Well, it has been a while, but here I am again. As it turns out, writer's block is very annoying and not at all conductive to writing. Who'd have thought?

Anyway, I have ideas by the bucketload now and I've been doing a lot of writing lately. There's the AU that I started in chapter 36 and 37 that I've almost finished. I hope to start publishing that around next week. A few other ideas are in the works as well, so keep an eye out for that.

But for now, enjoy!

Chapter 41

The Art of Smiling

And now that I am speaking of family, you also know that Fíli did not mourn forever, although it did take him a long time to move on. I think that you will remember him being quiet and sad at times during your early childhood, until Thoren and Thráin's history tutor Síf made him smile again.

The Journal, Epilogue: The Journal

Erebor, spring 2952 TA

It's all the elf's fault, Síf suspects. She doesn't know how yet, but he is the only one of her friends and acquaintances who personally knows the King and Queen under the Mountain. She certainly is not the type to ever get near the royal family except when they happen to pass her in the street. And she doesn't think they would even take note of her then.

So no, this is somehow all Elvaethor's doing. They were right after all then, Bildr and Ari and Elí and all the rest, when they warned her not to get involved with the strange elf who keeps hanging around Erebor. 'Trouble follows that elf like a shadow,' Bildr told her, glasses sliding down his nose. 'He is bad news, Síf. Stay away.'

But she likes him. He's intelligent and not too arrogant to admit when he's wrong, which is refreshing in the group of scholars where nobody ever as much so contemplates such a thing. True, she never fully gets the measure of him, but that's what elves are like.

But it appears she's been mistaken all along.

When she arrived at her office this morning there was a royal summons on her desk. The note just said to appear in the Queen's study at her earliest convenience. It doesn't say why she's been called to the carpet, but she remembers all too well a debate with Elvaethor that got just the wrong side of lively the other week.

I should have listened to Bildr, she thinks, furious with herself for ignoring such wise advice. Nothing good has ever come from dealing with elves; as a historian she ought to have known this.

She twists one of the braids in her beard between her fingers, hard enough that she is certain she is pulling out some hairs, if not all. For even though Queen Catherine is only a woman of mannish descent, the stories about her are many. She is one of the heroes of their people, even though there would be many who'd prefer not to acknowledge this. But Síf has never believed in closing her eyes to inconvenient truths. That's just stupid. And if the Queen has done even half the things that are said about her, she is a woman to be feared.

So it is with not a little trepidation that she drags herself to the door of the Queen's study. There's a guard on duty, one she doesn't know, but the heavy armour does nothing to instil confidence in her, nor do his many weapons. She knows how to fight if the worst should happen, but Síf is a scholar, not a warrior. She would be no match for the highly trained Royal Guard.

'Name and intent,' he demands.

'Síf, daughter of Ravi, historian,' she replies. She counts it an achievement that she keeps the tremor out of her voice. 'The Queen asked to see me.'

He opens the door and gestures she is to enter. Only a fool would refuse such a request and so she takes the few steps forward. It takes considerable effort not to flinch when the door falls shut behind her.

'I am glad you could make it so quickly,' a voice says and Síf looks at the Queen under the Mountain, who's seated behind a desk. Or rather, she looks at the hands on the desk, which is not the same thing. They're small hands, too small really to belong to the Queen who fended off an invasion with only four companions at her back. 'Please, sit down.'

There's a chair in front of the desk and Síf lowers herself into it. Only when she is safely sitting and can't make a fool out of herself by doing something disastrous like tripping over her own feet does she look up.

And she is almost disappointed.

Queen Catherine looks neither threatening nor impressive. Yes, she's tall, but she's probably shorter than Ari, who's the tallest dwarf she knows. And there is not a bit of muscle on her either. Then again, Síf would hardly be the first to underestimate this woman. The scores of orcs she and her companions sent flying down the mountainside could probably testify to that. Well, they would, had they not been dead.

This thought does nothing to settle her nerves.

'My lady,' she acknowledges. 'If this is about the argument of last week, I sincerely apologise.'

The Queen frowns; not a good sign. 'I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about.'

Oh. This is not about the argument then. Of course, now that she has mentioned it, she should explain. And then she will just talk herself into trouble. 'There was an argument about history betwixt myself and the elf Elvaethor,' she said. 'I'm afraid it became a little heated.'

The woman's reaction is a surprise. 'It's probably nothing,' she says. 'He hasn't mentioned it to me, so if he was put out, it'll blow over. Elvaethor does not hold grudges easily.'

That's a relief and no mistake. It does however present her with a mystery. 'Begging your pardon, my lady, but why am I here, if not for that?'

'Because I have a favour to ask of you.' The Queen is all business now. 'I have heard you are a very learned historian. Correct?'

Síf isn't one to boast or exaggerate her own skills, but she knows how good she is. 'I am.'

Queen Catherine nods. 'Good. Then would you have the time to tutor my sons on that subject a few hours each week?'

It is so unexpected that for a minute she is incapable of speech or coherent thought, which is a novelty for her on both counts. She came here expecting a severe reprimand at least and may now walk out with the greatest reward someone in her line of work could ever dream of. And Síf has never presumed to even think about reaching that high. And for some reason the Queen seems to think Síf would be doing her the favour instead of the other way around.

'I thought the princes already had a tutor,' she says. Bori had been unbearable about it, meaning that he had been unable to speak a single sentence without mentioning the great honour the King had bestowed upon him. If he spoke like that when he was teaching the princes, it would be a miracle if they learned anything at all from him.

'They did,' Queen Catherine agrees. 'But he proved himself unequal to the task, which is why I am looking for a replacement. And you come highly recommended.'

Highly recommended? Who in their senses would ever do that? She's good enough for the job, she knows that, but there are many who are better qualified, many who would sooner be taken notice of. And all of them would want this job for themselves. Síf doubts any of those would have been so generous as to point the Queen in her direction.

And then it dawns on her. None of her fellow scholars did such a thing. Just a short while ago she thought Elvaethor had landed her in trouble. But what if he had done the opposite? It wouldn't make sense, especially not after last week's debate, but elves are strange creatures. Who could ever tell what goes on in those beardless heads of theirs?

In her astonishment she can only parrot the last two words back at the original speaker.

'Exactly.' There's amusement on her face. 'Will you take the job?'

There is only one reasonable answer to that question and so when Síf walks out the door some minutes after, she is the official history tutor of the young princes.

'Congratulations,' the guard tells her. So he apparently knew as well. Síf isn't used to being the last to know. It's not a feeling she likes.

Fortunately she has an outlet for her frustration, for when she arrives back at her office, her elvish friend is there, perching on the edge of her desk with an entirely too self-satisfied grin. 'I take it your appointment with Kate went well?' There is a merry twinkle in his eye that betrays he had a hand in said appointment, as if she had any doubts left about that.

'You did this!' she exclaims, aiming a hit at his knee. He winces, so at least he feels that. 'Why?'

He shakes his head. 'Dwarves are remarkable creatures,' he says conversationally. 'One helps them out and is repaid in violence.'

He is not entirely wrong. An overflow of emotion with her people usually ends with hugging or fighting. And Elvaethor is too tall to hug.

'You could have told me,' she insists. He'd had her worry over nothing. 'I thought you were angry with me!'

