch beneath his matted beard. "Safe?"
"Faerie wasn't," she said flatly, her fingers patting his chest to signal she was done. "Thorin saved us," she added in a small voice. "Our homeland… It was bad, Ríkin. Ask him. I won't discuss it." Ríkin's gaze swept to his brothers. Aye, they'd be asking Thorin about this Faerie, and that soon.
"Ye'll return your things?" he asked.
"I'll return my things," she said with a tiny sniff.
"Ye'll not be leaving our home?"
"You're my family," she said, as if leaving was unthinkable. A worry he'd not known he carried fell away. Her fingers ran through his beard, dislodging cake clumps, and 'twas all he could do not to snatch her to him. Little did she know her peril as she continued, "I only leave to see to the needs of those without their own brownies who require help. And the king's family."
Ríkin's muscles tightened. He did not want her near Kíli. Well did he remember Kíli's remarks about the Helpers, and he did not like the idea of her tending to the prince. At all.
"You take care of the king, too?" Eikin piped up, a vaguely hurt look upon his face. Ríkin almost interrupted with his own questions, but Eikin's short glance stopped him in his tracks. Better it be his brother who voice displeasure at sharing their brownie than Ríkin.
"We all take turns," she said with exasperation. "They are our rulers, too." In a different voice, "I expect you to be careful."
Using hands to locate her face, he stole a last kiss, reluctant to break away. "I know not yer ways, so I'll say it plain. Dwarves do not exchange kisses lightly. I'll not be sharing yer affections."
He felt her nod between his palms.
'twas not the resounding affirmation he'd hoped, but Ríkin grunted in satisfaction, hefted his halberd and headed out the door. Time enough to discuss placing his braid in her hair when he returned.
OoOoOo
Clove shuddered as the foul things conceded defeat and left the same way they had come. Fíli's flesh shook as if with ague, his breaths labored. He'd endured a concerted attack by two of the monsters, and the battle had taken its toll.
She stroked his hair. "They're gone," she whispered, eyes fixed upon the door the creatures had passed through as if it was air. That they could walk through doors had been an unsettling discovery. If doors, then walls, likely, too – a revelation she promised herself she'd share with her sister brownies come morning.
As well as the epiphany she'd had during the attack. She'd been desperate as she'd watched Fíli wrestle with the dread and despair they poured down upon him. Blocking the waves of dark emotion the things focused upon him with her body had helped just as Pepper had claimed, but not nearly enough. It was then that she'd remembered. Every time he smelled the scent of pine, the prince smiled. What memory that clean fragrance brought to mind, she didn't know, but she knew from experience what a powerful trigger scent could be. When the battle had waged hardest, she'd scrounged some of the pine needles she'd stowed in her work smock as a memento of him - an embarrassing act at the time, but a boon now. She'd crushed them under his nostrils, careful not to spill any and betray her presence.
It had helped. The dwarves' Eru be praised, it had worked. Clove would not leave Fíli this night. It was becoming plain that the creatures had definite targets in mind, and Fíli was one of them. The brownies were going to have to do something to better protect the dwarves in question. They certainly could not sit back and watch these attacks continue.
OoOoOo
Fíli knew he should move. His weight had to be crushing the small, female Helper behind him, but he could not prod his exhausted body to budge. The smell of pine lingered, mixing with the spicy aroma of clove. Both reminded him of winters in Ered Luin, happy times with his mother, Dís, and his father and uncle.
Mahal. How had she known the scent of pine would bolster him so? He little cared about the violation of privacy now. Only gratitude remained, for if not for her support, Kíli might well be targeted ne—
He tried to bolt upright. "Kíli," he managed.
The body beneath him stilled. Fingertips brushed the side of his face. "Stay here," she whispered. "I'll get him. I cannot guard you both with him elsewhere."
"No," he protested, his voice finding strength. He reached out and managed to grab hold of fabric. A skirt? "Take me to him."
A silent moment, then small hands tucked under his arms, small hands that were surprisingly strong for their size. She was no dwarf, but she was not weak. Questions rose in his mind, but without knowing if any of the Nazgûl remained, the less he betrayed her presence, the better. Already, the Helpers' secret might be out because of her kindness this night.
Stumbling from his quarters, he frowned. What was her name?