i couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again. i tried to write it down, but i could never find a pen.
-Saturn, Sleeping at Last
You hum quietly, nestled in the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, watching Fíli and Kíli spar with sticks through half-closed eyes. Exhaustion finds you more easily now, so you demurred when Kíli tried to rope you into their training session. Absentmindedly, you run a hand over your swelling belly. You have no need to conceal your pregnancy any longer, but you don't exactly have access to proper maternity clothing in Middle Earth, so you're clad in borrowed clothes from the dwarves. Óin, the Company's de facto doctor, assures you that as you're nearly halfway through your pregnancy, the worst of the symptoms should be behind you.
You reach over to your backpack and rummage through it for the blanket you were given in Mirkwood—your pack reappeared "mysteriously" in Lake-town overnight, along with a few of Kíli's weapons. You wonder if Tauriel is still following the Company from afar, eyeing the bandage around Kíli's forearm. Thus far, you've done your best to avoid disrupting canon events, but it's hardly your fault that your barrel knocked into Kíli's as the orc's arrow flew towards him, turning what could have been a much more serious wound into a painful, but manageable, graze.
"Y/N?"
It's Thorin. You sit up a bit, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders against the October evening's chill. "Thorin," you greet him, patting a space on the root beside you.
He sits against the tree and tips back his head with a deep sigh. The pair of you sit in amicable silence. After spending a month sharing a cell, you don't find the future king as intimidating as before. Between the crackling of the fire and the thwacking of sticks, you find your eyelids beginning to droop. But any oncoming sleep is interrupted by a loud yell from Fíli—he's disarmed Kíli, who in response tackles his brother to the ground with a whoop.
A small smile appears on Thorin's face as he watches his nephews scuffle in the dirt. It vanishes when the princes roll too close to the bedroll where poor Bilbo is trying to turn in early. "Fíli! Kíli!" he barks. "Do not crush our burglar before he gets a chance to do his burgling!"
Kíli pops up and tosses an apology over his shoulder to the hobbit. He grabs Fíli by the back of the shirt and drags him further from the bedrolls before resuming their wrestling match.
"Boys will be boys," you remark with a smile.
Thorin grunts. "I wanted to speak with you about something."
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it."
He clears his throat. "It is about Fíli."
"I guess I did do that." Adjusting the blanket, you twist to face Thorin as best as your belly allows.
Thorin ignores that last quip. He looks at your stomach for a while. Then his gaze shifts back to Fíli, who holds a wriggling Kíli in a headlock. "He smiles more now," he comments with a glance in your direction. "I don't believe I have seen him this cheerful since we set out from Bag End."
You squirm shyly.
"You make him happy," Thorin continues, in case his meaning was unclear. "I… appreciate that."
Heat creeps up your neck and you duck your head. "I don't do much," you deflect.
A hand tilts your chin back up gently. "You do a great deal," Thorin insists. But his expression becomes more solemn, and he releases your face. "I wonder though… what you… what you see in him," his words are stilted, as if trying to tiptoe around something.
You frown. "Um. I'm sorry?"
The dwarf sighs and rubs the back of his neck. With a glance towards the others, now beginning to settle down for the evening, he shifts closer to you and lowers his voice. "I named Fíli as my heir long ago. He stands to inherit a great deal—and I am not young," he adds with a dry chuckle. "There are many dwarf lords who would see their daughters wed to him for the throne. If he is to marry, I want it to be for the right reasons."
You're not sure if his request is endearing or insulting, but his face is earnest. "He's…" you trail off, eyes softening as you watch your prince. Fíli flashes a triumphant smile at you as Kíli finally gives in. It still makes your heart flutter like a lovesick teen. "Kíli and I are a lot alike," you start over.
That statement seems to surprise Thorin, who looks at you curiously.
"We're fiery, impulsive. We know when we're right and we won't let it go without fighting. Not that Fíli isn't passionate either," you add hastily. "But he looks out for Kíli. He protects him. I guess I wanted that, too. And he's funny, he's kind, he's noble… he's anything I could ask for in a prince."
Thorin doesn't respond for a long time. Finally, he tips his head toward you. "And do you know what he sees in you?"
If you were flushing before, now you're beet red.
"Beauty, naturally. But you are brave, too. You face all the same dangers as any of us with fewer of the skills. Kindness, intelligence, and stubbornness to rival that of any dwarrowdam." He gives you a fond smile. "You will make a fine queen."
Right now, in your bashfulness, anywhere but Thorin's face seems to be a good place to look. The moon peers down through the golden leaves as if trying to catch a glimpse of the pile of dwarves snoring under its light. An owl calls from afar, voice nearly lost on the wind.
You fiddle with the hem of the blanket in your lap, earlier words from Thorin bouncing around in your head. "Thorin?"
"Hm?"
"What you said back in Mirkwood, about claiming me as kin…" you swallow hard. "Do you really mean it?"
He blinks in surprise, brows drawn together. "Of course, Y/N. I would never go back on my word." He leans over and touches his forehead to yours. "You are of the clan of Durin now, and you will have a place of honor under the mountain. I swear it."
He pulls back and claps your shoulder. "Get some rest. We head for Erebor at dawn." Thorin stands and arches his back in a stretch, grunting as something pops. Before he leaves for his bedroll, he looks back down at you. "What was it you were humming earlier?"
Your lips quirk upward. "Oh, just an old love song of my people," you murmur, rising as well and picking your way to the sleeping bag next to Fíli's bedroll. You sit down and wriggle into it, pressing close to the now drowsy dwarf.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders and gently kisses the top of your head. "What did Thorin want?" he whispers.
"Nothing important," you reply sleepily, snuggling into his chest. He smells of leather and campfire smoke.
In the morning, you'll face the last stretch of your journey and confront the fiery reality that stirs beneath the mountain. But right now, in the arms of your dwarf, nothing could seem further away, and you slip into a warm and easy slumber.