His is a hard face to read, but she thinks he finally realises. 'I would never do such a low thing.' If anything, he sounds hurt that she could believe it of him. And though it feels awkward to be in this situation, she won't apologise for it. There is a reason she has come to believe the worst of elves. True, Elvaethor is hardly like the others of his race, but he is an elf and when it comes to his people, dwarves have certain instincts.

'You would not warn me.' Honestly.

'I thought the surprise would please you.' It's not quite an apology, but she thinks he means it as one. If he would just speak plainly, as her people do, it would all be much easier.

'The work pleases me,' Síf admits. It's a dream come true, or it would be, if she had ever dared to dream about such honours. Her family is not prominent, never has been. Others are always first in line for royal notice. 'But why me?' she repeats her earlier question.

Elvaethor merely shrugs. 'You would be better suited than many others,' he answers. And he has a point there; anyone would be better than Bori. 'And I have a feeling it will be a good thing.'

Síf doesn't trust undefined feelings. She is a dwarf and she trusts only what her eyes can see. Still, his confidence flatters her.

The streets are quiet today, Fíli reflects, for all that it is nearly suppertime. He likes it better this way. Erebor is more crowded than the Ered Luin. But then, there was more space in the Blue Mountains, but it was a lonely, desolate kind of space. Even so, he often finds himself longing for the days before the quest. In some ways, his life had been simpler then.

And he misses Kíli. The grief is fading now; he doesn't feel it as keenly as he did at first: every moment of every day. But it is there. He's always been close with his brother. They were close in age – it is different for many siblings among dwarves – and there hadn't been many dwarflings their own age during their childhoods, so they had stuck together. And Kíli had left a void when he died. There are hours when he doesn't think of him, but then he'll want to share an observation or a joke and find that he's addressing thin air. Or there'll be a situation Kíli would doubtlessly have to say something about and he'll stand there waiting for a remark that never comes.

He's stopped blaming Thorin and Kate, even though the bitter feeling that still burns like poison in his throat at their secretiveness sometimes might never entirely go away. They meant well and Kate's explanation makes sense. If their roles had been reversed, he might not have spoken of it either. But grief and anger are only seldom rational.

Having said that, he knows Kíli died in a way he would not be ashamed of. No dwarf worth his beard would shy away from dying in defence of their Mountain. And it is a small consolation only, but a consolation nonetheless.

So he'd gone to Kate some months after the battle and apologised for his behaviour and she had apologised for hers and they had resumed their friendship. It's never been as easy and unforced as it was when Kíli still lived, but as the years go on, he finds they make progress.

So it's no trouble at all to pick up his young cousins from their lessons. It's more or less on his route and he likes spending time with the lads. Thoren and Thráin are energetic, spontaneous and noisy, but there's not a nasty bone in their bodies. Even so, Fíli agrees with Kate's assessment that it would be a bad idea to let them walk from the schoolroom to their home unchaperoned. These two could get into all sorts of trouble.

He knocks on the door and is told to enter.

Thoren and Thráin have a private tutor. That this is the case is not so much the consequence of royal privilege as it is practical. They would create chaos in a room full of other dwarflings. In fact, they have already done so on many an occasion. Their intentions may be good and they don't set out to drive their teachers to despair, but they simply can't sit still. At least in this set-up one can only distract the other and that makes it more manageable for a teacher.

'Hello, cousin!' Thráin greets him cheerfully.

'Suppertime?' his brother asks hopefully. Thoren is intelligent, but he hates studying.

'Near enough,' Fíli replies. 'But only if your teacher agrees.'

He hasn't spared a look for him yet, but now he does. The first thing he notices is that this new teacher is not a him. The second thing that demands his attention is that she has very nice eyes. Oh, and he does rather like that smile.

'Good afternoon,' the dwarrowdam says. Her voice is a little higher than usual for a lass of their kind, but he finds he likes it. It's a voice that's made for being heard, for singing even.

Only when she starts frowning as if something's not quite right and his cousins are beginning to give him very odd looks he realises that he ought to have returned the courtesy. 'Begging your pardon.' He's not quite stammering, but he's afraid that he's blushing; his cheeks are feeling warmer than usual. Well, it's only natural to blush when a body's been caught staring. 'Good afternoon, Mistress…'

'Síf,' she replies promptly. Her brown eyes are looking at him puzzled. Like as not she can't work out why he's behaving this strangely. It's a good question, one to which he'd quite like an answer as well.

He's just been caught up in taking in this person he's never met before, he decides. She seems like the sensible sort, better than that sorry excuse for an instructor the boys had to put up with before. Fíli had been the one to get Bori dismissed three weeks ago. It had been a day much like this one, when he'd come to collect his cousins from their lessons and found Bori, puffed up on his own importance, ventilating sentiments about Kate, her sons and Thorin's sanity that had been more than enough to get him exiled to the Iron Hills.

So it's only natural he likes to take stock of Bori's replacement and make sure this teacher knows what is and isn't acceptable behaviour in a classroom. Of course, so far he hasn't seen any of her teaching, but he likes the look of her.

He remembers his manners. 'Pleasure to make your acquaintance,' he says, nodding respectfully. 'May I take them home or are you not yet finished?'

'They won't learn anything with only thoughts of dinner in their head,' Síf remarks wryly. He suspects that maybe she was not entirely done for the day. His untimely barging in is likely to annoy her a little. But he also thinks that she doesn't really dare go against him. Fíli wouldn't know why; unless he's on the battlefield, he isn't particularly scary looking, nothing like Dwalin for example, whom people actively avoid when he's in a scowling sort of mood.

Neither is it any of his business. He's given enough offence already and so he beckons his cousins to come with him. Thoren demonstrates what he's learned about Durin the Deathless by trying to re-enact the history on the way, gesturing wildly and speaking loudly.

'Seems you've paid attention,' Fíli observes. That in itself is rare enough. He's clever enough, but lacks the patience to sit and listen generally.

'Mistress Síf can give the telling very well,' he agrees. The boy must have been captivated by the story indeed.

Thoren isn't done talking by a long way by the time they reach their home. He barely makes time to greet his mother before he continues right where he left off. Thráin butts in with a detail here and there, but clearly has trouble getting Thoren to shut up long enough to get a word in.

'Breathe, darling,' Kate admonishes. 'You can tell the story a bit slower as well.' She makes good use of her son's temporary silence by turning to Fíli. 'What'd you make of the new tutor?'

Honesty dictates that he tells her that hasn't seen much of her yet. 'But she seems like the sensible sort,' he adds. 'And the lads clearly like her.' As is evident by their enthusiastic chattering. They never did that while Bori was their teacher and in hindsight Fíli now knows why. He'd gained immense personal satisfaction from the act of dragging that waste of space out of the front gate by the back of his coat.

'Fíli was looking at her oddly,' Thráin remarks, sending questioning glances at him.

Of course he would have remembered that. Not much escapes his notice.

'Did he?' Kate asks, arching an eyebrow. 'How's that?'

It's clear she intends the question for Fíli rather than her boys, but Thoren is the one to answer. 'He was staring,' he reports. 'And then his mouth fell open.'

'And he stammered,' Thráin adds. 'You've never done that before. Are you coming down with something?'

Throughout this little speech Fíli hasn't lost sight of Kate's face and he does not particularly like what he sees there. First she had appeared a little confused, but comprehension dawns soon enough and then that in turn is replaced with a look he cannot describe as anything other than devious.

'I reckon so,' she nods, but Fíli really doesn't trust that smile. 'It's a tricky little affliction, but it happens to some. Isn't contagious as far as I know, so no need to worry yourself over it, sweetheart.' Oh, he's right to be on his guard.

'Kate, what are you doing?' he asks when the boys, now reassured they won't catch whatever Fíli has, have disappeared.

She manages to look as innocent as a new-born babe. 'Nothing much,' she says.

'Nothing much is going on,' he points out to her.

'That's how you greet all your new acquaintances, then?'

Well, no. It's not, and Kate knows this.

Kate takes his silence as the reply that it is and shrugs. 'Nothing wrong with liking somebody, Fíli.' She really is not letting go of this one anytime soon, it appears.

'There is nothing going on,' he repeats, but his face betrays him. He can feel the blush creeping up onto his cheeks. He doesn't really know Síf, but he rather likes what he's seen so far. And if he is honest, he wouldn't mind spending some time in her company to find out if she's as nice as Thoren and Thráin clearly think she is.

'You know, I remember a time when we had this conversation before,' Kate comments casually. 'Only then our roles were somewhat reversed.'

He remembers that too. Suddenly he is quite sure he's not heard the last of this. He looks at her with suspicion.

She grins at him. 'Oh yes,' she says, confirming said suspicions. 'They say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, you see.' The grin widens. 'Or, as they used to say in my world, payback's a bitch.'

'We're almost there,' Thoren announces. Síf is unfamiliar with this part of Erebor and her pupils, knowing this, are taking delight in the fact that they know something she does not. She allows them to guide her, even if it's technically her who's chaperoning them. Normally one of their parents or other relatives comes in to collect them at the end of their lesson, but today none is available and the task falls to Síf instead.

It's not something she is entirely comfortable with.

It's one thing to teach the princes – after a while in their company it's easy to forget they are not just mere lads with too much energy – and she can handle having to give progress reports to Queen Catherine in her study, but she draws the line at entering the royal apartments. She has no business there.

Of course, she could probably drop them off at the door and just leave. There is always a guard on duty and Thoren and Thráin are unlikely to get into trouble between her leaving and them entering their home.

'Very nearly there,' Thráin corrects, tugging at her hand. 'Are you staying for dinner?'

Síf isn't staying at all. 'No, I'm not,' she replies. 'There's work to be done still.' There is, but none of it is really urgent.

And Thoren senses this. 'Don't you eat, Mistress Síf?' he asks interestedly.

She laughs at this. 'Of course I eat,' she tells him. 'Just not quite yet.'

Thráin calls out the problem in her reasoning. 'But it's late. You must be hungry.' He clearly is looking forward to his next meal.

Truth be told, Síf would like to get a bite to eat as well, but she prefers to not have that in the company of the royal family. Of course, Thoren and Thráin don't see the problem. They're young and if you like somebody, then they're your friend. And you can absolutely invite said friend to dinner.

Thráin has her hand in his and the moment they reach his home he drags her through the door before Síf can politely extract herself. 'Amad, can Mistress Síf stay for dinner?' He doesn't waste any breath.

The Queen is still seated behind the table, partially obscured by paperwork. There's no sign of dinner yet that Síf can see. She looks up as she hears them enters and smiles. 'Don't see why not,' she says pleasantly.

She hastens to point out that it is not necessary. 'I can leave if it is not convenient, my lady,' she says.

'Nonsense.' The Queen waves her concerns away as if they are nothing. 'You're very welcome. Besides, I should be getting dinner started anyway. It won't be long before Thorin and Fíli get here.'

'Fíli's coming for dinner?' Thráin perks up at this.

'Yes, he is,' says the Queen. 'So you'll be on your best behaviour, won't you?'

Thráin affects a look of wounded innocence that Síf is beginning to be slightly familiar with. It doesn't fool her and it certainly does not fool his mother either, who ruffles his hair affectionately and repeats her earlier query until Thráin dutifully promises to indeed be on his very best behaviour.

It'll be interesting to see how long he'll be able to remember it.

'May I assist, my lady?' she asks, wringing her hands in uncertainty. She has no idea how to act, how to behave, how to even be. All of a sudden she's been catapulted into higher circles than she's ever been able to imagine herself moving in. It makes her want to run away as fast as her legs can carry her.

'Oh, there's no need. And please, call me Kate. We're not in any formal setting now.' The Queen piles all the papers up before storing them away in a cupboard. 'I mean, if you want to do something, you could keep an eye on my children for a bit, but only if you want to.'

Honestly, she's glad there's something or her to do. Minding the boys is what she does in the classroom as well. This is easy. This she knows how to do. 'I should be honoured.'

The Queen raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She takes herself off to the kitchen and leaves Síf alone with the two princes and the little princess. The girl is deeply immersed in a book with vividly coloured pictures, so Síf leaves her to it in order to keep the girl's brothers out of trouble. Thoren has taken his mother's absence as a licence to wreak some havoc. Síf plucks him out of the air in mid-leap before he can wreck the sofa.

'None of that,' she says as sternly as she's able.

'We'll only have to be on our best behaviour when Fíli gets here,' he points out reasonably.

Cheeky little lad. 'She didn't say anything about you getting to be on your worst behaviour before then either.' These things work both ways. 'And I am here to keep an eye on your doings.'

'You are no fun, Mistress Síf.'

She's not known for being fun. She's always been known for her serious attitude towards her work and her academic pursuits and that suits her just fine. It is beyond clear however that from Thoren's lips it's not meant as a compliment.

Somehow it is easier to be here when the Queen is not around, well, not in Síf's direct line of sight at any rate.

They are just people, she reminds herself. They do normal things.

The thought calms her for only a moment, when she reminds herself that while the royal family may do such things as ordinary as preparing dinner, they also fight legendary battles, outwit trolls and kill dragons. Well, one dragon, but it was a big one.

Nervousness returns like a leaden weight in her stomach. Maker only knows how she's going to get even one bite to go down her throat.

Time crawls. Síf considers many an escape, but disregards them all. She has been invited by the Queen. Leaving now, when she has foolishly already accepted – wait, has she actually said the words? – would be beyond rude.

Maker, save me.

Rationally she knows that no harm can befall her here. It is her dignity at risk, not her life. It's harder to remember that when the door opens to admit the King and his sister's son, Fíli.

Síf has met the latter, but not the former. The King she has glimpsed only from a distance. It is rather unfortunate that up close he is far more intimidating. He is more intimidating still because Síf knows the tales of him only too well. This is not the kind of dwarf who's likely to be impressed by a pampered scholar from the Iron Hills.

Fortunately he does not notice her at first; Thoren and Thráin refrain from their mischief to hurl themselves into their father's arms with a delight that suggests they have not seem him for months. The King, more good-naturedly that Síf would have expected from someone with such a stern visage, lifts them up and smiles indulgently.

It's Prince Fíli who notices her first. He doesn't seem well-pleased to see her in his family's private rooms, for he frowns.

'Mistress Síf,' he greets her, seemingly puzzled. As well he should be; Síf has trouble recalling why exactly she is there herself.

'Mistress Síf is coming for dinner,' Thoren announces happily, still hanging off his father. 'Isn't that fun?'

Fun is not the first word that comes to Fíli's mind when he thinks of the lads' history tutor in the middle of Thorin and Kate's sitting room. Fun might have been the first word that occurred to Kate, though. It is no great mystery whose notion this is and what her intentions for the evening could be.

Idly he reflects that fun isn't the word Mistress Síf is thinking of either. There's something about her posture that reminds Fíli of the erstwhile burglar at the beginning of the quest; a small rabbit cornered by a pack of starving wolves that would like nothing better than to have it for dinner.

For a moment he almost feels sorry for his part in pushing Thorin and Kate together, given the fact that he is about to endure Kate's revenge now, but no, he can't really regret that. They're well suited and if the company hadn't taken a firm hand in helping them sort themselves out they might still have been dancing around each other all nervously and awkwardly. Some of them might have died of embarrassment.

Best to put them both out of their misery. He ruffles the lads' hair in passing and follows the noise to the kitchen to confront the chief architect of this wretched scheme.

'What are you up to, Kate?' he demands. Thoren and Thráin are loud enough to mask their conversation; the last thing Fíli wants is for Thorin to become involved. Kate is not the only one with a score to settle, after all.

'Cooking,' she announces, holding up a saucepan in evidence. Whatever is in it smells wonderful; Kate has turned out to be a deft hand in the kitchen. Dining at her table has never yet been something to regret.

He rather suspects today might be the first time.

'Good to see you, by the way,' she continues before Fíli can get another word in. 'How's the work in the artisan's quarter coming along?'

'Slowly,' Fíli replies, letting her believe for a moment that he has been successfully side-tracked. 'With masons and plasterers at each other's throats every inch of the way, and the drainage engineers plotting to have the whole sorry lot flushed down a drain of their own design.'

'Business as usual, then.' Kate grins at him. 'At least we'll know where they've gone if they all happen to vanish in the next week or so.'

'Aye, you might join them there,' Fíli points out. 'Why is the history tutor here?'

Kate affects a look of innocence that doesn't fool him for a second. 'Don't look at me; the boys invited her.'

'Did they?'

'Well, I may certainly have jumped on the excellent opportunity this presented,' she admits, turning her back to him to resume her business with the saucepan. 'But the idea was not actually mine.'

'Although you certainly wish it were.'

She doesn't deny that.

'Maker be good, Kate, I hardly know the lass.'

'Well, I hardly knew Thorin before everyone and their mother was making assumptions,' Kate reminds him in a tone she probably thinks of as reasonable. 'Besides, you said yourself you liked her.'

Had he? He can't recall. It doesn't matter anyway, because: 'It seems unfair that she should be used for nothing better than getting your own back.'

Kate goes still for a bit. Instinctively he senses he's crossed a line somewhere. 'Is that what you think?' she asks. She still has her back to him, but he can tell well enough he's dealt a painful blow without being able to see her face. 'That this is all some silly bit of revenge for something that was years ago?'

'Is it not?' Because it was the first thing she mentioned when the topic of Síf had come up.

She turns around and there is nothing even remotely playful or mocking about her now. 'Part of it is, a bit, yes.' She looks him in the eye. 'But certainly not all of it. Or even most of it.' She is silent for a moment, weighing her words before she speaks them. 'It's…'

'It's what?'

'Well, you like her.'

'I like quite a number of folk.'

Kate is unperturbed. 'The next time you blush and stammer when Bofur is under discussion you really must alert me to it.' Fíli struggles to formulate an answer to that one, so she barrels on before he finds his tongue. 'And I think – well, I hope at least – that she might just be the one to make you smile.'

'I smile plenty.'

Kate puts down the ladle in order to cross her arms over her chest. 'Do you? Because the funny thing is that I remember you smiling plenty on the quest, but nowhere near as much since.'

As much as he wants to, he cannot quite deny that. Nothing has ever been quite the same since that battle. He's healed, well, he's healed some at least. It's just that he's not felt like laughing quite as much as he used to, but that's only because the one who usually made him laugh is no longer there and no one else is living up to him.

Kate nods, even though Fíli's answer has not been at all verbal. 'That's what I thought. Listen, if you really don't like her, tell me now and I'll cease all efforts immediately. But if you do like her, the least you can do is walk her home after dinner and see where that takes you.' She has the nerve to grin. 'It's the done thing in early courting after all.'

Fíli knows when he is beaten. 'How would you know?' he demands. 'You've never done proper courting in your life.'

'All the more reason to observe it from close quarters, so that I'll know what to do when my offspring gets round to it.'

If his cousins are anything like their parents the chances of that are small indeed, Fíli thinks, but he'll let her find that out when the time comes.

He's got bigger worries.

It's nowhere near as awkward as Síf has imagined the dinner would be. If anything, it's almost disconcertingly normal. They're just a normal family, eating, exchanging news, telling the children to sit down – 'yes, Thráin, until we are all done eating.' – and laughing at jokes.

Síf's initial plan – to sit quietly, eat what's before her and vanish out the door as soon as everyone is finished – goes out of the window in the first five minutes. There's a discussion going on about some work that's being done in the artisan's quarter and a fuss that's being kicked up over the work of a famed architect.

'So I told them that it's unusable,' Fíli relates to the Queen. 'There's cracks running up the columns – they wouldn't hold the weight – but the moment I suggested pulling them down and putting in replicas, the whole wretched lot started shouting.'

'How so?' asks the Queen, who is feeding her daughter.

Fíli consults a note from his pocket. 'It's – apparently – the work of a fellow called Vitr Stoneclawer, who modelled them after columns in Khazad-dûm made by Therlin the Builder.'

'Who was…?'

'Some Second Age builder,' Fíli grins.

She really shouldn't, but her historian senses win out. 'Late First Age, actually,' she hears herself say to her shock and astonishment. A tiny voice at the back of her head tells her to just stop talking, but she's so nervous now that the words keep coming: 'Responsible for building sizeable chunks of the northern parts of Khazad-dûm. We tend to regard him as a bit of a genius now, but in his day he was not well-loved.'

At this point she finally manages to stay her tongue. Oh, what has she done? She knows she's spoken out of turn. This conversation has not included her and yet she dared to interrupt, correcting a member of the royal family at that.

The silence lasts a century.

It's the King who breaks it. 'Why wasn't he?'

'Beg pardon?'

There's quick eye contact between the King and Queen, the meaning of which Síf finds impossible to discern. It's as if they have a language of their own, spoken in glances, eyebrow movement and smiles. It looks incredibly private. Síf almost feels as if she's intruded.

Intruded more than she has already, that is.

As things stand, she's lucky if by the end of tonight she isn't hauled off by the collar the way her predecessor was.

'This Therlin the Builder,' the Queen says. 'Why was he not well-loved in his time?'

It takes a moment to sink in that both the King and Queen have now expressed an interest in what she has to say. Maker save me. 'Ehm, well, he was accused of holding too much with elves and the like, my lady, because he built his ceilings so high that even the tallest elf could walk beneath them without stooping. That was why he needed the columns to support the ceiling; they were too high to work without them.'

'We seem to like high ceilings,' Fíli points out.

'Therlin told his critics that high ceilings equalled grandeur.' She has always liked the long-dead architect's cleverness. 'So naturally, after that everyone who wanted to be someone demanded to have them.'

'Ah,' Fíli nods, stroking his beard as if in thought. 'I reckon I might have an idea on to handle the builders then, Thorin.'

The conversation flows smoothly on from that. Síf's nerves take some time to settle, but after some time passes she realises that not only is she not about to be exiled to the Iron Hills, the royal family makes an effort to include her in their talk. Thoren, cheeky lad that he is, dares to smile at her in his self-satisfied I-told-you-so manner and of course in this he is right to do so.

Not that she tells him.

Truth be told, neither Kate nor Thorin engage in the kind of not-so-subtle hinting that Fíli had expected. Instead, the talk at the table is of work and, not unsurprisingly given the guest, history. That does not mean that it is not awkward. For one, Fíli knows why Mistress Síf is here. She herself has no idea and it is clear from her posture that she does not know how to behave.

It's a miracle she hasn't bolted for the door yet.

Having said that, she holds her own. It's clear that she feels more comfortable when the subject under discussion is her work; her face lights up and her hands start moving as she mimics the tales with her hands whilst she is telling them.

She really does seem very nice.

'Well, I'll be off home,' he says when the meal is over.

Though he is not looking in Kate's direction, he can tell that she's giving him a very pointed stare. She may be many things, but subtle is not one of them. Fíli is fairly sure she hasn't mentioned her little scheme to Thorin – she simply hasn't had the opportunity to do so – but he seems to have caught on regardless if the way he keeps glancing from Fíli to Síf and back again is any indication.

'Where do you live, Mistress Síf?' Thorin asks. Fíli does not trust that look in his uncle's eyes. Folk may think that he is all serious and stern, but Fíli knows better.

'The eastern quarters, third level,' she answers. 'My lord.'

'That's not so far from you, Fíli,' Kate remarks, as if she is somewhat surprised, which Fíli knows she's not. 'Why don't you walk together?'

Thoren, though surely not in on the plot, nods vigorously. 'Mistress Síf doesn't know the way,' he tells Fíli. 'We had to show her.'

Kate smiles brightly. 'Well, that settles it, then.'

Fíli knows when he is beaten, although he does roll his eyes at Kate to show his exasperation with her meddling. 'Very well, Mistress Síf, if you are ready to depart?' He gets up.

Her face takes on the shade of Kate's hair. 'Oh, ehm… well…' All her newfound eloquence abandons her instantly. Fíli feels sorry for her as well as himself. Apologies, lass, there's forces at work here that you cannot suspect. He resolves to walk her home, tell her that he likes her and that he would like to take her out and that is it. Part of him hopes she'll say no, so that it can end tonight, but a slightly bigger part would actually like to get to know her better.

If only Thorin and Kate could stop themselves from interfering.

But he'll have no such luck.

'It's a bit of a maze around here,' Kate tells her. 'And not every road is as stable as it should be yet. It'll be useful to have a guide.'

'Very well, my lady.' Síf looks like she might bolt from the room at any moment.

Fíli rather feels that urge as well, so he puts on his coat and waits for Síf to get back into hers. Kate's making the kind of gestures suggesting he ought to help Síf with that, so Fíli instead makes a point of shoving his hands in his pockets and waiting on the other side of the room.

Maker help him.

Thoren and Thráin wave and yell their goodbyes all the way down the street, which keeps Fíli and Síf busy with waving and goodbyes in return for the first stretch of the road. Of the twenty minute journey it eats up a whole minute. Now if only he can figure out how to fill up the remaining nineteen.

He scrambles for a suitable subject, because the silence is heading rapidly for awkward, and hits upon her work. It's the only time when she's spoken without stammering and, if he is very lucky, she'll talk all the way to her home and then he can ask his question just before she heads inside. If she says yes, he'll end the evening on a high note. If she says no, he can safely make his escape without abandoning her in the middle of a street. Of course, then he'll have to find some creative excuses to avoid picking up his cousins from their lessons. He might have to give the library a wide berth for the next decade or two as well.

But first things first: 'How do you like teaching my cousins so far? Are they well-behaved?' There, that's something he can safely ask.

It's the right question: 'Oh yes!' she says. 'They are very well behaved. A little energetic perhaps, but that is to be expected of lads their age, isn't it? It's all about harnessing that energy instead of stifling it and well, I don't think Bori ever really knew how to do that.' She falls abruptly silent. 'Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to speak ill of my predecessor.'

Fíli barks out a laugh. 'You can speak ill of him all you like, Mistress Síf. I shall only commend you for having such an accurate understanding of his character.'

'Oh.' Síf studies him. 'If it is not presumptuous to ask, why was he sent away? Folk said that his teaching left something to be desired, but I reckon the King doesn't exile folk for being poor tutors.'

Fíli doesn't mention that Thorin only made Bori's exile official when Bori was already halfway to the Iron Hills and that it was Fíli himself who threw Bori out the gates. 'He spoke some comments in the classroom that had no place there,' he replies. 'There or in any decent place for that matter.' He hesitates. 'Concerning the lads' lineage, among other things.'

Síf nods in understanding. 'Their lineage on their mother's side, I take it?'

'Aye.' That and some other matters which he will not speak of. 'The lads often came home quiet and subdued, which you'll have noted is not their natural state. One day I came to collect them and found Bori in the middle of a speech that had Thráin in tears.'

And young Thoren next to him, gripping his brother's hand, face pale, trying to keep himself from weeping. The mere memory makes Fíli wish he had taken the time to rearrange Bori's face before he hurled him from the Mountain.

Síf swallows. 'I am sorry to hear that.'

'It's not you who ought to feel sorry for it.' He pushes the anger down. 'And you seem to be an altogether more sensible sort, from what I've seen.' And altogether a great deal more pleasing to look on, although he keeps that thought to himself. 'Thoren and Thráin seem to like your lessons.'

Síf smiles. 'Well, I hope they retain them as well. But I am pleased that they like my teaching. We are currently covering Durin the Deathless and that's the kind of subject that speaks to the imagination, doesn't it? It'll remain to be seen if Second Age politics holds quite the same appeal.'

Given that Thoren will one day be King under the Mountain, Fíli rather hopes that it'll be of some interest to him. But he is young still and Thorin looks hale and strong; he has time.

'I don't doubt your abilities,' he says. 'Perhaps you'll tell me some of those Second Age politics and let me be the judge of your teaching abilities.'

It's the right thing to do. Fíli congratulates himself that at least he'll have to do very little of the actual talking for the rest of the walk. Well, not until they reach Síf's house, that is. He should probably try and think of a way to ask his question, but Síf gives a good telling and he finds himself listening with actual interest. The fact that he asks questions every once in a while seems to please her, for she smiles a great deal. It doesn't leave him unaffected when she directs one of those brilliant smiles at him.

It's a good thing that in her enthusiasm she seems to miss his blushing and stammering. Thank the Maker.

The minutes fly by faster than he had expected and it's after a brief time that Síf stops and announces that this is where she lives. 'Which is just as well; your ears are probably buzzing.'

'Not at all,' Fíli says. 'I found it very engaging.' And he has. But admitting that is not the hardest part by far. And he had better get on with his part; Kate will never let him hear the end of it if he does not. 'I would like to speak again sometime. Would you care to join me for a meal?' He runs that sentence through his head and realises he has not done that right. 'Not right now, of course, but ehm…'

'Next week?' Síf suggests and then seems shocked at her own audacity.

Fíli could kiss her for saving the situation like that. 'Aye, that sounds good.' He is so relieved that she hasn't said no that he is bolder than he thought himself capable of, so he adds: 'In five days maybe. And there is this play about the fall of Khazad-dûm that's said to be good. Perhaps we could go there after and you can inform me if it's historically accurate.'

Why in Durin's name has he gone and done that? He was only planning – and that is a very big word for something that was foisted on him in the last hour – a meal. Isn't it supposed to be taken a little slower? Isn't the theatre inappropriate for a first outing? He supposes he could ask his mother, but does he want to involve her yet?

Síf blinks at him, face bright red. She's twisting one of her plaits between her fingers. Fíli really shouldn't find that as endearing as he does. 'Yes, so folk do say. Ah, that is to say… ehm… I would like to go?'

Is the fact that she makes it sound like a question a good or a bad sign? He decides to interpret it as good. 'Well, that settles it, then,' he says, realising too late that now he sounds like Kate. 'I shall… ehm, collect you then?' And now he has made it sound like he puts her on the same level as his cousins, a child to be picked up and escorted around the Mountain because they cannot be trusted to do that on their own. He should probably stop talking.

But Síf nods firmly, looking… relieved? 'That would do very well. So…'

'Yes, goodnight,' Fíli says. It's high time he were gone, because if he keeps standing here stammering like a fool, she might yet rethink the whole thing.

Best not to give her that chance. He makes a shallow bow, turns on his heel and marches out the street as fast as he can without actually running.

What has just happened?

Síf leans against the door, trying to force her thoughts back into some semblance of order. Has she imagined that Prince Fíli has not only told her that he likes talking to her, but that he would like to do it again? Over a meal? And then a play?

Does he want to court me?

Do I want to be courted by him?

She doesn't know the answer to either question yet, so she considers the evidence, as she would were she at her desk pondering a tricky historical conundrum. He's asked her for an outing. If he had only wanted to discuss history, then he could have done that without inviting her to the theatre. But the play is about historical events too, so is that significant? Would it be strange to seek him out to ask him?

Realising that she has not enough information to reach an answer, she turns to the second question. Would she like to be courted by Prince Fíli? The immediate response isn't a resounding no. He is handsome – hard not to notice that, honestly – and kind. It counts in his favour that he cares so much about his cousins. Well, they are easy to love, but still. And he likes listening to her. There aren't that many who will let her chatter on about everything she finds so interesting. So that's good. Being courted by him would not be awful. She might like that even.

Then she remembers that she told him 'That would do very well,' as if he was a dwarfling who had given the right response in the classroom and she considers whether it would not be better to flee to the Iron Hills. Or maybe the Blue Mountains would serve her better, as they are farther away and the chances of facing him again after that embarrassment are significantly smaller.

But no, she is not a coward. And he hadn't seemed offended or rescinded his invitation, so she has to assume that he still wants to spend time with her.

It's then that it really hits her: she has been asked on a romantic – presumably – outing by Prince Fíli.

In five days.

The following realisation follows hard on its heels: she has no idea what to do.

That in itself is far more stressful than anything that went before it. She buries her head in her hands. One thing is for sure: she cannot make a fool of herself – again – which means that she desperately needs help.

It takes her most of the night to work out who best to ask – had this been a scholarly matter it wouldn't have taken her a minute to identify the right person – but by morning she has a plan of sorts.

She does not have to teach today, so it's to the library that she goes. She waves when she sees familiar faces, but doesn't stop to chat. She's on pins and needles and would much rather get this over with first. Besides, if she tells her friends what she agreed to last night, the whole Mountain will know before lunch and then she really must migrate to the Iron Hills.

Fortunately the person she has come to see proves easy to find. 'Elda, do you have a moment? I need… some help.' A lot of help.

Her friend looks up from the massive tome on the desk in front of her. 'I thought your research was going very well. What went wrong?'

This is somehow harder to do than she had envisioned in her head. 'Oh no, it's not my research. It's… Well, the thing is, you are married.' Married, with two children and another one very visibly on the way. It therefore stands to reason that some years ago Elda was in the beginning stages of courting as well.

The confusion on Elda's face informs her that she has not understood Síf's reasoning in the slightest. 'How did we get here? What's my marriage got to do with your problem?'

Síf bites her lip and twists her plait between her fingers. 'Nothing, really. But, ehm, I have been asked on an outing and I think it's the… ehm, courting sort and now I don't know what to do. And I thought, you might…'

That's as far as she is allowed to get; Elda's excited squeal is probably audible in Dale. Aggressive hushing noises emerge from between the stacks.

'Síf, what marvellous news! Who is he? Do I know him?'

This is a very bad idea. She looks at the ground and mumbles: 'Prince Fíli.' It sounded unbelievable when it was just in her head. It sounds even more unbelievable when she says it out loud. This is what great tales are made of, a prince taking an interest in someone so far beneath him. Is she sure she hasn't horribly misread this?

Elda's eyes widen. 'Prince Fíli?'

'Yes,' Síf hisses. 'Can you please keep your voice down? Now can you please tell me what I need to do?'

Elda frowns. 'Need to do? What do you mean?'

'Exactly that. I don't know what I need to do. I don't know how to… behave.' And what with Fíli being a prince, it stands to reason that he would know how to behave and she doesn't want to look like a fool around him, not any more than she already has, that is.

Elda regards her with what seems like pity, but then pulls herself together and gets to it. 'Right, so what are you going to do?'

Ah, here she is on firm ground. 'A meal. And then a play.'

'Dinner and the theatre. Good choice.' Elda nods in approval. 'Which establishment and what play?'

'Don't know and the one about Khazad-dûm.'

'Dwarrow's Lament?'

'Is that the name? Yes, I suppose so.' It's not as if she has been to the theatre often. She has a vague memory of going once with her mother, when she was a small child.

Elda hangs her head.

'What?' Síf demands.

'He's taking you on your first courting outing and he is taking you to see a tragedy?'

'Well, it's about history and he knows I like that, so that's why, probably.' Sad though the events are, it's an interesting part of their history. And they might never have founded Erebor if her people hadn't lost Khazad-dûm, and Síf quite likes it here, so in the end it wasn't all bad.

The look on Elda's face tells her that she's said some of that out loud. 'You haven't seen it, I take it.'

Síf shakes her head.

'Half of the characters die.'

Síf shrugs. 'That's to be expected, isn't it? Given the subject matter? And he's said he wants me to tell him if it's historically accurate, so I don't think he minds.'

The silence lasts a little too long.

'What?' Síf demands again.

'I have decided you are both probably hopeless and you deserve each other,' Elda declares. 'Honestly.'

Whatever direction this conversation is currently headed in, it's not the direction Síf needs. 'Maybe. You still haven't told me what I need to do.'

'Why do you think you need me to tell you what to do?'

'I don't think you can learn this kind of thing out of a book.' Obviously. Not that she would not much have preferred it were it so.

Elda scoffs. 'No, I should think not. Why me?'

Ah, presenting arguments. This she can do. 'You're married. Clearly you didn't make a hash of it during your courting days, so it stands to reason you know how it is done.'

'Maker be good,' Elda mutters. It's not encouraging. 'How did this outing come about?'

'He walked me home and we talked about history and then he said he liked that and would like to talk again. Over a meal.' She runs that back and finds she really could have presented that better.

To her relief, Elda nods. 'So, he likes your talking. That makes it easy then. You talk about history, you eat a meal and then you're off to the theatre, where talking is not encouraged. Easy.'

Is it?

Elda grins. 'Now for the more pressing problem: what are you going to wear?'

'So, did you ask her out?'

Fíli barely has his foot over the threshold when Kate ambushes him. It would not at all surprise him to learn that she was lying in wait for him. Perhaps it's best if he avoids her for the foreseeable future.

'Yes, I did.' A fact he is somewhat astonished he has actually accomplished. 'Now will you leave this be?'

Kate pretends to consider this. 'Like you didn't get involved in my courtship?'

Fíli scoffs. 'You never even had a courtship,' he points out. 'You and Thorin blundered around like headless chickens until you got married. Durin's beard, you still would have, had we not taken the situation in hand.'

'Oh, you took us in hand, did you?'

It's too late to realise that he really, really should not have said that.

Kate laughs at him and thankfully doesn't draw the very obvious conclusion out loud. 'Don't worry, I won't involve myself too much.' The smile slips. 'I meant what I said the other night, you know. I would like it if this turned out to be something to bring your smile back. And she seems to be good for you.'

He knows that. For all the teasing, he knows she means well. 'If she still wants to accompany me after my foolishness last night.'

'Did she say no?'

'She said yes.'

The smile returns. 'That's wonderful news, Fíli! What will you do?'

This he can answer: 'A meal. And then we'll go and see that new play, about Khazad-dûm. It's about history, so I reckon she'll like that.'

Kate looks at him as though he has grown a second head. 'Dwarrow's Lament?'

Fíli nods. 'Aye, that's the title. Is something wrong?'

'You mean, other than the fact that it's a tragedy that leaves audiences in tears and where one half of the main couple dies tragically? That's what you're going to see on your first courting outing?'

'Beg pardon?'

This he has not thought about. Truth be told, he didn't think a lot in the moment in the first place.

'It's a tragedy,' Kate repeats. 'Vast swathes of characters die in very dramatic, tear-provoking ways. There's usually not a dry eye in the house by the end.'

It occurs to Fíli that he has vastly misjudged this. Hearing folk telling him that a play is good does not, apparently, make it appropriate for every occasion. Fortunately, there is one thing to be said in favour of his actions: 'I suggested it and she said she wanted to go.' He neglects to mention that she made it so much like a question that he is not nearly as sure as he pretends to Kate.

Kate considers this. 'Well, I suppose she is a historian and she knows the subject matter. She won't be surprised by all of the misery.'

It's not the ringing endorsement he's hoped for, but not all is lost yet.

'You'd better impress her with dinner,' Kate decides. 'Where are you taking her?'

'Haldr's.' He's eaten there before and the food is good.

Kate frowns at him. 'Everyone and their mother eats at Haldr's,' she points out.

Yes, he knows. 'Because his food is good.'

'It may surprise you to know that Erebor does boast more than one good eatery these days.' She has the nerve to grin. 'Besides, Haldr's is usually full to bursting. You won't be able to hear yourself think, never mind have a decent conversation. And, of course, it's so public that news of your presence there with a lady will be all over Erebor by midnight.'

He scratches behind his ear. Loath as he is to admit it, Kate makes a few good points. He doesn't want half of Erebor breathing down his neck, especially since he is not entirely sure that he specified to Síf that he intends this to be a first attempt at courting. She may still think that friendship is all he has in mind.

'Do you have a recommendation?' It's as close as he'll come to admitting that he's never dined out anywhere that isn't Haldr's.

Kate knows anyway. 'Try The Copper Kettle. The food is great and the main dining room has room dividers to give folk a bit of privacy. And it's only five minutes from the theatre.' She smiles. 'That might help with Síf's nerves as well.'

'Her nerves?'

Kate shrugs. 'I think she's still feeling a little intimidated by all of us. You must have noticed at dinner yesterday?' He hasn't, but he nods. 'You may have to put her at her ease at first, remind her that we don't actually bite.'

'I think it reassured her to know that we don't exile folk for merely being poor teachers.'

'There you go then. You've got this thing down already.' She grins some more. 'It's like you don't need my advice at all.'

'I don't take courting advice from someone who hasn't done a single day of courting in her entire life.' Thorin and Kate both have this blind spot, where apparently they seem to think that their love affair was conducted in a sublime manner that cannot be improved upon. The company of course knows better, having borne witness to every painfully awkward moment. 'Just your dinner recommendations.'

'Well, happy courting. Let us know how it turns out.'

As if he would have a choice in the matter.

It's only a quick glance at the time that keeps Síf from rethinking her outfit for the night. Fíli will be here at any moment – he's sent her a note yesterday to inform her at what time he would be at her door – so she can't exchange the green dress for the blue again and if there's something wrong with her hair and beard, the time for redoing them has come and gone.

She studies her reflection in the mirror. Is the green dress really the good idea Elda thinks it is or should she have gone with the blue after all? Won't Fíli think that the green is too formal? Is the blue not formal enough? Should she have done her hair just a tad less elaborately?

On the plus side, there's no ink smudges on her face or hands. That's more than was the case when she dined at the King and Queen's. Of course, she didn't have any time to prepare for that and she's had far too much time to prepare for this.

What if I've read this entirely wrong? He's never actually specified that this was an outing of the courting sort, has he? For all she knows he asks folk out to dinner to just have a decent conversation all the time.

Maker help me.

Mahal must have heard her prayers, because at that moment there's a knock at the door. Síf casts a last glance at the mirror, tucks one stray lock of hair back and then takes a deep breath. She's not going to be more ready than she is right now, so she might as well get on with it.

I'm going to feel very silly if he just wants a new friend.

She opens the door to reveal Prince Fíli, who looks… nice. It's clear at first glance that he has made some effort with his appearance and the result is such that Síf is temporarily rendered speechless.

'Good evening,' he says.

Ah, yes, manners. She has some of those. 'Yes, good evening.' She cringes inwardly. Does she have to sound so breathless?

He looks her up and down. 'You look very nice.'

So, the hair and the dress are fine. Good. That's one worry off her mind. 'So do you.' Though she means it, she could probably have said that a little better. Why is it that she is so good at writing complex treatises on complicated historical subjects, yet normal conversation is so difficult?

Prince Fíli doesn't seem to think anything is at all amiss with that, for he smiles at her. 'Thank you.'

Ah, yes, that's what she ought to have said as well. Is it too late to slip it into the conversation now or will that just make her seem socially incapable?

'Are you ready?' he asks when Síf is still deliberating on what to do.

If he's ready to leave that subject, so is she. 'Yes.' At least she sounds commendably decisive.

Fíli smiles at her, which makes her stomach perform a little jump. Would someone ever have told him that he has a very, very nice smile? Should she do that perhaps? Or is that one of those things that is just not done?

Well, no matter, because her tongue is faster than her brain and with something akin to horror, she hears herself speak: 'You have a very beautiful smile, did you know?'

Just like that she freezes and every organ she has drops down to her toes. What did she go and do that for? Maybe she should just get back inside now, pack her bags and hurry to the Iron Hills before Prince Fíli recovers from that particular shock.

Which he does before Síf can unfreeze herself and then he smiles even wider, as though her remark has actually given him some confidence. 'I am pleased to hear it. I reckon it will increase my chances of success.'

'Success?' In her confusion and panic she can only parrot his last word back at him.

For a moment she catches a glimpse of… something on his face. Is he maybe just as nervous about this as she is? 'Aye, success,' he nods. He takes a deep breath and continues: 'You see, I did not think I said, but I… like you. And I would like today to be the start of courting you, if you would be amenable.' His face is bright red at the end of that speech.

Then again, so is Síf's. But he has plucked up the courage to speak out, so she can't stay behind. 'I am. Amenable, that is.' Should she say anything else? 'I've taken a liking to you too.' Her face feels like it could burst into flames at any moment now.

She's somewhat surprised that it doesn't.

Fíli smiles again. It is just as dazzling the second time. 'Shall we?'

It's a good plan. She thinks it an even better one when Fíli holds out his arm for her to take. He's really, really nice, Síf thinks to herself, and she can't quite believe that it is truly happening. She never would have dared to dream of this.

'I feel I owe you some sort of apology,' Fíli says as they are walking.

'What for?' His behaviour has been exemplary. If anything, it's Síf who should apologise for her social blunders.

'Apparently it is considered somewhat strange to take a lady to see a tragedy on the first day of courting,' he explains.

Oh. 'No matter. One cannot expect that the loss of a kingdom could be very cheerful, could one?' Belatedly she realises that clearly Fíli hasn't realised it and that she has more or less called him a fool. 'I don't mean…'

'That I've been as much of a fool as I have been?'

There doesn't seem to be a right answer to that.

'I ought to have known, so I am glad that you do not mind. I was not sure.' He does seem rather relieved.

'I really don't mind. I hope you don't?' Maybe he is the one who does not like tragedies.

'Not at all,' he assures her.

Perhaps this courting business is easier than she's thought. Perhaps Elda was right after all. 'In that case, I've a friend who's told me we are both hopeless and we deserve each other.'

Fíli actually laughs. It's a wonderful sound that Síf would not mind hearing again. 'Then I should probably tell you Kate said more or less the same.'

Síf is taken aback at the thought that Fíli may have discussed his plans with the Queen under the Mountain. Strange, she had almost forgotten that all of a sudden she is moving in the kind of circles where folk address the Queen by her name without giving it a second thought. She tries to picture herself doing that and fails utterly.

'The Queen knows our plans?' The shock raises her voice a whole octave.

Fíli nods. 'She does.' He pulls a face Síf finds hard to read. 'Best to tell you now, she means to involve herself in our courtship.'

This she does not understand. 'Why?'

'Two reasons,' Fíli replies. 'She thinks you are good for me and she is convinced that you would make me smile more.' He's smiled plenty so far, Síf considers. Why would he need to smile even more? Not that she minds, as such, although it does odd things to her body. Fíli carries on before she can ask: 'And in part because of revenge.'

'Revenge?'

Fíli looks a bit embarrassed for lack of a better word. 'Of sorts. You see, when she and Thorin were trying to determine whether or not they would embark on their courtship, me and some others saw it as our duty to give them nudges in the right direction. They would never have figured it out if we hadn't and clearly they are well suited. Unfortunately, neither of them has forgotten.'

Síf is not sure if there is anything she should feel at that other than immediate dread. How is it possible that these things can take place in her life? Nothing at all out of the ordinary ever happened to her until she befriended Elvaethor. And now she is being courted by a prince and the King and Queen welcome her at their dinner table. She wonders what her parents will make of this. She's going to have to write to them soon, or the news will have reached the Iron Hills before she can tell them herself.

Her consternation must be written all over her face, because Fíli hastens to reassure her. 'They will not be hiding behind a door in the eatery.'

Síf takes a deep breath. 'That's good.'

And it is a very good night indeed, Fíli reflects. Kate's recommendation holds true; The Copper Kettle is a good place for eating and for conversations that needn't be held at the top of one's lungs. The conversation between them flows easy; it's remarkable how quickly the tension and nerves have faded now that the goals of the evening have been stated and agreed upon.

And maybe Kate was onto something, for Fíli finds himself smiling easily and often. It's hard not to. Síf is not exactly funny, but her company is engaging and she has a smile that can light up her whole face and entice a body to smile at her in return.

Dinner flies by and then they are off to the theatre. Dwarrow's Lament is indeed a tragedy, Fíli finds out before they are ten minutes into the play. Surprisingly though, they both enjoy themselves. They may be the only two people who do not shed tears at how sad the tale is, but only because they are too pleased to be in each other's company to even think about feeling miserable.

'It is indeed very sad,' Síf declares when they leave the theatre. 'But it was very well done. They must have consulted the Silverpen Chronicles, if I am not mistaken. You can tell by the tone of the piece and the level of detail about the people involved with the events.'

Fíli has never had much of an interest in history, not until he met Síf at least. Now, he discovers he finds it very fascinating indeed. 'Silverpen Chronicles?'

'Named for Aror Silverpen, a very famed historian. If you know historians of course.'

'Did he write with a silver pen, by any chance?'

Síf smiles brightly. 'How did you know?'

'A good guess.' Fíli finds himself smiling back. It is so natural in her presence.

It's not an encouraging thought that one of these days he may have to tell Kate that she was right when she nudged him in this direction. He does feel more at ease and yes, more at peace too than he has felt in a long while.

It's one thing knowing that Kíli would never have wanted for him to spend his life moping in misery, but another thing to actually start living it. But it has been ten years and somehow life has gone on. And now here is a new beginning of sorts.

The evening's success has made him feel bold. His initial plan was to take Síf to dinner and the theatre and then walk her home. Yet he's not quite ready for the evening to end. 'Would you to drink something? Somewhere?'

She nods. 'Oh yes, I quite like to.'

He finds a small place across the street. He's never been there before, but the people seem friendly. Some stare a little – that's become almost normal since the quest – but they return to their own conversations as Fíli returns to his.

Síf is looking pensive when he hands her her wine. 'May I ask something?'

Given that Fíli has asked most of the questions thus far, this seems only fair. 'Of course.'

She wraps her hands around her glass and worries her lip. 'You said something I don't quite understand,' she begins. 'At the start of the evening you said that the Queen wanted you to smile more.'

He nods. 'Aye, she did.'

'Only you've smiled plenty. I'm not sure why you would need to smile more.' She blushes. 'Not that I mind. As I've said, I like your smile.'

Fíli considers the question. It's a fair one and not one he knows how to answer exactly. But he would like to get to know Síf better, so in turn she must know him better. 'My brother Kíli died,' he answers, 'in the Battle of the Five Armies. We were friends as well as brothers. The loss of him was difficult. Still is, at times.'

It's harder still because Kate's book foretold it all and neither she nor Thorin ever breathed a word of it. This he doesn't say yet. That will be for later in their courtship, when he will have to explain quite a few things about the quest that are not widely known. He'll tell her when the time is right for such confidences.

After today he is convinced that such a time will come.

'I see,' Síf says. 'Apologies, I know your brother died.'

'He died in a way he would be proud of,' Fíli acknowledges. It's the first time he's even done so out loud. 'In defence of our home and our people.' Would that such knowledge dulled the pain. 'Yet he left emptiness in his wake.'

Síf studies him as intently as she probably studies her history. 'I saw not a trace of that tonight. Not until now, that is.'

'Indeed, I did not feel a trace of it, until now.' Perhaps that as it should be. Ten years is not a short span of time, not even to a dwarf. Almost without his noticing some of the wound has scabbed over and begun to heal. And Síf, it seems, is a very effective sort of balm.

Her eyes widen and she blushes again. Then again, it is a bold declaration because of the implication that it is her doing. It might be too bold for the first day of courting, but it is the simple truth.

She pulls herself together and smiles again. 'Well, then,' she says, raising her glass, 'Here's to smiling.'

Fíli smiles in turn and raises his own glass to meet hers halfway. 'Aye,' he agrees. 'I'll drink to that.'

Reviews would be appreciated. And, since I am back to writing now, requests for future Duly Noted chapters are very welcome as well.

Until next week!